Finding Love At An Unexpected Place

The key snapped in Mara Ellison’s fingers just as the last strip of sunlight slid off the lake.

She stared at the broken metal, then at the cabin door, as if one of them might apologize. The porch boards creaked beneath her damp shoes. Behind her, the road disappeared into pines and dusk, two hours of gravel and potholes ending in a locked door she had been promised would open.

“Come on,” she whispered.

She tried the key again out of habit. The jagged end scraped uselessly inside the lock. Her shoulder still ached from the drive, and the cold had begun to find the gap between her sweater and her jeans. All she wanted was a shower, a glass of wine, and four uninterrupted walls between herself and the world.

Instead, the lake breathed below the hill, dark water folding against the shore. Somewhere in the trees, a bird gave one sharp call and went quiet.

Mara set her suitcase down and pulled out her phone. One bar. Then none.

“Perfect.”

She called the rental number anyway. The recording rang twice before cutting off. She tried the owner’s number. Straight to voicemail.

The porch light flickered on above her, startling her into turning around.

A man stood at the edge of the trees.

He wore a charcoal work jacket, faded jeans, and boots darkened with mud. One hand held a flashlight angled toward the ground; the other rested loosely at his side. He was tall without seeming to make anything of it, broad through the shoulders, his brown hair wind-tossed as though the lake had reached up and put its fingers through it.

“You’re Mara Ellison,” he said.

It was not a question.

She tightened her grip around the broken key. “And you’re standing on private property.”

His mouth shifted, almost a smile but not quite. “So are you.”

“I rented the cabin.”

“I know.”

The answer landed with enough certainty to make her pause. The flashlight beam moved over her suitcase, her muddy tires, the snapped key in her hand.

“Then you can tell me why the door is broken.”

“The door isn’t broken.”

She looked at the lock. “That’s reassuring.”

He came up the steps, not too close. The porch smelled of wet cedar and the faint sweetness of sap. Up close, she noticed a pale scar near his left eyebrow and the quiet attentiveness in his eyes. He did not look at her the way men often did when they thought a woman was angry - amused, indulgent, already waiting for her to become easier.

He looked at the lock.

“May I?” he asked.

The simple courtesy unsettled her more than confidence would have.

Mara stepped aside. “If you can make it open, I’ll let you inspect anything you like.”

His gaze flicked toward her face. “That sounds like a contract.”

“It’s a threat.”

“Those are usually less specific.”

He crouched by the door. His fingers worked over the lock with practiced patience, testing the handle, pressing the keyhole, listening. Mara watched his hands because watching his face felt too revealing. His knuckles were scraped. A thin black line of dirt marked one thumb.

“You’re the caretaker?” she asked.

“Rowan Kessler.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“It was the answer I had.”

She exhaled through her nose. “Do you always make things difficult?”

“Only doors.”

He pulled a small tool from his pocket and slid it into the lock. Metal clicked softly. The sound seemed louder than it should have been in the gathering dark.

Mara crossed her arms. “The owner said the key would be in the lockbox.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was until this morning.”

She turned toward him. “You changed it?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

Rowan glanced up. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

The tool turned. Nothing happened.

A gust came off the lake, cold enough to sting her cheeks. Mara rubbed her hands together and looked at the windows. The cabin was small, one story, with yellow curtains and a stone chimney. It had looked charming online. In person, with night settling around it and no signal on her phone, it looked less like a retreat and more like a decision she had made while exhausted.

“Can you get me inside or not?” she asked.

“I can get you inside.”

The certainty in his voice should have helped. Instead, it made her suspicious.

“When?”

“Before dark.”

She looked toward the lake. “It is dark.”

“Not yet.”

He stood, and for one breath they faced each other in the narrow space between the door and the porch rail. He smelled faintly of rain and pine smoke. Mara became aware of the way his attention dropped to her mouth before returning to her eyes.

It was brief. Deliberate enough to notice.

She hated that she noticed.

“Do you have another key?” she asked.

“I have a master.”

“Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because the master’s in my truck, and my truck’s down by the maintenance shed.”

“That’s not far.”

“No.”

“Then go get it.”

His eyebrows rose. “You’re welcome.”

“I haven’t been let inside yet.”

“Still, the sentiment seems available.”

She should have laughed. Instead, a tired sound escaped her that was almost one....