Page 40 of Oops I Fell For The Electrician Next Door

I take a breath. “Or Cabin Seven can be your office and official address while we determine how often you actually sleep here.”

Marc goes still. “Where else would I sleep?”

“Cabin Eight has a larger bed.”

“And a slightly larger shower.”

“Still not large enough, huh?”

“No. We should remodel it.”

I narrow my eyes.

“With the owner’s permission,” he adds. “After obtaining estimates, agreeing on a budget, and discussing every tile.”

“Better.”

We carry his duffel across the lawn together. I give him one empty dresser drawer, half the bathroom cabinet, and a new code to my front door. They are small spaces. They feel enormous.

Marc places his toothbrush beside mine and looks at our reflections in the mirror. “This is more unpacking than I have done in three years.”

“Don’t become reckless. You still have six boxes next door.”

“Mostly tools.”

“Naturally.”

He turns me into his arms. Outside, the porch lights come on one by one as dusk arrives. Marc glances toward the window.

“Everything working?” he asks.

I listen to the quiet hum of my home and feel the stronger current moving through me.

“Everything important,” I say.

Then I lead the electrician who’s supposed to be living next door toward my bedroom and let him prove it.

Epilogue

Marc

Three months later

The first real snow of winter falls. It covers the roofs of Eight Pines, softens the branches, and turns the mountains beyond the frozen lake into shades of white and blue. Five cabins are occupied for the weekend. Two hold couples who arrived with enough wine to survive until spring, and one belongs to a family whose children have asked Kelsey if she has a sleigh with horses. I sort of wish she did.

My first months in the regional position have taken me to Grand Junction, Durango, and a mountain lodge outside Telluride where someone installed heated bathroom floors without consulting an electrician. I am away for two or three nights at a time. Then I return to Cady Springs, where my mail goes to Cabin Seven and almost everything else I own has migrated into Cabin Eight.

Kelsey continues charging me full rent even though I sleep in Cabin Eight more often than Seven. Cabin Seven serves as my office, mailing address, and occasional refuge when early calls would wake her. She calls it sound business. I call it evidence that falling in love with a woman does not improve my negotiating position.

The shower in Cabin Eight is still too small for me. Plans for the new one are spread across Kelsey’s kitchen table. She approved the wider footprint, rejected my first tile choice, and made me obtain a second estimate even though I will do most of the electrical work myself. The renovation begins after the holiday rush.

I have never looked forward to tearing out a bathroom more.

Kelsey comes out of Cabin Four carrying a basket of towels, her red coat bright against the snow. I meet her on the path and take the basket.

“I can carry that,” she says.

“I know, Little Red Riding Hood.”