The cottage was charming, yes—but charming in the way of old things that creak when you touch them. By the third day, Amara was already regretting how boldly she'd claimed she could handle everything on her own.
The roof leaked in two places. The back door stuck whenever she tried to close it. Worst of all, the boathouse—her grandmother's favorite spot on the lake—looked ready to collapse. Its boards sagged, and the dock stretched out like tired bones.
Amara groaned, tugging at a rusted hinge on the door. "Perfect," she muttered, her screwdriver slipping for the tenth time. A strand of hair fell into her eyes, and she shoved it back, sweat trickling down her temple.
"You're going to hurt yourself like that."
The voice startled her so much she nearly dropped the screwdriver. She turned, and there he was again—Ethan—leaning against the fence as if he had every right to be there, arms crossed, eyes glinting with quiet amusement.
Amara bristled. "Do you make a habit of sneaking up on people?"
He shrugged. "Do you make a habit of fighting with doors?"
"I wasn't fighting," she snapped. "I was… fixing it."
Ethan stepped closer, his gaze flicking to the bent hinge. He crouched, brushing his fingers over the metal. "This is stripped. You'll never get it to hold."
Her cheeks warmed. "I would've figured that out eventually."
"Sure," he said, clearly unconvinced. Then, before she could protest, he reached for the screwdriver. "Here. Move aside."
Amara hesitated, torn between pride and practicality. But when she saw how easily his hands worked—steady, precise, as if he was born knowing how to mend broken things—she exhaled and stepped back.
In less than a minute, the hinge was tightened. The door swung open smoothly.
"There," he said, standing and brushing off his hands. "Good as new."
Amara crossed her arms. "You could've at least let me try."
"You did try," Ethan said, his mouth twitching into a smirk. "For how long? Ten minutes?"
"Twenty," she muttered.
"Mm-hm."
The silence stretched, filled with the soft sound of lake water lapping against the shore. Finally, Ethan's gaze softened. "Look, I'm not here to insult you. But if you're planning to stay the summer, this place needs work. More than you can do on your own."
Her pride prickled. She hated being underestimated. But she also hated admitting he was right.
"I'll manage," she said stubbornly.
He studied her for a long moment, then tilted his head. "You don't like asking for help, do you?"
"No," she admitted before she could stop herself.
Something flickered in his expression—understanding, maybe. Or recognition. "Well," he said slowly, "lucky for you, I'm not asking. I'll stop by tomorrow. That boathouse won't survive another storm."
Amara's mouth dropped open. "Tomorrow? Who said you could—"
But he was already walking away, his stride unhurried, confident. He raised a hand in a casual wave. "See you in the morning, city girl."
Amara glared at his retreating figure, gripping the screwdriver tightly. Infuriating man.
And yet… she couldn't stop the tiny flutter in her chest at the thought of seeing him again.