Chapter Nine
Kelsey
Iwake before the alarm with one of Marc’s arms beneath my neck and the other heavy across my waist. For several seconds, I do not open my eyes. The lake moves softly beyond the cracked window, water touching the shore with the same constant rhythm. But everything inside my bedroom feels different.
Marc’s chest is warm against my back. One of his knees is wedged between mine, and his breath moves the hair near my temple.
I am tender in several interesting places.
My shower is going to require cleaning, my quilt may never forgive either of us, and the electrician next door is sleeping in my bed as if he has been doing it for years.
I should be panicking.
Instead, I turn carefully inside his arms so I can look at him. Sleep softens the sternness from his face. His dark hair is a mess, and a faint red mark crosses one shoulder where I held on in the shower. The sight of it sends a satisfied tingle through my stomach.
His eyes open. There is no confusion in them, no instant when he has to remember where he is or who is beside him. His hand slides from my waist to my hip beneath the sheet.
“Morning,” he says.
His voice is rougher after sleep. I like it far too much.
“I have a professional question.”
One eyebrow lifts. “At this hour?”
“Was that AC or DC that happened last night?”
Marc’s smile opens up. “Does it matter?”
“Only if one of them means you can do it again.”
He rolls me beneath him before I finish the sentence. “Around you, Kelsey, I’ve always got a current flowing.”
His kiss is deep enough to prove his point, but the alarm begins chirping from the nightstand before either of us can conduct further research.
Marc reaches across me to silence it. The movement presses every hard part of him against every soft part of me, which is a terrible way to encourage responsible behavior.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Four forty-five.”
I groan. “That is not morning. That is a clerical error.”
“My crew starts at six.” He kisses the side of my neck, then makes himself pull away. “I need a shower.”
“Mine or yours?”
“Mine. If I get in yours with you, I’ll be unemployed by breakfast.”
He stands and begins gathering his clothes.
There is something startlingly intimate about watching a naked man search beneath my bed for one missing sock.
I have had lovers. I have even lived with one, briefly and badly.
None of those experiences prepared me for how deeply ordinary this moment feels or how much I want to keep it.
Marc finds the sock and catches me watching him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t a nothing look.”
“I was wondering how one man managed to distribute his clothes across my entire bedroom in a single night.”
“Skill.” He pulls on his jeans without underwear, and my eyes follow the movement despite my best intentions. “Excited current in motion.”
“Clearly.”
I wrap the sheet around myself and follow him to the kitchen.
He tries to tell me he does not need coffee.
I ignore him because no one should operate a vehicle at this hour without it.
While the pot brews, Marc retrieves his work boots from beside the door and checks his phone. He suddenly looks serious.
“Problem?” I ask.
“The delivery was moved up. Nolan says the conductors will be at his shop by noon.”
Relief comes quickly, followed by the next practical concern. “Can he begin without you?”
“He can pull the old wire and stage the new run. I’ll be here as soon as my crew shuts down.” Marc sets the phone on the counter and comes toward me. “If everything tests clean tonight, you’re still on schedule for the inspection tomorrow.”
“If everything tests clean.”
“It will or it won’t. Worrying for the next twelve hours won’t change the reading.”
“Do you offer that philosophy to all your clients?”
“Only the ones standing in their kitchens wearing a sheet.”
He stops in front of me and opens the sheet enough to put both hands on my bare waist. I should object. Instead, I slide my arms around his neck and let him kiss me until the coffee maker releases an impatient hiss behind us.
“Go to work,” I whisper.
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
Marc kisses me once more, slower this time. “I’ll be back by four.”
The words feel like a promise, although they are only a statement about his schedule. I watch him cross the narrow lawn to Cabin Seven, then stand at the window until the light inside his bathroom comes on.
He is next door. He is coming back tonight. For now, I let that be enough.
The sensible part of me points out that Marc reserved the cabin for six weeks.
Six weeks is long enough to become accustomed to a man crossing the lawn in the morning and not nearly long enough to build a life around him.
I should be chastising myself for becoming involved with someone whose departure date was part of his reservation before we ever met.
I do not regret last night. Even knowing how temporary this may be, I would make the same choice again. That might be the least sensible part of all.
By seven, I have changed the sheets, washed bedding, answered six emails, and confirmed that the reunion organizer still plans to arrive Friday afternoon.
Her name is Suzanne Fletcher, and she has spent months coordinating several relatives who disagree about everything except wanting to be together at the lake.
I do not tell her about the electrical repair. The cabins are safe while disconnected, and there is no reason to hand her my anxiety before I know whether it belongs to her. I do promise to call by eight tomorrow morning if anything changes.
At nine, Nolan arrives to inspect the marked trench and verify that the overnight cover held.
At ten, I drive into town for groceries, cleaning supplies, and enough paper towels to satisfy four generations of Fletchers.
I stop at Millie’s Café last because I have not eaten, and the smell of bacon reminds me that coffee is not technically breakfast.
Before I leave, I ask Nolan what the repair will cost now that Marc has contributed so much of the labor. He names an amount lower than I feared but high enough to cover his time, permit responsibility, and materials.
“Marc is saving you labor hours,” he says. “He is not turning this into free work. I will send the final invoice after the inspection.”
“Good,” I tell him. “Because I intend to pay it.”
Millie takes one look at me when I slide onto a stool and smiles in a way that makes me regret coming inside.
“You look rested,” she says.
“I slept approximately four hours.”
“Must have been excellent sleep.”
I pick up the menu even though I know it by heart. “I need two breakfast sandwiches to go.”
“Two?”
“Nolan is working at the cabins.”
“Nolan?” She pours coffee into a clean mug and sets it in front of me. “How is the new guest?”
There is no point pretending she does not know exactly which guest she means. Millie probably learned Marc’s height, shirt size, and intentions while selling him the pastries.
“He’s doing some rewiring for me.”
Her gaze drops meaningfully to the collar of my shirt, where I sincerely hope Marc did not leave evidence. “At the cabins, Kelsey?”
I take a long drink of coffee. “Primarily.”
Millie laughs so loudly that a man in the corner turns to look. I point one warning finger at her, but I cannot keep my own smile from appearing.
It remains with me through the drive back to Eight Pines.
The smile is still there when I find Nolan beside the open trench and see the new wire waiting on its reel.
Work takes over after that. We verify the delivery, compare it with the permit, and begin preparing the conduit.
I carry what I can, document what I cannot, and answer guest messages between tasks.
Three fifty-eight arrives before I am ready for it.
Marc’s truck turns beneath the Eight Pines sign two minutes later.
He steps out looking tired, dusty, and better than any man has a right to look after ten hours on a construction site.
His gaze finds me before he speaks to Nolan.
The heat in it is private, even with another person standing between us.
He came back exactly when he said he would. And it gives me one more reason to keep smiling today.