Falling for the Electrician Next Door

Chapter One

Kelsey

The lamp beside the bed flickers twice while I am smoothing the last wrinkle from the quilt in Cabin Seven.

I stop with both palms pressed against the soft fabric, staring at it as if I can will the light to remain steady.

It does, glowing innocently beneath the cream linen shade as if I imagined the whole thing. But I didn’t imagine it.

Eight Pines has taught me the difference between an actual problem and the particular kind of paranoia that comes from owning eight lakeside cabins with eight roofs, eight water heaters, and enough aging electrical wire to keep me awake through the occasional thunderstorm.

A lightbulb burns out, I replace it. A toilet runs, I fix it.

A guest reports that something smells hot near an outlet, I do not smooth the quilt and hope for the best. I’ll need to get this checked out.

My phone begins vibrating on the nightstand before I can reach for the lamp. The name on the screen belongs to the couple staying in Cabin Four. What now?

I answer on the second buzz. "Hi, Mrs. Lawson. Is everything all right?"

"I'm sure it's nothing, dear, but the power went off in the bedroom again. Harold plugged in his breathing machine, and then the television went black."

My stomach tightens. Mrs. Lawson told me about Harold's sleep apnea when they checked in yesterday. I put them in Cabin Four because it has the easiest walk from the parking area and one of the newer mattresses, never imagining the outlet beside that mattress would choose tonight to misbehave.

"Unplug the television and leave everything else exactly as it is," I tell her, already crossing the room. "I'll be there in two minutes. In the meantime, Harold can use the outlet beside the dining table for his machine. That circuit was replaced last year."

"We don't want to be any trouble."

"You aren't. This is my trouble, and I'm going to take care of it."

I grab my tool bag from the shelf inside Cabin Seven's utility closet, then pause long enough to switch off the lamp.

If the flicker is connected to whatever is happening in Cabin Four, it may be more than a bad outlet.

Cabins Four through Six share the oldest section of the underground service, a fact that has been written in red ink at the top of my maintenance list for eleven months.

Unfortunately, red ink does not create money for repairs.

Outside, the late-afternoon sun lays a golden path across the lake.

Eight Pines curves along the shoreline in a wide crescent, each cabin tucked far enough into the trees to feel private while remaining close enough that I can reach any porch quickly.

The lake is calm today, barely stirring beneath a breeze scented with pine and the first dry hint of autumn.

It is the sort of view that makes guests stand beside their cars and sigh when they arrive.

It is also the view that convinced me I could take over a property with eight temperamental buildings and turn it into something people would remember.

I am halfway down the gravel path when a dark gray pickup rolls beneath the wooden Eight Pines sign.

It moves slowly, the driver following the directions in the check-in message instead of roaring toward the cabins as if the posted speed limit is only a suggestion.

I appreciate that. I appreciate it even more when the truck stops in the space beside Cabin Seven rather than blocking the turnaround.

My newest guest is early. Just my luck.

The driver's door opens, and a heavy work boot lands on the gravel. Long legs follow. Then broad shoulders rise above the truck door, and for one suspended moment, the problem in Cabin Four disappears from my mind.

Marc Decker looks nothing like the small square photograph attached to his reservation.

That picture showed dark hair, a straight nose, and the serious demeanor of a man who had probably taken his own license photo on purpose.

It did not show the way his navy T-shirt stretches across his chest or how easily he fills the space beside his truck.

It definitely did not prepare me for muscular forearms dusted with dark hair.

The man is an electrician. I remember that much from the notes on his six-week corporate reservation, along with the fact that his employer is paying for Cabin Seven while he supervises a commercial project in Cady Springs.

Maybe having an electrician check in is not merely a coincidence. He looks like he could be divine intervention with excellent shoulders.

He glances toward the cabin and then at me.

His gaze travels from my ponytail to the tool bag in my hand before settling on my face.

Something changes in his expression. It is not quite a smile, but it is warm enough to make me suddenly aware that my oldest jeans are cupping every curve below my waist.

"Kelsey Matlock?" he asks.

His voice is deep and rough around the edges, and my body reacts as if I have not heard a man speak in several years. That is not true. I spoke to the propane delivery driver this morning. He simply did not sound like warm gravel sliding over bare skin.

"That's me." I keep walking, because Harold Lawson's breathing machine matters more than the little current of awareness moving through me.

"You're early, Mr. Decker. Cabin Seven is ready, and the door code is the last four numbers of the phone you booked with.

I need to handle something in another cabin, but I'll come back and make sure you have everything. "

His eyes drop to my tool bag. "Electrical something?"

"Are all electricians this nosy when they're off the clock?"

"Only the ones who smell overheated insulation."

That stops me. Marc turns his head toward Cabin Seven, and the warmth vanishes from his face. He is not trying to impress me now. Every part of him has sharpened with professional attention.

