Chapter Four
Marc
Ibegin my first official day in Cady Springs with three hours of sleep and an erection that has nothing to do with the sunrise.
Kelsey is outside when I step onto my porch at five-fifteen.
A light glows in her office nook, and she stands beside Cabin Eight in soft gray pants and a white tank top, watering two enormous pots of red geraniums. Her hair is piled on top of her head.
She has not seen me yet, which gives me a few unguarded seconds to watch her move through the property she loves.
She is softer this morning. Not less capable, simply unarmored.
She hums beneath her breath while she pinches a dead bloom from one plant, then bends to move a fallen pinecone from the path.
The tank top pulls across her breasts and leaves the generous curve of her hips outlined beneath thin fabric.
My body was already awake. Now it is determined to make the drive into town uncomfortable.
Kelsey straightens and spots me. Her humming stops, but the smile that touches her mouth feels private, as if morning has not officially begun and neither of us needs to remember all the reasons I did not kiss her last night.
"You're up early," she says.
"So are you."
"My guests enjoy believing the flowers water themselves."
I walk across the short stretch of lawn, drawn by her and the smell of coffee drifting through the open kitchen window. "Do they also believe breakfast appears for the electrician next door?"
"Absolutely not."
She takes another drink from the mug sitting on the porch rail. Her lips leave a pale mark on the rim, and I have the irrational urge to turn the cup and put my mouth in the same place.
"But," she continues, "I did set the timer for a full pot. There is more than I can drink."
"Convenient."
"I hate waste."
"Me too."
Kelsey narrows her eyes, but she carries the watering can toward her porch and leaves the door open behind her. I follow. She pours coffee into a travel mug bearing the Eight Pines logo and hands it to me with a foil-wrapped square of cornbread.
"Guest hospitality," she says.
"Business breakfast?"
"You haven't earned breakfast. This is leftover management."
I take the mug, letting my fingers brush hers. The contact is slight, but her breath changes. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. What time will you be back?"
"Around four. Nolan said he could be here by four-thirty."
"I'll have the original plans and all the repair records ready."
"Kelsey, you had them ready before I arrived."
"Then I'll find something else to organize."
She says it lightly, but concern shadows her eyes. I understand the instinct to work harder when a problem refuses to yield. Electricity gives me something measurable: voltage, load, resistance, heat. Worry does not.
"We'll know more tonight," I tell her. "Don't cancel your reunion reservation yet."
"I have until tomorrow before I need to make that call."
I want to tell her she will not have to make it. That I will repair whatever is wrong and keep every cabin lit, but confidence is not a substitute for facts. I refuse to promise Kelsey something simply because I want to erase the tension around her mouth.
"Tonight," I repeat.
She nods. I leave before I forget my crew, the drive, and every professional reason not to pull her against me in the doorway.
The commercial project is exactly the mess I expected.
Half the original circuits are mislabeled, two junction boxes are hidden above a finished ceiling, and the property owner believes a six-week schedule is evidence that we can complete eight weeks of work in five.
By three-thirty, I have answered dozens of questions, revised the work plan, and prevented an apprentice from energizing a panel while another man still had his hands inside it.
I should be exhausted when I turn beneath the Eight Pines sign.
Instead, the sight of Kelsey standing beside Nolan's van sends a fresh rush of energy through me.
She has changed into jeans and a fitted aqua blue shirt.
Her hair falls around her shoulders, catching the sun as she turns toward my truck.
I have spent the entire day remembering how close I came to wrapping it around my fist while I kissed her in my imagination.
Nolan is in his late fifties, wiry and sun-browned, with the compact movements of a man who has been crawling through attics for most of his life. He checks my license information, asks three questions about the commercial project, and then gives me a nod that constitutes professional acceptance.
"Kelsey says you're willing to help test the run," he says.
"If she hires me."
Her gaze moves between us. "We haven't discussed a rate."
