Chapter 2 Meet Grump. Cue Chaos
MEET GRUMP. CUE CHAOS
Marjorie left seventeen minutes later, but it felt like three years.
She'd stayed just long enough to weaponize every piece of gossip she'd collected—asking Liam where he was from (Scotland, obviously), how long he'd be staying (unclear, trapped by magic), and whether he'd met Cassie through "one of those apps" (no, through involuntary supernatural kidnapping).
The second the door clicked shut behind her, Cassie turned to Liam with what she hoped was an authoritative expression and not the face of a woman whose life was actively imploding.
Cassie took a breath. Then another. Her heart was still racing from the Marjorie encounter, but the initial panic from the summoning had faded. She felt… not calm, exactly, but less like the world was ending.
The wrench in Liam’s hand pulsed once, then dimmed slightly. Not gone—still glowing faintly—but less aggressive than before.
He noticed. “That’s new.”
“What is?”
“This.” He held up his hand. “It’s been blazing like a bloody torch since I got here. Now it’s…”
“Quieter?”
“Aye.”
"You need to try leaving again."
"I already told you—"
"Try. Again."
He gave her a look that suggested he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment, then turned and walked toward the door.
He made it to the front door. Opened it. Stepped onto the porch.
Three steps down the walkway, he froze mid-stride like he'd hit an invisible wall. His jaw tightened. He backed up, tried again at a different angle. Same result.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Then he turned and walked back through the house toward the kitchen door that led to the driveway.
Cassie followed, because apparently this was her life now—trailing after a magically bound Scottish handyman like some kind of supernatural parole officer.
He made it to the end of the driveway. Actually stepped onto the sidewalk.
Hope flickered in Cassie's chest. Maybe the binding only worked for a little while.
Maybe he could just walk away and she could pretend this entire morning had been a wine-induced hallucination.
Sure, there'd be a shirtless Scottish man wandering her neighborhood in wet jeans, but that was a problem for the HOA, not her.
He took three steps toward the street.
Then, like something out of a cursed carnival ride, his body pivoted left instead of continuing straight and he marched right back up the driveway. Same path. Same trajectory. Like the universe was playing a cruel game of magical Pac-Man.
Liam stopped. Stared at his feet like they'd betrayed him. Turned around and tried again.
Same result. His legs just… redirected. Like the sidewalk had become a treadmill that only went one direction—back to Cassie.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."
He tried a third time, this time at a full sprint. