Chapter Twelve
Marc
The light in Kelsey’s office remains on until after midnight.
I know because I sit on the porch of Cabin Seven pretending to read the regional offer while watching her shadow move past the window.
The Fletchers settled an hour ago. The lake is fairly still and the electrical repairs are working.
The only problem left at Eight Pines is one I cannot fix with a meter and a set of insulated tools.
Kelsey is scared. So am I.
The difference is that she responds by holding tighter to the life she knows, while every habit I have tells me to get in my truck before wanting something makes it difficult to leave.
My phone shows two documents. The national position begins with a failed hospital renovation in Boise, followed by projects in Arizona and California.
The western-region role allows me to choose a home base and build crews instead of replacing broken ones.
It pays less, although still more than enough.
More importantly, it is the job I asked for after spending Christmas alone in a hotel last year.
Kelsey did not create that memory. She did not make me tired of unopened boxes or meals eaten from takeout containers. She only showed me what the alternative might look like.
I close the offers without answering either one.
Saturday morning, I wake before five and find Kelsey already outside. She moves from cabin to cabin carrying a basket of fresh towels. I wonder if she is making work because work has always been something she can control.
I pull on jeans and meet her beside Cabin Five.
“You’re avoiding me,” I say.
She does not pretend otherwise. “I’m giving you room to make your decision.”
“That’s courteous, but the withdrawal seems harsh.”
“Maybe I need room too.”
I take the basket from her before she can object and set it on the porch rail. “Then tell me what you need room from.”
Kelsey looks toward the lake. Morning fog lies low over the water, hiding the far shore.
“I know what it feels like when a man gives something up and decides later that I owe him for it. My ex proposed, then spent the next year explaining how much easier our future would be if I sold Eight Pines. Every repair became proof that the property was ruining our lives. Every weekend I worked became something I had taken from him.”
“I’m not him.”
“I know that.” She rubs her hands over her arms. “But you don’t know what living here requires. You have seen four days, one emergency, and the pretty part of a family reunion. You haven’t seen pipes freeze in January or a guest back a trailer through the laundry-room wall.”
“Did that happen?”
“Twice.”
Despite everything, I smile. “Same guest?”
“Different years. Different walls.”
I move closer, stopping before I touch her. “You’re right. I don’t know everything about this place or about you. Staying would not mean moving into your cabin Monday and putting my name on the deed Tuesday.”
“It wouldn’t?”
“I’m impulsive, not deranged.”
Her mouth softens.
“The regional job is mine if I want it,” I continue. “I could base myself anywhere in western Colorado. If I choose Cady Springs, I will rent a place and learn what living here requires. I won’t ask you to sell anything, hire a manager, or hand me a ring of keys.”
“You already have the code to Cabin Seven.”
“Temporary guest access. Very different.”
“You’re still leaving Sunday.”
“The commercial project ends Sunday. That is not necessarily the same thing.”
Hope appears in her eyes, followed immediately by caution. At least she does not erase it before I can see.
“What do you want from me right now?” she asks.
“A chance. No guarantees and no debt attached. If this turns into something permanent, it will be because we both keep choosing it.”
Kelsey looks at me for a long moment. “I can give you a chance.”
I touch her then, sliding one hand around the back of her neck. “Good.”
Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt. The kiss is softer than any we have shared, and it goes deeper because neither of us is using desire to avoid the conversation.
A child shrieks near Cabin Two. We break apart and turn in time to see a red rubber ball bounce down the path toward the lake. Kelsey catches it with one foot before it reaches the water.
“Property manager,” she calls when a little boy races after it. “Retriever of towels, finder of remotes, and rescuer of runaway balls.”
“Do you charge extra for that?” I ask.
“I should.”
The rest of the morning passes in small pieces of work.
I return to the commercial site for final testing while Kelsey manages the reunion.
We exchange two messages. Hers tells me the repaired service remains stable.
Mine tells her to eat lunch. She sends back a photograph of a sandwich as evidence.
At eleven forty-five, my boss calls.
