9. Laurie
Chapter nine
Laurie
Ipress the towel against the base of the sink cabinet, watching water creep across the tiles.
"Maybe it's minor," I say.
Bethany stands in the doorway holding a flashlight, bucket, and plunger. "Minor things don't usually puddle into a lake."
"It's not a lake."
"Mom. There's water coming from under the sink, pooling near the toilet, and I think it's seeping into the other bedroom through the Jack-and-Jill door."
I press the towel harder. "Great. That'll look fantastic on the inspection report."
She shines the flashlight directly at the expanding puddle, which does not help.
"We need to shut off the water," I mutter.
"Do you know how?"
"I turned something."
"Mom."
I stand, wringing out the towel into the bucket. My socks are soaked. "Get more towels. I'll figure out if I shut off the right valve."
Bethany disappears. I crouch again, peering under the sink with my phone flashlight. I have no idea if the valve I turned actually stopped water to this bathroom or accidentally cut off something critical elsewhere in the lodge.
I try a plumber first. It goes to voicemail with some message about not taking emergency calls right now because of a weather advisory.
Perfect.
For a moment, I just stare at my phone. Then I text Grant.
The upstairs bathroom is leaking. I'm handling it, I think.
My phone rings before I finish standing up.
"Laurie."
His voice is clipped. Somehow that makes me more annoyed.
"It's fine," I say. "Just wanted you to know."
"What kind of leak?"
"The wet kind."
"Is it coming from the sink, toilet, or ceiling?"
I glance at the puddle. "Sink. Maybe the pipe underneath."
"Did you shut off water to that section?"
"I turned a valve."
"Did the leak stop?"
"Well, no."
Brief silence. I imagine him closing his eyes and praying for patience.
"I'm coming to look."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm coming."
He hangs up.
I look at Bethany, who has returned with an armload of towels. "Grant's on his way."
"Oh, Grant answers plumbing calls now?"
"What does that mean?"
She drops the towels and starts spreading them across the floor. "Nothing. Just that rich fake boyfriends don't usually show up for little issues like this."
"Fake fiancé."
"Right. That makes it so much better."
***
Thunder rumbles outside. Rain taps the windows, soft at first, then harder.
By the time Grant's truck pulls into the driveway, the storm is building in earnest.
He walks in with Major at his side, both of them damp from the rain. Major wears his service vest, alert and focused. He scans the entryway, then waits at Grant's heel without moving toward me.
"Greet," he says quietly.
Major steps forward, tail wagging now but controlled. He presses his nose briefly against my hand, then returns to Grant's side.
Bethany watches from the stairs. "That dog has better manners than most people involved in professional sports."
Grant almost smiles. "That's a low bar."
I blink. Did he just make a joke?
"Upstairs?" he asks.
"Second door on the right."
He heads up with Major trailing close. I follow, hyperaware of how his wet shirt clings to his shoulders and how he moves through the lodge carefully.
He stops in the bathroom doorway, surveys the towels and puddle, then removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeves.
I did not expect him to actually do anything. Instead, Grant steps into the bathroom, studies the water spreading beneath the vanity, then looks toward the hallway.
“There are three bathrooms up here, right?”
“Yes. All Jack-and-Jill,” I say. “Today Jack and Jill have a flooded hill.”
His mouth almost moves.
Almost.
Then he opens the narrow linen closet and runs his hand along the back wall. “Older buildings usually have hidden access panels.”
Bethany mutters. “Normal people call those mystery doors.”
Grant finds a square panel half-hidden behind a stack of mismatched towels. He shifts the towels aside, opens it, and shines his phone light inside.
“There it is.”
He reaches in and turns a small valve clockwise until it stops.
The dripping under the sink slows, then fades to one stubborn plink.
I stare at him.
I did not expect competence to be quite so irritating.
“That should isolate the upstairs bathroom line,” he says. “Now I can see what failed without making it worse.”
He crouches beside the sink and checks the pipe himself.
“Hand me that flashlight,” he says.
Bethany passes it to him, then gives me the side-eye.
Grant, oblivious to the exchange, angles the light under the cabinet.
“Connection here is loose,” he says finally. “We need a plumber, but not emergency-level.”
Thunder cracks. The lights flicker.
Bethany moves to the window. "The driveway's turning into soup."
Grant stands, wiping his hands on one of the less-wet towels. His phone buzzes. He checks it, frowns.
"Thunderstorm warning."
He pockets his phone and heads toward the stairs.
"You're not driving in that," I say.
"I've driven in worse."
"That's not the reassuring sentence you think it is."
Another thunderclap. Major presses subtly against Grant's leg. Grant's hand drops briefly to the harness, fingers brushing the handle.
Grant's phone buzzes again. He reads the message, jaw tight. "My assistant says the road's closed."
"Then you're staying," I say.
"Laurie—"
"I'm not letting a billionaire freeze in a ditch. It would give me nightmares. There are plenty of spare rooms."
We clean up the immediate mess together. I reach for the flashlight at the same time Grant does. Our hands brush.
Brief. Charged.
Thunder echoes in the distance.
Bethany appears with a mop. Her eyes flick between us. She says nothing, but that might be worse than commentary.
***
Downstairs, Grant checks doors, windows, the breaker panel. Major follows him.
I realize Grant is always assessing, but tonight it feels less like control and more like protection.
I pull extra blankets from the linen closet. "I'll put these on your bed for you."
He nods in my direction. "Thank you."
The whole exchange feels too formal.
"We're fake engaged," I say. "Surely I can provide a blanket without scandal."
His eyes meet mine. "The fake part is exactly why boundaries matter."
Bethany announces loudly that she's going to bed and not listening to adults be awkward.
Then it's just me, Grant, and Major in the living room. The storm is blowing outside, but inside the fireplace is glowing and warm.
"I'm sorry you had to call me," Grant says.
"I'm not sorry. The pipe was your property's fault."
He almost smiles.
Major settles near Grant but keeps his eyes on the doors.
I head upstairs with the blankets, aware that the lodge suddenly feels much smaller than it did yesterday.