Page 1 of Oops I Fell For The Electrician Next Door

Chapter One

Kelsey

The lamp beside the bed flickers twice while I am smoothing the last wrinkle from the quilt in Cabin Seven. I stop with both palms pressed against the soft fabric, staring at it as if I can will the light to remain steady. It does, glowing innocently beneath the cream linen shade as if I imagined the whole thing. But I didn’t imagine it.

Eight Pines has taught me the difference between an actual problem and the particular kind of paranoia that comes from owning eight lakeside cabins with eight roofs, eight water heaters, and enough aging electrical wire to keep me awake through the occasional thunderstorm. A lightbulb burns out, I replace it. A toilet runs, I fix it. A guest reports that something smells hot near an outlet, I do not smooth the quilt and hope for the best. I’ll need to get this checked out.

My phone begins vibrating on the nightstand before I can reach for the lamp. The name on the screen belongs to the couple staying in Cabin Four. What now?

I answer on the second buzz. "Hi, Mrs. Lawson. Is everything all right?"

"I'm sure it's nothing, dear, but the power went off in the bedroom again. Harold plugged in his breathing machine, and then the television went black."

My stomach tightens. Mrs. Lawson told me about Harold's sleep apnea when they checked in yesterday. I put them in Cabin Four because it has the easiest walk from the parking area and one of the newer mattresses, never imagining the outlet beside that mattress would choose tonight to misbehave.

"Unplug the television and leave everything else exactly as it is," I tell her, already crossing the room. "I'll be there in two minutes. In the meantime, Harold can use the outlet beside the dining table for his machine. That circuit was replaced last year."

"We don't want to be any trouble."

"You aren't. This is my trouble, and I'm going to take care of it."

I grab my tool bag from the shelf inside Cabin Seven's utility closet, then pause long enough to switch off the lamp. If the flicker is connected to whatever is happening in Cabin Four, it may be more than a bad outlet. Cabins Four through Six share the oldest section of the underground service, a fact that has been written in red ink at the top of my maintenance list for eleven months. Unfortunately, red ink does not create money for repairs.

Outside, the late-afternoon sun lays a golden path across the lake. Eight Pines curves along the shoreline in a wide crescent, each cabin tucked far enough into the trees to feel private while remaining close enough that I can reach any porch quickly. The lake is calm today, barely stirring beneath a breeze scented with pine and the first dry hint of autumn. It is the sort of view that makes guests stand beside their cars and sigh when they arrive. It is also the view that convinced me I could take over a property with eight temperamental buildings and turn it into something people would remember.

I am halfway down the gravel path when a dark gray pickup rolls beneath the wooden Eight Pines sign. It moves slowly, the driver following the directions in the check-in message instead of roaring toward the cabins as if the posted speed limit is only a suggestion. I appreciate that. I appreciate it even more when the truck stops in the space beside Cabin Seven rather than blocking the turnaround.

My newest guest is early. Just my luck.

The driver's door opens, and a heavy work boot lands on the gravel. Long legs follow. Then broad shoulders rise above the truck door, and for one suspended moment, the problem in Cabin Four disappears from my mind.

Marc Decker looks nothing like the small square photograph attached to his reservation. That picture showed dark hair, a straight nose, and the serious demeanor of a man who had probably taken his own license photo on purpose. It did not show the way his navy T-shirt stretches across his chest or how easily he fills the space beside his truck. It definitely did not prepare me for muscular forearms dusted with dark hair.

The man is an electrician. I remember that much from the notes on his six-week corporate reservation, along with the fact that his employer is paying for Cabin Seven while he supervises a commercial project in Cady Springs.

Maybe having an electrician check in is not merely a coincidence. He looks like he could be divine intervention with excellent shoulders.

He glances toward the cabin and then at me. His gaze travels from my ponytail to the tool bag in my hand before settling on my face. Something changes in his expression. It is not quite a smile, but it is warm enough to make me suddenly aware that my oldest jeans are cupping every curve below my waist.

"Kelsey Matlock?" he asks.

His voice is deep and rough around the edges, and my body reacts as if I have not heard a man speak in several years. That is not true. I spoke to the propane delivery driver this morning. He simply did not sound like warm gravel sliding over bare skin.

"That's me." I keep walking, because Harold Lawson's breathing machine matters more than the little current of awareness moving through me. "You're early, Mr. Decker. Cabin Seven is ready, and the door code is the last four numbers of the phone you booked with. I need to handle something in another cabin, but I'll come back and make sure you have everything."

His eyes drop to my tool bag. "Electrical something?"

"Are all electricians this nosy when they're off the clock?"

"Only the ones who smell overheated insulation."

That stops me. Marc turns his head toward Cabin Seven, and the warmth vanishes from his face. He is not trying to impress me now. Every part of him has sharpened with professional attention.

"From inside?" I ask.

"The window is open. It's faint, but it's there."

My heart begins beating harder for a reason that has nothing to do with his shoulders. I know the odor he means. Old wiring has a hot, bitter smell that can hide beneath wood smoke, cooking grease, or the dusty heat of a baseboard unit. I did not notice it while I was cleaning, but the windows have been open most of the afternoon.