"From inside?" I ask.

"The window is open. It's faint, but it's there."

My heart begins beating harder for a reason that has nothing to do with his shoulders.

I know the odor he means. Old wiring has a hot, bitter smell that can hide beneath wood smoke, cooking grease, or the dusty heat of a baseboard unit.

I did not notice it while I was cleaning, but the windows have been open most of the afternoon.

"Cabin Four just lost power in the bedroom," I tell him. "They share part of the older service."

He reaches back into his truck and lifts his tool belt from the seat. "Show me."

The command comes naturally to him. So naturally, in fact, that my feet nearly obey before my good sense catches up.

"I have an electrician I use."

"Good. Call him." Marc buckles the belt around his hips without taking his eyes from the cabin. "Until he gets here, show me where the panels are. I won't touch anything without your permission, but I can tell you whether your guests need to get out."

There is a significant difference between a man taking over and a man helping me protect my guests. I know that. My pride knows it too, although she is slower to admit it.

I pull out my phone and call the electrician who has worked on Eight Pines since before I bought it. The call goes straight to voicemail. My second call reaches his wife, who tells me he is forty miles away finishing an emergency repair at a feed store and cannot get here for hours.

When I lower the phone, Marc waits without giving me a single I-told-you-so look.

"You can inspect it," I say. "Nothing beyond that until we know what we're dealing with."

"Your property, your call."

Those four words loosen something between my shoulder blades.

We stop first at Cabin Four. I relocate the Lawsons to Cabin Two, carrying their bags while Marc checks the receptacle and the small subpanel inside the utility closet.

He asks before removing the cover. He explains what he sees without speaking to me as if I am a child, and when I tell him which circuits were updated last spring, he listens.

"The outlet isn't the source," he says after several minutes. "It may have taken the blame because it was under load when the voltage dropped. I want to see the main service point."

That is located beyond the last cabin near the narrow maintenance dock, hidden behind a cedar privacy screen because nothing ruins an idyllic lake photograph like a gray electrical cabinet.

Marc follows me along the shoreline, carrying a meter and flashlight while I explain the layout.

Cabin Eight, my home, sits on the far end of the curve.

Cabin Seven is next to it, sharing a short stretch of lawn and the best view of the old dock.

"You live on-site?" he asks.

"Three steps from work. Four if I need coffee first."

"That often?"

"Every morning. Sometimes again at noon."

He breaks into a full smile. It changes his entire face, softening the stern line of his jaw and putting shallow creases beside his eyes. I nearly miss the uneven board beneath my boot because I am looking at him instead of where I am going. Nearly. I catch myself on the dock post and keep moving.

The maintenance platform extends a few feet over the water behind the privacy screen, allowing access to the conduit that runs along the reinforced shoreline. It is solid enough, but one of the outer boards has been marked for replacement since early summer. I know exactly where it is.

Unfortunately, Marc does not. "Stay toward the center," I warn as he steps around me. "That outside board is loose."

He immediately shifts his weight. The board does not break beneath him, but the toe of his boot catches the raised edge and sends his large body toward me.

I throw out both hands on instinct. Marc catches my waist, twists to keep from crushing me, and turns what might have been a simple stumble into a surprisingly graceful fall off the side of the dock.

The lake closes over my head before I manage a complete curse word.

Cold water rushes beneath my shirt and into my boots.

Marc's arm remains locked around my waist as we surface, his other hand gripping the edge of the dock.

I drag in a breath and push wet hair out of my eyes, prepared to inform him that qualified electricians are not generally supposed to throw their clients into bodies of water.

Then I see his face.

He looks horrified. Completely, sincerely horrified.

Laughter bubbles out of me before I can stop it. My laugh is so robust, so loud that it scatters two ducks near the reeds. But I’m helpless enough that I have to clutch Marc's shoulder to keep my mouth above water.

"Are you hurt?" he asks.

I shake my head, still laughing. "No. Are you?"

"Only in ways my health insurance won't cover."

"Your dignity?" I ask, laughing still.

"I met you ten minutes ago and threw you into a lake. I don't think dignity is coming back from that."

His wet shirt is plastered to his chest. My body is plastered to the rest of him, one of his thighs wedged between mine while his hand spans the curve of my waist beneath the water. The laughter fades slowly as I become aware of every hard inch bracing me against him.

Marc feels it too. His gaze drops to my mouth, and the arm around me tightens before he deliberately loosens it.

"Kelsey." My name sounds different in that rough voice.

"Marc."

I have no idea what I intend to say after that. A warning would be appropriate. A reminder that he is a guest would be smarter. Instead, I stay in his arms while lake water drips from his dark hair and a slow heat spreads through me that has nothing to do with the late-summer sun.

The cabin lights along the shore flicker. All of them.

Marc looks past me, turning serious again. "We need to get out of the water."

This time, I do exactly what he says.