Page 30 of Oops I Fell For The Electrician Next Door

“Maybe I need room too.”

I take the basket from her before she can object and set it on the porch rail. “Then tell me what you need room from.”

Kelsey looks toward the lake. Morning fog lies low over the water, hiding the far shore.

“I know what it feels like when a man gives something up and decides later that I owe him for it. My ex proposed, then spent the next year explaining how much easier our future would be if I sold Eight Pines. Every repair became proof that the property was ruining our lives. Every weekend I worked became something I had taken from him.”

“I’m not him.”

“I know that.” She rubs her hands over her arms. “But you don’t know what living here requires. You have seen four days, one emergency, and the pretty part of a family reunion. You haven’t seen pipes freeze in January or a guest back a trailer through the laundry-room wall.”

“Did that happen?”

“Twice.”

Despite everything, I smile. “Same guest?”

“Different years. Different walls.”

I move closer, stopping before I touch her. “You’re right. I don’t know everything about this place or about you. Staying would not mean moving into your cabin Monday and putting my name on the deed Tuesday.”

“It wouldn’t?”

“I’m impulsive, not deranged.”

Her mouth softens.

“The regional job is mine if I want it,” I continue. “I could base myself anywhere in western Colorado. If I choose Cady Springs, I will rent a place and learn what living here requires. I won’t ask you to sell anything, hire a manager, or hand me a ring of keys.”

“You already have the code to Cabin Seven.”

“Temporary guest access. Very different.”

“You’re still leaving Sunday.”

“The commercial project ends Sunday. That is not necessarily the same thing.”

Hope appears in her eyes, followed immediately by caution. At least she does not erase it before I can see.

“What do you want from me right now?” she asks.

“A chance. No guarantees and no debt attached. If this turns into something permanent, it will be because we both keep choosing it.”

Kelsey looks at me for a long moment. “I can give you a chance.”

I touch her then, sliding one hand around the back of her neck. “Good.”

Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt. The kiss is softer than any we have shared, and it goes deeper because neither of us is using desire to avoid the conversation.

A child shrieks near Cabin Two. We break apart and turn in time to see a red rubber ball bounce down the path toward the lake. Kelsey catches it with one foot before it reaches the water.

“Property manager,” she calls when a little boy races after it. “Retriever of towels, finder of remotes, and rescuer of runaway balls.”

“Do you charge extra for that?” I ask.

“I should.”

The rest of the morning passes in small pieces of work. I return to the commercial site for final testing while Kelsey manages the reunion. We exchange two messages. Hers tells me the repaired service remains stable. Mine tells her to eat lunch. She sends back a photograph of a sandwich as evidence.