2. Bethany
Chapter two
Bethany
Inudge the rental cabin door open with my hip, clipboard already raised and pen ready.
The wine stain catches my attention before I clear the threshold.
Dark red. Dinner-plate sized. Positioned squarely in the center of a cream-colored rug.
I crouch and check the edges, already calculating the deposit deduction in my head.
The stain is mostly dry. Someone noticed it, considered doing something, and then made the executive decision to leave it for me.
The remote is missing from its usual spot on the coffee table. It could be buried in the couch cushions or possibly gone forever.
Three towels are shoved behind the armchair. They are still damp. I fish them out one at a time and drape them over my arm.
Then I walk into the bathroom and find the decorative oar that usually hangs over the towel rack propped inside the empty bathtub.
I stop in the doorway.
“Why?”
The oar offers no explanation.
I take a photo for the folder on my phone labeled Weird Things I Cannot Bill For.
It currently contains forty-three entries.
Then I load the towels into my basket and feel the weight settle against my hip.
This is the second account I've been to today.
I have added damage notes to the clipboard, tapped restocking reminders into my phone, and put another sticky window latch on the maintenance list.
The work is there.
What I do not have is enough consistent clientele.
A vacation rental here. A cleaning job there. The occasional late-night call from someone with a plumbing problem that does not care about business hours.
If I can make the lodge account work, really work, maybe people will stop treating my business like a collection of favors.
Still, there’s a little warm spot in my chest while I work.
This business is mine. Patched together with odd jobs, word of mouth, late-night calls, and a truly stunning amount of paper towels.
My mother’s voice pops into my head.
You’ve always been so reliable, Bethany.
She means it with love.
Reliable is the word people use when they need someone to pick up a forgotten prescription, cover a shift, organize a disaster, or answer the phone after midnight.
I am basically everyone’s emergency contact.
Easy to call. Easy to praise. Easy to forget once the problem is solved.
Useful from every angle.
Is that the same thing as being wanted?
That is something I should absolutely not be pondering in a bathroom with an oar in the tub.
I straighten, adjust the towels on my arm, and return to the safer subject of other people’s questionable decisions.
I head for the kitchen, where a cereal box sits on the counter.
Inside the cereal box is a coffee mug.
I open the freezer to check for ice and find the cereal bowl in there instead. Milk frozen into a pale disc. Spoon standing upright like a tiny flag on the moon.
A laugh escapes before I can stop it.
Whoever stayed here may be a menace, but at least they are a creative one.
It almost makes up for the wine stain.
I photograph the bowl in the freezer and the mug in the cereal box, then add both pictures to the folder.
After checking the remaining cabinets for signs of further rebellion, I crouch beneath the kitchen sink.
My flashlight is balanced on one wrist, and my knees press painfully into the cabinet frame as I inspect the pipes.
That is when my phone buzzes across the tile behind me.
JENNA:
OKAY TODAY WAS A LOT. Do you have four hours? I have four hours of material.
I brace one hand on the cabinet and type back with the other.
ME:
I have five minutes and a suspicious pipe. Choose wisely.
JENNA:
Also completely unrelated question, have you been to Hockey House this week??
I know that tone, even in text form. She's getting ideas again.
I wipe my hands on my jeans before replying.
ME:
Dropping stuff off later today, why?
JENNA:
No reason. Just wondering. Also, Tim has been ACTING WEIRD lately. Do you know anything about that?
Timothy Brenton being weird?
That phrase does not belong together. Timothy is a labeled storage bin. Steady. Polite. Unlikely to explode without warning or misplace a spoon.
Which, after this cabin, is an increasingly attractive quality.
I crawl out from under the sink, and gather my things.
ME:
He’s fine. Probably just tired. Hockey guys are always tired.
I lock the cabin with the basket balanced on one hip and the clipboard tucked beneath my arm. With the keys still clenched between my teeth, I tug the handle twice.
Locked.
One rental rescued. Several mysteries left unsolved.
Next up is Lestor Lodge, more commonly known as Hockey House.
The old ski lodge is owned by the Iron Peak Outlaws and currently houses five of the team’s lesser-known players.
Years ago, a former team owner named Walter Lestor bought the property as a retreat and training space. After his death, his granddaughter Jessie inherited the neighboring land and challenged the team’s ownership, arguing that years of neglect meant the lodge should revert to her care.
