Page 34 of Oops I Fell For The Electrician Next Door

I take a drink and lean against him. Marc tucks one arm around me, his body warm against the chill settling over the shoreline. We sit without talking for a while, watching the moonlight move whenever the lake stirs.

“You asked what living here requires,” I say at last. “This is the easy season.”

“I assumed the frozen pipes came later.”

“Usually January. Sometimes December if winter is feeling ambitious.” I pull my feet onto the bench and turn toward him. “Eight Pines stays open year-round, but winter is different. Weekends fill with couples, families who want snow, and men convinced the fish will bite better through a hole in the ice. Midweek can be quiet. I close one or two cabins at a time for maintenance, keep the paths cleared, and watch the weather like it owes me money.”

“You plow all this yourself?”

“I have a man who handles the parking area and main drive. I clear the porches and paths unless the snow is deep enough to require help.”

“And the lake freezes?”

“Most years. Not always evenly, which means I spend a great deal of time telling visitors that pretty ice is not necessarily safe ice.”

Marc looks out over the black water as if he can already see it under snow. “I want to be here for that.”

The simplicity of the statement tightens my throat. He does not tell me how he will improve winter operations. He does not begin listing the equipment I should buy or the work he could take over. He merely wants to see the place I love in a season that is harder to love.

“Cabin Seven isn’t ideal for a long-term tenant,” I warn him. “It is one of my smaller rentals.”

“I noticed.”

“You barely unpacked.”

“I attempted to shower this morning. My shoulder hit one wall, and my ass turned off the water.”

I laugh into my coffee. “That sounds efficient.”

“It was cold.”

“Then you may need a bigger cabin. And definitely a bigger shower.”

“Eventually.” His arm tightens around me. “For now, I spend most nights next door anyway.”

“That is an assumption.”

“Is it wrong?”

I should tell him we still need boundaries. I should point out that he has chosen a job, not signed a lifetime contract with me. Instead, I remember waking inside his arms and how natural it felt to find him in my kitchen.

“No,” I admit. “It isn’t wrong.”

Marc sets our mugs aside and turns me fully toward him. “I have to go to Denver tomorrow after the project handoff.”

The happiness inside me flinches. “For how long?”

“One night, maybe two. I need to close out the apartment, collect the rest of my things, and meet with the regional director Monday morning. Then I’m coming back.”

I hear the old instinct telling me to protect myself before he can change his mind. It sounds like my ex. It sounds like every guest who promised to return next year and never did. It does not sound like Marc.

“All right,” I say.

He studies my face. “That’s all?”

“Would you prefer a dramatic scene? I can throw myself across the hood of your truck tomorrow.”

“Tempting, but hard on the paint.”