Sparks and Inspections

The copper pipe under the kitchen sink of the Whispering Pines Inn did not care about my optimism. It didn’t care that I had poured my entire life savings into relocating from the city to this tiny, mountain-ringed slice of Oregon, or that my late Aunt Sarah had trusted me—and only me—to breathe life back into her beloved, historic property.

Right now, the pipe was simply screaming. Or rather, it was whistling a high-pitched, mocking tune before spraying a thin, icy jet of water directly into my face.

"Come on," I muttered, wiping my eyes with a sleeve that was already soaked. My knuckles were bruised from where the wrench had slipped off the bolt minutes ago. "Just turn. Just one millimeter."

I braced my boots against the damp floorboards, gripped the heavy iron wrench with both hands, and hauled backward with everything I had.

The wrench slipped. My elbows smacked hard against the bottom of the cabinet, and a fresh, rusty burst of water sprayed across the front of my oversized flannel shirt, clinging cold and heavy to my skin.

Before I could even swear, a heavy, rhythmic knock echoed from the front of the house. Three solid thuds that rattled the loose glass in the entryway.

I froze, wiping a wet strand of hair from my eyes. "I'm in the kitchen!" I yelled, my voice echoing off the high ceilings. "The door is unlocked, but I’m a little tied up!"

Heavy, deliberate footsteps sounded on the hardwood of the dining room. They didn’t have the light, hesitant cadence of a neighbor or a delivery driver. These were solid. Authoritative. Every step seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and straight up my spine.

A shadow fell over the kitchen doorway. I scrambled backward out from under the sink, sitting up on the damp linoleum and pushing my hair out of my face.

I blinked up at the man standing in my kitchen.

He was massive. Easily six-foot-three, with broad, heavy shoulders that practically filled the doorframe. He wore a dark blue station shirt with OAKRIDGE FIRE DEPT stenciled across the chest, the fabric stretched tight over a chest and arms that looked like they spent their free time splitting logs. His skin was a rich, warm bronze, his jawline sharp and shadowed by a neat, dark beard. Dark, intense eyes stared down at me from beneath heavy brows.

He did not look pleased to find me sitting in a puddle.

"Are you Maya Vance?" he asked. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that felt like a physical vibration in the room.

"I am," I said, pushing myself up to my feet. I tried to maintain some semblance of dignity, but the wet flannel was clinging to my chest, and I could feel a smudge of grease on my cheek. "And you are?"

"Mateo Chavez. Fire Marshal," he said, pulling a heavy-looking clipboard from under his arm. "I’m here for the mandatory pre-opening safety inspection."

My heart sank. In the chaos of trying to fix the plumbing, the inspection had completely slipped my mind. "Right. Of course. Officer Chavez—"

"Just Mateo," he corrected, his tone gruff. His gaze swept over the kitchen, taking in the peeling floral wallpaper, the outdated commercial stove, and finally, the puddle of water slowly expanding toward his heavy leather boots. "And you’re having a plumbing crisis."

"It’s just a minor setback," I said quickly, offering him my brightest, most determined smile. "The Whispering Pines has a lot of character. It just needs a little love. I'm fixing the pipe now."

Mateo walked over to the sink, his boots clicking heavily on the floor. He peered down at the wrench I had dropped, then looked at me, his dark eyes skeptical. "You’re trying to tighten a copper pipe with an iron pipe wrench? Without turning off the main water valve first?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. I was tired, wet, and bruised, and the last thing I needed was a grumpy local telling me I didn't know what I was doing—even if he was entirely right. "I was getting to the valve. I just wanted to see if I could secure the joint first."

"You would have flooded the kitchen," he said flatly. He reached down, grabbed the heavy wrench with one large, calloused hand, and tossed it onto the counter with a metallic clatter. "The main shut-off is outside, by the porch. I'll turn it off for you."

"I can do it myself," I insisted, stepping in front of him to block his path.

Mateo stopped. Because of the sheer height difference, I had to tilt my head back to look him in the eye. Up close, I could smell him—the faint, clean scent of cedar, fresh rain, and a hint of woodsmoke clinging to his uniform. He looked down at me, his expression unreadable, though a muscle ticked in his jaw.

"You’re stubborn," he noted, his voice dropping a fraction.

"I’m determined," I corrected. "There’s a difference. This inn is my dream, Mateo. I put everything I have into this place. Every single cent. I’m going to make this work."

Mateo let out a soft, skeptical grunt. "Dreams don't fix fifty-year-old plumbing, city girl. Or faulty wiring. This place has been sitting empty for two years. It’s a fire hazard waiting to happen."

"I am perfectly capable of handling it," I said, my voice rising. "I've been reading manuals. I’ve watched tutorials. I am not going to let a little water or a few old wires stop me."

"Reading manuals isn't the same as doing the work," he said, his tone infuriatingly calm. "But fine. Let's start the inspection. If you want to keep your opening date, we have to go through the checklist."

