I set down my coffee and listened. There it was again—the unmistakable sound of someone trying to start a generator and failing miserably.
Not my problem.
I picked up my mug and took a sip. Eunice kept to herself. Most days, I had no idea she was even home. I’d gotten used to the silence.
Then yesterday happened. The blonde with the yoga mat and the sports bra and the curves that made me forget how to swallow.
Emory. That was her name. She’d told me at least six times while I fixed her hot water heater, along with approximately four hundred other facts about her life. Law school. Three roommates. Thin walls. Midterms.
The motor ground again. Coughed. Died. I should stay right here. Drink my coffee. Let her figure it out on her own.
The generator tried again—another grind, another failed catch—followed by a frustrated sound that might have been a word but came out more like a growl.
Damn it.
I set down my mug and headed for the door.
The morning air was cool, that early-spring crispness that would burn off by noon. I crossed the yard between our cabins, telling myself I was just being a good neighbor. Eunice would expect me to help. She’d asked me to keep an eye on things while she was in Italy.
This was just keeping an eye on things.
Emory was crouched next to the generator, blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She wore leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that kept slipping off one shoulder, revealing a thin strap underneath. Her brow was furrowed as she studied the machine like it had personally offended her.
“You’re flooding it,” I said.
She jumped, one hand flying to her chest. “Oh my God, you scared me.”
“Sorry.”
I wasn’t sorry. Watching her startle did something to me—a warmth spreading through my body that I didn’t want to examine too closely.
“The generator,” I said, nodding toward it. “You’re holding the start too long. You’re flooding the engine.”
She stood, brushing off her knees. “I have no idea what that means, but I believe you. This thing hates me.”
“It doesn’t hate you. It’s just temperamental.”
Like me, I thought. But I didn’t say it.
I crouched where she’d been and checked the choke. She’d left it in the wrong position. I adjusted it, gave the cord a short, sharp pull, and the generator roared to life on the first try.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” She stared at the machine, then at me. “I tried that exact thing like fifteen times.”
“Choke was in the wrong position.”
“There’s a choke?”
I almost smiled. Almost.
“This lever.” I pointed to it. “Full choke to start when it’s cold. Once it catches, move it to run.”
She leaned in closer to look, and I caught a faint scent—shampoo, maybe, or lotion. Something clean and slightly sweet. It made me want to lean closer. Breathe deeper.
I stood too fast and took a step back.
“Thank you,” she said, straightening. “Again. You must think I’m completely helpless.”
“Generators are tricky if you’re not used to them.”