“You owe me an answer,” he says.
I stand inside the renovated mechanical room while my crew completes the last panel schedule. Around me, what should have been weeks of work has been reduced to neat labels and clean readings. Finishing a job has always brought satisfaction. Today it feels like a door closing behind me.
“I want the western-region position.”
“Good. I’ll send the final agreement.”
“I’m basing in Cady Springs.”
There is a pause. “You’ve been there five days.”
“I know.”
“Denver would give you easier access to the interstate and the airport.”
“Cady Springs keeps me inside the territory, and I can reach the major sites from here. You said I could choose the base.”
“I did.” Another pause follows, this one carrying amusement. “Does this decision have anything to do with a woman?”
“It has something to do with realizing I want a place that feels like home.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
“Send the agreement.”
When the call ends, relief surges through me. I expected panic or doubt once the choice became real. Instead, I feel grounded.
I do not tell Kelsey by message. This deserves more than a line on a screen.
We complete the final tests shortly after three. My crew will return tomorrow to clear equipment and turn over the project, but the electrical work is finished. I drive back to Eight Pines with the signed agreement waiting in my inbox and a plan beginning to form.
The Fletchers have transformed the open area beside the lake. Folding chairs circle a firepit. Crockpots cover two picnic tables. Someone strung an additional line of lights between the trees, plugging them into an exterior outlet on Cabin Four.
The installation is not dangerous, but the cord crosses the walking path where several children are running. I unplug it, reroute the line along the edge of the gathering area, and secure it with the cable covers Kelsey stores in the maintenance shed.
I am finishing when she finds me.
“What are you doing?”
Her voice is sharper than the question requires. I straighten slowly. “Removing a trip hazard.”
“You went into the maintenance shed?”
“It was unlocked.”
“That does not make it yours.”
I look at the cable cover in my hand, then at her. The morning’s understanding vanishes beneath the accusation in her face.
“A child nearly caught his foot on this cord.”
“Then you tell me. I'll handle it.”
“Kelsey, I corrected a safety problem. I didn’t restructure your business.”
“It starts small.” The moment the words leave her, regret appears. “I didn’t mean …”
“Yes, you did.” I set down the remaining cover. “You think every time I touch something here, I’m claiming it.”
“That isn’t what I think.”
“Then what are we arguing about?”
She glances toward the gathering. No one seems to be listening, but she lowers her voice. “I need you to ask before changing things.”
“You’re right.” The agreement costs me nothing because it is true. “I should have found you first. I saw a kid running toward a cord and handled it, but this is your property.”
Kelsey blinks, some of the fight leaving her. “You aren’t going to tell me I’m overreacting?”
“You are overreacting. You’re also right that I should have told you.”
A reluctant breath of laughter escapes her. “That is reasonable, but still irritating.”
“I have my moments.”
I step closer but leave the decision to her. Kelsey looks down at the newly covered cord, then takes my hand.
“Thank you for keeping them safe,” she says. “And for asking next time.”
“I will.”
“You said you had something to tell me?”
I squeeze her fingers. This is not the setting I imagined, with children running past and a crockpot lid rattling on the table, but perhaps it is better. Life at Eight Pines will probably never hold still long enough for perfect timing.
“I accepted the western-region position,” I say. “Cady Springs will be my home base.”
Kelsey’s eyes widen. “You accepted it?”
“An hour ago.”
“Because of me?”
“Because it is the job I wanted before I admitted I wanted it. Because I’m tired of letting work decide where I live. And yes, because there is a woman here I want the chance to know for longer than six weeks.”
Her eyes shine, but she does not look away. “Where will you live?”
“I was hoping the owner of Cabin Seven might extend my reservation at the full monthly rate while I find something permanent.”
“She has strict policies.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“And you will not receive a discount merely because you’ve seen her naked.”
“That seems unfair. I provided exceptional service.”
Kelsey laughs and steps into my arms. “I think we can work something out.”
I hold her against me while the reunion carries on around us. She has not promised forever. Neither have I. For the first time, staying feels less frightening than leaving.