Page 33 of Oops I Fell For The Electrician Next Door

Around us, the Fletcher reunion continues at full volume. A child races past carrying a paper plate with nothing on it except three cookies. Someone calls for more ice. The oldest Fletcher sits beneath a quilt near the firepit while four generations move around her, and the lights above them glow without so much as a flicker.

The gathering has become exactly what Suzanne wanted. Loud, crowded, and full of people who traveled a long way to be together. I look at Marc in the middle of it and realize he has made a journey of his own, although he has not promised where it will end.

Neither have I.

“Your strict policies include a rental agreement,” I tell him. “And a security deposit.”

“I can provide references.”

“I spoke to your employer before approving the reservation.”

“Then you already know I am responsible and excellent with my hands.”

“I don’t remember anyone mentioning the last part.”

He gives me a sly smile. “I can arrange a demonstration.”

Heat rises beneath my shirt despite the cool air moving off the lake. “You already did. Several of them.”

“And yet you still sound undecided.”

“About the security deposit, not the demonstrations.”

Marc bends and kisses me. It is brief enough for the crowd around us, but his hand spreads across my lower back, and I feel the promise of later in the way his thumb moves once against my spine.

When he lifts his head, someone begins clapping. We turn together. A cluster of Fletchers has gathered near the picnic tables, but only the ninety-one-year-old grandmother is looking directly at us. She raises one hand in a regal little wave.

“That’s Grandma Ruth,” Suzanne calls from beside the fire. “She doesn’t miss anything.”

“I can tell,” I mutter.

Marc waves back without the slightest embarrassment.

The next hour disappears into the work of hosting. A breaker trips in Cabin Two when the Fletchers plug two slow cookers, an electric griddle, and a coffee urn into outlets served by the same kitchen circuit. The repaired branch has nothing to do with it, and the breaker does exactly what it is designed to do. I begin moving the coffee urn to a different circuit while Marc stands beside the panel.

“May I?” he asks.

The question is quiet, meant only for me. I know what he is doing. He is not asking because he doubts how to reset a breaker. He is showing me that our argument did not disappear merely because we kissed afterward.

“Yes,” I say. “Please reset it after I move the urn.”

He waits until I call from the kitchen, then restores the circuit. The slow cookers begin bubbling again. No one applauds this time, although Uncle Dean does offer Marc a deviled egg.

By nine, the youngest children are asleep and the older ones are roasting marshmallows. I make one last circuit of the cabins before allowing myself to sit beside Marc at the edge of the lake. The moon hangs over the dark ridge, laying a pale path across the water. Beyond the fire and the strings of lights, the mountains rise in layers beneath a clear Colorado sky.

Marc hands me a mug of coffee. “Decaf.”

“How did you know?”

“Millie warned me about giving you caffeine after six.”

“Millie has become far too involved in my life.”

“She also told me you hate canned whipped cream and pretend not to like the cinnamon rolls she saves for you.”

“Millie is a little traitor.”

“She seems proud of it.”