3. Laurie
Chapter three
Laurie
Iapproach the front door of the lodge with Bethany trailing behind, lugging bags. Grant Thorne stands near his sleek black SUV, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing at someone who isn't here.
Marianne had warned me he was intense. Tailored coat. Sharp jaw. Military posture. The kind of man who walks into rooms and expects them to jump up and rearrange themselves.
Grant glances up. His face doesn't change, but his attention shifts entirely.
He ends the call without ceremony and crosses the gravel drive toward us.
"Mrs. Bennett."
"Laurie." I set my bag down. "Mrs. Bennett makes me sound like I'm about to offer you tea and judgment."
His mouth doesn't quite smile. "Laurie."
Bethany stops beside me. She gives him a look she usually saves for machines making suspicious noises. Skeptical but willing to see if it works.
"My daughter, Bethany."
Grant nods once. Professional. Controlled. "Thank you for coming on short notice."
"Marianne made it sound urgent."
"It is."
A German Shepherd emerges from the SUV, service vest snug across his shoulders. He moves to Grant’s side with perfect discipline, then his attention locks onto me.
The dog’s tail wags.
Just once. Polite but definite.
Grant notices. His jaw tightens.
“Major,” he says. It's a quiet command.
Major immediately stills at Grant’s side, though his eyes stay on me.
The dog is interested, curious, but obedient and controlled. A perfect match for the man beside him, except Major seems to have better manners.
I smile and lower my hand, palm open, but I don’t reach for him. “Hello, handsome.”
Major looks up at Grant, waiting.
Grant’s mouth tightens. He may be regretting every choice that led him to this porch. "Greet.”
Only then does Major step forward and sniff my hand.
His tail gives another restrained sweep, and when I scratch gently under his chin, he leans into my palm for one brief, dignified second before returning to Grant’s side.
Bethany grins. “Well. That’s a very official vote of confidence.”
Grant’s irritation flickers across his face, and I cling to it. Annoyance is the first normal thing about him.
“Shall we?” I straighten and gesture toward the lodge.
***
The inside is worse than I expected and better than I feared.
Dust coats every surface. The furniture sits under a fine layer of neglect.
A stone fireplace dominates the main room, cold and dark.
Old hockey photos line the walls, some crooked, some faded.
The boot room to the left overflows with forgotten gear—broken sticks, ancient skates, jackets that haven't seen daylight in years.
The floors are solid. The windows are intact, but should be replaced with double-paned for this cold. The layout makes sense.
I walk through slowly, cataloging. Bethany drifts toward the kitchen, already making mental notes.
Grant stays near the entrance. His attention stays fixed on me.
I get the unsettling sense he has not yet decided what category I belong in. Employee. Inconvenience. Complication.
I ignore him and keep moving.
The kitchen is large, functional, and filled with chaos that happens when men use a space without maintaining it.
Cabinet doors hang crooked. The pantry holds half-empty boxes of stale crackers and protein bars.
The fridge is unplugged, door propped open, smelling faintly of something that died quietly months ago.
I pull out my phone and start a list. It's tiered into livable, fixable and needs replacement.
Bethany leans against the counter. "This place could be great."
"It will be." I type quickly. "Deep clean. Repairs. New shelf liners. Labels. Systems."
Footsteps approach.
Grant fills the kitchen doorway, his presence sharp and immediate.
"I need the main areas cleaned," he says. No greeting. Just orders. "Living room, kitchen, bathrooms. The inspector focuses on safety and visible maintenance."
I don't look up from my phone.
"Surface clean won't fool anyone," I say.
His silence is pointed.
I meet his eyes. "An inspector knows the difference between scrubbed and maintained. If you want this place to look responsibly occupied, it needs more than bleach and fresh towels."
"Such as?" Grant crosses his arms.
I hold up my list as evidence.
Major sits beside Grant, watching me, I think he's hopeful for more pets.
"I hired you to clean," Grant says. He's calm, controlled, and unmoved.
"You hired me to make this lodge presentable." I set my phone down. "A clean lodge with broken cabinet doors, a pantry full of expired food, and no signs of actual use looks like a cover-up. You want the inspector to believe people live here? Then it needs to feel lived in."
Bethany grins from her spot near the sink. "She's not wrong."
Grant's jaw tightens.
I hold his gaze. "I'm not afraid of hard work, Mr. Thorne. I raised a daughter, survived after my husband died. Your dusty lodge does not intimidate me. But if you want me to do this job, then let me do it properly. Don't make me unclog the sinks with a butter knife and a prayer."
Silence settles.
Major's tail thumps against the floor.
Grant exhales slowly. "What do you need?"
"Time. Supplies. Access to someone handy to fix the things beyond maintenance. And you staying out of my way while I assess what actually needs fixing."
Bethany coughs to cover a laugh.
Grant studies me for a long moment. His expression doesn't shift, but something in his posture eases.
"Agreed. You have thirty days," he says. "You and Bethany stay here as part of the arrangement."
"Agreed."
"The inspection is in three weeks."
"Then we start now."
Grant nods once. He turns to leave, then pauses in the doorway.
"Laurie."
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
The words sound unfamiliar in his mouth. Like he doesn't say them often.
I nod.
He leaves. Major lingers for a moment, tail wagging once more before following his human out.
Bethany watches him go.
"He's used to being obeyed," I say.
"You didn't obey."
"I don't work for men who think cleaning is simple." I pick up my phone again. "I work for men who respect competence."
Bethany grins. "This is going to be fun."
***
An hour later, I'm elbow-deep in pantry chaos when Bethany calls from the living room.
"Mom. You should see this."
I find her standing near the fireplace, holding a framed photo.
It's signed. A hockey legend whose name I vaguely recognize. The photo is dusty but it was clearly treasured once.
"This place has history," Bethany says quietly.
"Then we'll treat it like it matters."
My phone buzzes.
A text from Marianne:
Grant says you're terrifying. I'm so proud.
I smile and slip the phone back into my pocket.
Outside, tires crunch on gravel.
I glance out the window. A car idles near the property line. A woman sits behind the wheel, staring at the lodge with an expression I recognize immediately.
Suspicion.
She doesn't approach. Just watches.
Then drives away.
Bethany appears beside me. "Who was that?"
"No idea."
But unease prickles along my spine.
I shake it off and return to the kitchen.
We have work to do.