Twenty minutes later, I catch myself looking out the window toward the cabins again.
Fuck.I hammer harder.
CHAPTER 5
MAREN
The late afternoon light slants through the Black Lantern’s front windows, catching in the glassware behind the bar. I should be focused on the till, but my mind drifts, the columns of numbers blurring until I realize I’ve been staring too long. I shake myself, count through the cash again, and glance down at my phone. Battery’s in the red.
“Of course,” I mutter, setting it aside.
“I’ll be right back,” I call over to Lark. “Running home real quick! I forgot my charger.”
“Sounds good,” she says, rinsing pint glasses at the sink.
The air outside is soft and mild, a perfect late-summer afternoon. The walk to my cabin is an easy one, down a gravel path lined with fir and cedar, the faint tang of salt in the breeze. My shoulders loosen as I go, the noise of the bar fading behind me.
As I near the cabins, movement on the big house porch catches my eye.
Calvin’s there with a tool belt slung low, bent over a loose board on the porch. His shirt is off, draped over the railing, andsawdust clings to his hair in pale streaks. The muscles in his arms flex with every swing of the hammer, veins rising beneath his skin, his whole body lean and strong in a way that makes it impossible to look away.
I should keep going, grab the charger, and get back to work. There’s inventory to count, orders to place, a dozen things demanding my attention more than Calvin Midnight with a hammer in his hand.
But I don’t move.
His back is broad, tapered to a narrow waist, each movement controlled. He works like someone who’s done this his whole life, and there’s something unshakably masculine about the way he takes up the space around him, like he belongs here without question.
He pauses mid-swing, as if he can feel me watching. When he turns, our eyes lock across the yard. Maybe sixty feet, but feels more like six inches. The distance doesn’t matter when he’s looking at me like that.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. Just studies me like he’s working out a problem he can’t solve, and I might be the answer he wasn’t looking for. His is gaze steady enough to make my pulse trip in my throat, in my wrists, everywhere at once.
What would happen if I walked over there? If I offered him water, asked what he was fixing, or admitted I’ve been thinking about him since seven this morning, when I heard him moving around in his cabin, probably grading papers or doing whatever brooding professors do in the dark?
Laila bounds up just then, tail wagging, nudging my hand. The spell breaks. Calvin turns back to his work. I give her a quick pat, duck inside my cabin for the charger, and then practically run back to the bar, heat rising in my face, pulse hammering.
Two days later, the espresso machine chooses the worst possible moment to die. It’s three hours before we open, with a wedding party who called to give us a heads-up they’re coming tonight.
“Come on, you bastard,” I mutter, pressing buttons that do nothing. The machine sits there, expensive and useless, its digital display mockingly blank. I can smell the remnants of this morning’s last successful pull, now just a ghost of coffee haunting the air.
“Did you try unplugging it and plugging it back in?” Lark asks from where she’s slicing lemons, her knife moving in perfect rhythm. “That’s literally the extent of my technical knowledge, so if that doesn’t work, I’m out of ideas.”
“Three times. Plus I checked the water line, the power cord, and said a prayer to the coffee gods.” I crouch down to check the water line again, my knees protesting against the rubber mat. “The repair guy can’t come until Tuesday.”
“Tuesday? But we need it for the espresso martinis tonight. That wedding party specifically requested them.”
“I know. The universe has a sick sense of humor.” I stand up, brushing dust off my knees. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Wait. Didn’t you say Calvin is a coffee guy? And he’s handy?” Her grin turns wicked. “I mean, based on what you told me after you practically drooled watching him work on the house.”
“I shouldn’t have told you that.” Heat rises to my face. I duck back under the counter, pretending to check connections I’ve already checked twice.
“Oh, youabsolutelyshould have. Text him. He’s just down the road!”
“No way.” The suggestion makes my pulse jump.
“Maren. Come on. Be reasonable,” Lark says, using her manager voice.
“I’m not asking Calvin Midnight to come fix our espresso machine. I’ll drive to Seattle and buy a new one before I dothat.” The thought of him in my space, my bar, sends heat crawling up my neck.
