Page 7 of Oops I Fell For The Electrician Next Door

"Good reflexes," I murmur.

"Getting plenty of practice around you."

"You were the one who tripped."

"You were distracting me."

His gaze holds mine. I should remind him that this is a business dinner. I should put several feet of space between us and ask whether he wants more cornbread. Instead, I remain beside him, my knee against his and every breath drawing his warmth deeper into my small kitchen.

"I was walking," I say.

"Exactly."

The answer is so simple and so unapologetically male that heat unfurls low in my belly. Marc does not glance away or soften the meaning. He finds me attractive. He wants me to know it. That should not feel as powerful as it does, but there is something intoxicating about being looked at by a man who seems incapable of pretending.

I fold the plans carefully. "Why are you in Cady Springs?"

"Work."

"I gathered that from the company card attached to your reservation. What kind of work requires six weeks in a cabin?"

"Commercial renovation on the north side of town. The original contractor walked off after rough-in, and my company was hired to assess the work and finish it. I'm leading the replacement crew."

"Meaning you get to discover everything the previous electrician did wrong."

"If he did it wrong. I don't assume that until I see it. Sometimes a contractor leaves because the owner stopped paying or changed the scope every other day."

His fairness appeals to me almost as much as his hands, and I find myself wanting to know more. "Do you always travel with the crew?"

"Most of the time."

"Where is home?"

Marc leans back, and the leg beside mine moves away. The loss of contact is immediate. "Wherever the current job is."

"That sounds like something printed on a coffee mug for people who don't want to answer the question."

His laugh is a low rumble. "I have an apartment in Denver. It contains a couch, a bed, and several unopened boxes from the apartment before that one."

"Cozy."

"I didn't say it was home."

His words silence my questioning. For an instant, I see something beneath his easy confidence, an emptiness he has become accustomed to rather than one that actively hurts. Then his gaze moves around my kitchen, taking in the basket of mail, the sweater draped across the back of my chair, and the framed photograph of my parents and me on the dock the summer before I left for college.

"This is home," he says.

"Yes."

There is no hesitation in my answer. Eight Pines exhausts me, frustrates me, and consumes money faster than any reasonable collection of wooden structures should. I love it with the unreasonable devotion usually reserved for children and badly behaved dogs.

"You grew up here?" he asks.

"Close. My parents managed the cabins for the former owner. I spent every summer cleaning grills and delivering extra towels to people who thought checkout times were suggestions. I left for college determined to work in an office with central air and absolutely no pine needles."

"What brought you back?"

"The owner decided to sell. My parents were ready to retire, and I couldn't stand the thought of someone replacing the cabins with one enormous vacation house. I had a business degree, a little savings, and enough confidence to make a banker nervous."