Page 28 of Oops I Fell For The Electrician Next Door

For one dreadful second, I think she has spotted something wrong. Then she hugs me.

“My grandmother is going to love this,” she says into my shoulder. “Thank you for keeping us all together.”

The words strike the tender place beneath my relief. I hug her back, then spend the next hour directing vehicles, carrying groceries, and matching relatives to cabins. Children race toward the lake. Adults call warnings after them. Someone begins unloading enough aluminum pans to feed a small army.

Marc returns shortly before four. He changed somewhere between the work site and Eight Pines, trading his dusty shirt for a clean gray one, but he still wears his work boots. He takes in the full parking area and the people moving between cabins.

“Looks like you pulled it off,” he says.

“We pulled it off.”

Suzanne appears beside us carrying a crockpot. “Kelsey, could your husband help Uncle Dean with the coolers? His back is acting up.”

“He isn’t my husband,” I say much too quickly.

Marc does not move, but I feel the small withdrawal beside me.

“This is Marc,” I continue, forcing my voice to sound business-like. “He helped repair the electrical service. And yes, I’m certain he would be glad to help Uncle Dean.”

“Of course.” Marc takes the crockpot from Suzanne before she can protest. “Show me where it goes.”

He leaves with her, carrying the heavy pot as if it weighs nothing. I tell myself my correction was reasonable. Marc and I have known each other for four days. No sane woman would allow a stranger to assume a man is her husband without clarification. I could have clarified without sounding horrified.

For the next two hours, Marc becomes part of the reunion without trying. He carries coolers, tightens the handle on a borrowed grill, and helps the youngest Fletcher untangle a fishing line from a shrub. He never takes over. When someone asks a question about the property, he points them toward me.

Watching him should make the future easier to imagine. It does the opposite. Marc fits too well. I can see him here next month and next year, his truck beside my cabin and his boots inside my door. The picture is so clear that losing it already hurts.

At sunset, the Fletchers invite us to their first-night cookout. I begin to refuse because guests deserve privacy, but Suzanne will not hear it. Marc and I sit together at the end of a picnic table beneath strings of lights connected to the safe service. His thigh rests against mine while children chase each other between the pines.

The ninety-one-year-old grandmother lifts her glass of lemonade and thanks everyone for coming home. Marc’s hand closes around mine beneath the table.

Later, after the food is cleared and the youngest children are being herded toward baths, Marc walks me back to my cabin. He remains beside the porch steps instead of following me inside.

“You have something to say,” I tell him.

“So do you.”

I lean against the railing. “I’m sorry about earlier. Suzanne surprised me.”

“I’m not angry because you told her the truth.”

“But?”

“You sounded like the idea scared the hell out of you.”

There is no accusation in his voice, which makes it harder to defend myself. “It did.”

Marc nods once. “Thank you for being honest.”

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

“No.” He comes up one step, bringing us eye to eye. “My project is ahead of schedule. The owner eliminated part of the final phase this afternoon. My crew will finish Sunday.”

The porch seems to shift beneath me. “This Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“But you reserved Cabin Seven for six weeks.”