Page 5 of Oops I Fell For The Lumberjack Next Door

And Ryan, who watched me take the fall for trying to protect the woman he was screwing over, chose her side publicly, cut me loose, and moved on. I lost my best friend. Lost any chance of being believed. And Margot left college with a story about the jealous roommate who couldn't stand to see Ryan happy.

I carry that. Every day. Fifteen years of knowing I did the right thing in the worst possible way.

The sun clears the ridge and pours gold light across the farm. I finish the south block, make my way back toward the barn, and that's when I hear it. A truck. Big one. Diesel engine grinding up the shared access road that splits between my driveway and hers.

The moving truck.

From the barn I can see her gravel drive. A rental box truck parks at an angle because her driveway wasn't built for anything that size. The driver gets out, checks his clipboard, looks at the cabin, and his face does something close to a wince.

Welcome to the club, buddy.

Margot comes around the side of the cabin. She's in jeans, a flannel shirt that's too big for her and definitely not one she owned yesterday, work boots that look brand new. Her hair is pulled back in a clip, and she's got a bandage on her right shin from where the porch cut her last night. She's talking to the driver, gesturing at the side door, and I can tell from here she's running the operation with the precision of a woman who spent a decade managing other people's timelines.

She'll be fine. She doesn't need me. She said so. Twice.

I go back to the barn and sharpen the shearing blades. The grinder hums. Steel screams against the wheel. Tinsel settles in the doorway, monitoring the truck activity next door with the focused attention of a dog who takes his neighborhood watch duties very seriously.

Twenty minutes pass. Thirty. The driver carries boxes. Margot carries boxes. They stack them through the side door because the front porch is still a death trap. It's efficient. She's got a system. Labeling, color coding, the whole thing.

Then the truck driver leaves, and she's alone with a cabin full of boxes and a building that needs more work than she probably realizes.

I keep sharpening blades. Get through the full set. Start on the chainsaw chain.

A sound carries through the trees. Water. Running water. And then a word, loud enough to reach my barn with all the force of a woman at the end of her rope.

"Fuck."

Tinsel's ears go up.

Mine too.

I put down the chainsaw chain. Tell myself it's none of my business. She made that clear. She doesn't want my help. She specifically said so. Loudly. With feeling.

Another bang. Then nothing. Then a low, frustrated sound that might be crying or might be swearing, hard to tell from fifty feet through pine trees.

I'm already walking.

Around the back of her cabin, the kitchen door is propped open with a box. Water is pooling on the floor. The pipe under the kitchen sink has cracked, and cold water is spraying in a fan that's soaking the cabinet, the floor, and the bottom of three boxes labeled BOOKS in red marker.

Margot is on her knees in the puddle, both hands on the pipe, trying to hold it together through sheer force of will. Water sprays through her fingers. Her flannel is soaked. Her face is soaked. Her cat is sitting on the counter watching with the detached interest of a creature that lives above the flood line by design.

"Shutoff valve is under the house." I'm in the doorway. Didn't knock. "Crawlspace access is on the east side. I can have this off in thirty seconds."

Her head whips toward me. Wet hair across her face, murder in her eyes. "I didn't ask you to come over."

"You didn't ask for a burst pipe either, but here we are."

"I have it under control."

"You're holding a broken pipe with your bare hands while your books get ruined."

Her eyes dart to the boxes. The BOOKS boxes. Three of them, the bottom already dark with water. Something crosses her face that's closer to grief than frustration, and her jaw tightens.

"Where's the crawlspace?"

"East side. Green panel. I'll show you."

She lets go of the pipe. Water sprays freely across the kitchen floor, and she follows me outside without another word, which might be the closest thing to cooperation I'll ever get from this woman.