Page 8 of Oops I Fell For The Electrician Next Door

"You bought eight cabins by yourself?"

"With a mortgage large enough to qualify as a ninth."

Admiration warms his eyes. I am accustomed to surprise when people learn that Eight Pines belongs to me. Sometimes it is followed by doubt, as if a woman my size and age could not possibly manage a property without a father, husband, or secret investor hiding behind the office door.

Marc simply looks impressed.

"You saved it," he says.

"I bought it. The saving is ongoing."

His gaze drops to the plans. "We'll find out what you're facing tomorrow."

"We will," I agree, emphasizing the first word.

Marc looks back at me. "You're going to supervise every minute, aren't you?"

"It's my property."

"I wouldn't expect anything else."

He stands and carries our bowls to the sink before I can stop him. I follow, intending to tell him that guests do not wash dishes in my house, but he braces both hands on the counter and turns before I reach him.

The movement brings me within inches of his chest. My breath catches. Marc looks down at me, the heat in his eyes stronger than it was at the table. One of his hands lifts as if he intends to touch my face, then stops halfway.

"I'm going next door," he says.

I should be relieved. "Probably wise."

"Wisdom has nothing to do with it."

"No?"

"I want to kiss you." His gaze moves to my mouth. "But your lights are flickering, you're worried about your business, and I haven't been here long enough to unpack my toothbrush."

"That is an extremely practical list."

"It isn't helping."

I am tempted to close the distance myself. For one suspended second, I imagine pressing my palms to his chest and discovering whether his mouth feels as commanding as the rest of him. Then the lamp over my sink flickers twice. Marc closes his eyes.

"Your property has terrible timing."

"Eight Pines has always been possessive of me."

We step apart and walk outside. He checks the temporary shutdown to make certain nothing has changed, while I stand beside him trying not to wonder what would have happened if the lights had waited another thirty seconds.

When Marc finally crosses the lawn to Cabin Seven, he pauses on his porch.

"Lock your door, Kelsey."

"I always do."

"Good night."

"Good night, Marc."

I go inside, turn the lock, and lean against the door. My home is quiet around me, but I am not. Every nerve beneath my skin seems to be humming.