He tapped his pen against the clipboard, gesturing for me to lead the way. I swallowed my annoyance, wiped my damp hands on my jeans, and led him out of the kitchen and into the main hallway.

The Whispering Pines was a beautiful, sprawling Victorian, but as we walked, Mateo pointed out every minor infraction with a ruthless, quiet efficiency. He noted the lack of hardwired smoke detectors, the outdated fire extinguishers in the hall, and the dry rot on the back porch stairs. With every checkmark he made on his clipboard, my chest tightened.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I asked, turning to face him in the parlor.

Mateo stopped, looking up from his clipboard. "Enjoying what?"

"Pointing out every single thing that's wrong with my home. You think I can't do this. You think some city girl is going to pack up and run back to her apartment the second things get hard."

Mateo sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to come from his chest. He took a step closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over me.

"I don’t want you to fail, Maya. But I’ve lived in Oakridge my whole life. I’ve seen people buy these old properties, think they can DIY their way through a historic renovation, and end up losing everything when a fire breaks out. I’m not being difficult. I'm doing my job. My job is to keep people safe."

There was a fierce, protective sincerity in his eyes that caught me off guard. The gruff exterior wasn't just arrogance; it was a deep-seated sense of responsibility. It made something warm and unexpected flutter in my stomach.

"I want to be safe, too," I said softly, my stubbornness melting just a little. "But I need this. I don't have a backup plan."

He stared at me for a long beat, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to my eyes. The silence between us stretched, thick and suddenly charged with a strange, heavy tension. The air in the old parlor felt warmer than it had a moment ago.

"Just... let me look at the main breaker panel," Mateo said, his voice slightly rougher than before. He cleared his throat, looking away. "Where is it?"

"It’s in the hallway closet," I said, relieved for the distraction.

I led him to the narrow closet under the stairs. I opened the door, revealing the old metal fuse box mounted on the back wall. It looked like a relic from the 1950s.

Mateo stepped up behind me, reaching over my shoulder to shine a flashlight into the dark corners of the closet. His chest brushed against my back, and I froze. He was so warm, a solid wall of muscle and heat behind me. The scent of him enveloped me, and my breath hitched.

"This is ancient," Mateo muttered, his breath brushing against the side of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. "You’ve got active knob-and-tube wiring running through here. It’s a miracle the place hasn't—"

Pop.

A sharp, loud crack echoed from the wall outlet just inside the closet door. A bright blue spark shot out of the socket, accompanied by the acrid smell of burning plastic.

Before I could even process what was happening, Mateo reacted.

With a low curse, his large hands grabbed my waist, pulling me backward out of the closet. In one fluid, powerful motion, he spun me around, pinning me against the opposite wall of the hallway. He threw his body over mine, shielding me completely.

My back pressed hard against the wood paneling, and my hands instinctively flew up to grip his broad shoulders. He was heavy, solid, and completely unyielding. I could feel the rapid, heavy thump of his heartbeat against my chest, matching the frantic rhythm of my own. His face was inches from mine, his dark eyes wide with a mix of adrenaline and fierce protectiveness.

"Are you okay?" he breathed, his gaze scanning my face.

"I'm... I'm fine," I whispered.

Neither of us moved. The spark had died instantly, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone, but the air between us was suddenly electric. I was acutely aware of the weight of his body pressing me into the wall, of the strength in the hands still resting on my hips, and of the heat radiating from him. My fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him just a fraction closer.

Mateo’s gaze dropped to my lips, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged breaths. For a second, just a second, I thought he was going to lean down and kiss me. The tension was so thick I could taste it, a sweet, dangerous heat that made me forget all about the inn, the water, and the safety inspection.

Then, his jaw tightened.

He slowly stepped back, releasing his grip on my waist. The loss of his warmth was sudden and freezing. He rubbed a hand over his face, clearing his throat as he looked back toward the closet, which was now silent and dark.

"That," Mateo said, his voice tight and completely devoid of the warmth from a moment ago, "was a short circuit."

"It... it was just a little spark," I said, my voice shaking slightly as I tried to regain my composure.

Mateo turned to look at me, his expression grim, his professional mask firmly back in place. He picked up his clipboard from where it had fallen on the floor and wrote something down with a heavy stroke of his pen.

"It’s not just a little spark, Maya. That outlet is on the same circuit as the kitchen and the main parlor. The wiring in this house is degraded, outdated, and completely unstable." He looked at me, his dark eyes hard. "I’m sorry, but I can't sign off on this."

My heart plummeted into my stomach. "What do you mean? We can fix it. I can hire an electrician."

"An electrician will have to rewire the entire ground floor, maybe the whole building," Mateo said flatly. "Until that's done, this place is a major hazard. I have to report this."

He took a step toward the front door, pausing to look back at me.

"I’m issuing a temporary stop-work order," he said, his voice gruff but with a tiny hint of regret. "You can't have guests here, Maya. And if you don't get this wiring completely replaced, I’m going to have to shut you down permanently before you even open."