The team disagreed.
Strongly.
That was where Mom and I came in.
Grant Thorne, one of the current owners, hired us to help restore and maintain the property so the team could prove it was actively using the lodge.
A few months later, the place is livable, the players are moved in, and the property dispute is still hanging over everyone’s heads.
No pressure.
The drive to Hockey House takes me along the edge of town and into the darker stretch of road beneath the mountains.
It should give me time to think about invoices, supply costs, or whether the cabin rug can be salvaged.
Instead, Jenna’s message keeps circling through my head.
Tim has been ACTING WEIRD lately.
I tighten my hands around the steering wheel.
Timothy is not weird.
And I have no reason to be curious about him.
By the time I pull into the lodge driveway, I have almost convinced myself.
I let myself in through the boot room with my basket against one hip and a new case of paper towels tucked beneath my arm.
The usual mess greets me.
Skates lie abandoned in the walkway. A hoodie hangs from the drying rack by one sleeve, and a single glove sits on a shelf where no glove has any business being.
Five professional athletes live here.
Apparently, none of them have mastered the advanced technique known as putting things away.
I set down the paper towels and begin lining up the skates before someone trips over them and turns the boot room into an insurance claim.
That is when Timothy comes around the corner.
His hair is still damp from the shower, and he has traded his practice gear for gray sweatpants and a dark green T-shirt.
Not that I notice.
I am far too professional to notice.
He stops when he sees me, gaze moving from my face to the case of paper towels beneath my arm.
“I can take those,” he says. “If you want.”
I raise an eyebrow. “They’re paper towels, Timothy. I’m pretty sure I can handle the weight.”
“Right. Yeah.” He shifts his weight. “I could still carry them.”
Something about the offer feels less like he doubts my ability and more like he has been standing around hoping for a reason to help me.
Which is ridiculous.
I glance down before my expression can give me away.
Unfortunately, looking at the floor does nothing to stop me from noticing the damp curl of hair at the nape of his neck or the stubborn piece sticking up in the back.
I hand him the case before my brain can create a separate folder labeled Timothy’s Hair.
He takes it immediately.
We walk into the kitchen together, Timothy carrying the paper towels as if I handed him something significantly more important.
I set my basket and clipboard on the counter.
“You can put those in the pantry.”
“I know.”
“Because you know everything.”
He pauses beside the pantry door. “Because I live here.”
“Right.”
A beat of silence stretches between us.
Then he ducks his head and carries the paper towels away.
Excellent work, Bethany.
Truly dazzling conversation.
I grab a rag and begin wiping the counter before my face can get any warmer. From there, I move through my checklist, cleaning, organizing, testing cabinet hinges, and adding a loose faucet handle to the maintenance list.
By the time I finish, my basket is full again.
Timothy is sitting in the living room, but he stands the moment I come through the doorway.
He has been here the entire time.
Not hovering exactly.
Just nearby.
He reaches for the basket. “Let me carry that out, at least.”
“Absolutely not.” I tug it back before he can take the handle. “This is a professional operation.”
His hand closes around the opposite side.
“And,” I add beneath my breath, “I refuse to give Jenna more material.”
For one strange second, neither of us lets go.
His fingers are only a few inches from mine.
I release the basket first.
He smiles then.
Small and uncertain. One corner of his mouth moves before the rest of his face catches up.
“Right,” he says. “Professional operation. Got it.”
“Exactly.”
Excellent contribution, Bethany. Very composed. Very much not flustered by Jenna’s brother.
I get myself out the door with the basket and clipboard before my professionalism suffers another direct hit.
In the car, I set everything on the passenger-side floor and grip the steering wheel without starting the engine.
He was only being nice.
Timothy is nice to everyone.
He is Jenna’s brother.
He is part of the lodge account.
He is someone whose damp hair should not occupy this much space in my thoughts.
Each explanation sounds less convincing than the one before it.
My phone buzzes against the passenger seat before I even start the engine.
JENNA:
Please tell me my brother is acting normal. Actually, no. Tell me if he’s being charming in any way.
I groan and thump my head on the steering wheel.
I am not falling for Timothy Brenton.
Not now. Not while Hockey House matters to my business, not while Jenna is already loading the confetti cannon, and absolutely not while I still have his stupid almost-smile burned into the back of my eyelids.