I name the amount I earn for independent work. It is fair without being cheap, and Kelsey does not flinch.
"Put it in writing," she says. "Hours, scope, and materials separate."
"Already drafted."
Surprise crosses her face when I pull the printed agreement from my truck. "You carry a printer?"
"The cabin has one."
"I put that there for guests who need boarding passes."
"It also prints contracts."
Nolan snorts. "You two going to flirt, or are we going to find this fault before dark?"
"We aren't flirting," Kelsey and I answer together.
Nolan looks toward the lake, wisely keeping whatever he thinks to himself.
The first test confirms that the fault is not limited to the damaged lug.
Resistance on one conductor is higher than it should be, and the insulation test gives us a reading that changes when Nolan applies pressure near the conduit bend shown on the old plans.
We isolate each section until the problem narrows to a run between Cabin Five and the secondary distribution point beyond Cabin Six.
"Likely water in a coupling," Nolan says. "Could be damaged conduit. Could be an animal decided plastic tastes good."
Kelsey stands on the other side of the barrier we placed around the panel. "How much has to come out?"
"We'll expose both ends and the bend first," I tell her. "If we're lucky, we replace one section instead of the full run."
"And if we aren't?"
"The full run."
Kelsey doesn’t show any panic, but I see the calculation begin again. Materials. Labor. Lost bookings. The endless list of costs hidden behind the peaceful view she sells to guests.
"What is the fastest safe timeline?" she asks.
Nolan scratches his jaw. "I can get conduit and wire by Thursday. Earliest inspection would be Friday morning if the county can fit us in. That's assuming Marc helps and we don't uncover anything worse."
"The family arrives Friday at three."
"It'll be close."
Kelsey takes one breath and squares her shoulders. "Tell me what I can do."
Nolan begins to say she can stay out of the way. I see it forming on his face, followed by the moment he thinks better of it.
"Call the utility locate service," he says instead. "We don't dig until the property is marked. I'll submit the repair permit tonight. Marc and I can expose the existing conduit by hand tomorrow evening if the locate is complete."
"I can dig."
"I don't doubt it," I say. "But no one touches the ground until it's marked, and no one works near the damaged service alone."
Her chin lifts. "Including you."
"Especially me."
That answer satisfies her. I watch some of the tension leave her shoulders, and the need to touch her becomes almost painful. I want to put both hands there and knead until every tight muscle relaxes beneath my fingers. I want to do a great deal more than that, but Nolan is standing six feet away.
We close and secure the equipment before he leaves. The three cabins remain dark, and Kelsey follows me toward them with her tablet against her chest.
"If everything goes well, we can reopen by Friday," she says.
"If everything goes well."
"You could pretend to be more optimistic."
"You don't want pretending."
She exhales. "No. I don't."
We reach the space between our cabins. Her gaze lingers on the travel mug in my hand. I rinsed it at the job site and brought it back because it belongs to her. The fact that I used it all day has made it feel oddly personal.
"Dinner?" she asks.
Kelsey’s flirty tone delivers the invitation and I feel it low in my torso. "Business?"
"No." A flush moves into her cheeks, but she keeps looking at me. "Tonight, I'm asking whether you would like to have dinner with me."
I set the mug on her porch rail. "Yes."
"You didn't let me tell you what I'm making."
"Doesn't matter."
"What if I'm heating frozen fish sticks?"
"I'll eat every one of them."
Her smile turns soft. "Seven o'clock. That gives you time to shower."
I move closer, stopping before her body touches mine. "Are you suggesting I need one?"
"I'm suggesting you spent all day at a construction site and then put your hands in an electrical cabinet beside a lake."
I lift one hand and slide a loose strand of hair behind her ear. This time, I do not stop before touching her. Her skin is warm, and her eyes darken as my knuckles pass along her cheek.
"Seven," I say.
"Seven."
I walk into Cabin Seven without kissing her because I know exactly what will happen if I start.
My shower is cold. It does not help.