Page 6 of Oops I Fell For The Electrician Next Door

Inviting Marc into my cabin seemed reasonable when we were standing outside discussing damaged wiring. It becomes less reasonable the moment he ducks through my front door and fills the kitchen with all six-foot-something of himself.

Cabin Eight has been my home for three years. I painted the cabinets a soft cream, refinished the pine table, and replaced the faded curtains with panels the color of the lake just before rain. The rooms are not large, but they fit me. Marc does not fit anywhere. His shoulders nearly brush both sides of the doorway, and when he pulls out a chair, the small table looks as if I borrowed it from a child's playhouse.

"You can take off the tool belt," I tell him. "I don't expect the chili to fight back."

He glances down as if he forgot he was wearing it. "Occupational habit."

"Do you sleep in that thing?"

"Buy me breakfast and maybe you'll find out."

I turn toward the stove before he can see the smile I cannot stop. There is nothing extraordinary about a man flirting with me. Guests have tried. Delivery drivers have tried. One extremely persistent plumber tried until I reminded him that his wife runs the front desk at the elementary school and knows my phone number.

Marc does not feel like any of them. He’s … different.

He removes the belt and places it neatly beside his chair. The movement pulls his damp shirt across his back, and I remember the hard planes beneath my hands in the lake. My body responds with enough enthusiasm to make me question whether sitting across from him at a tiny table is a good idea.

It is chili, not foreplay. I repeat that in my mind while I set out bowls, cheese, and the cornbread I baked yesterday. Marc offers to help without reaching around me or pretending he cannot locate the spoons. He carries everything to the table, waits until I sit, and then takes a bite.

His eyes close.

"That bad?" I ask.

"I'm trying to decide whether complimenting you will result in more food or make you suspicious."

"Both."

"Best chili I've had in years."

The pleasure that moves through me is embarrassingly warm. "You can have another bowl."

"Worth the risk."

I eat while Marc describes the testing Nolan will perform tomorrow. He explains that the visible damage may be limited to one loose connection, although the repeated voltage drop suggests a larger problem. If the underground conductors were damaged by moisture or movement in the soil, replacement will require a trench along part of the shoreline.

"How much of a trench?" I ask.

"Let's not spend money until we know you need to."

"I need to understand the possibilities."

He nods, accepting the correction. "If the whole run is bad, approximately a hundred and twenty feet. Maybe less if the fault is between two of the secondary points. The conduit route matters. Do you have the original site drawings?"

"Stored in a fireproof box."

"Naturally."

"Now Marc, you say that as if organization is a character flaw."

"I say it as a man who has spent three months waiting for a building owner to locate a drawing he swore was in his truck."

I retrieve the plans from my office nook and spread the copies across the table after we finish eating. Marc situates his chair beside mine. His thigh presses against the outside of mine, warm and solid, while he traces the old conduit route with one blunt fingertip.

"Here." He taps a point between Cabins Five and Six. "This bend is where I'd start looking if the conductor tests bad. Water follows the slope toward the lake, and the old installation notes show two couplings in the same area."

I lean closer. He smells clean despite the lake, something like soap, cotton, and the faint metallic scent of his tools. My eyes linger on his hand. It is large enough to cover the width of the blueprint, scarred across one knuckle, with short nails and calluses that scrape lightly against the paper.

The thought of those hands on me arrives without warning. I sit back too quickly and bump my water glass, but Marc catches it before it tips.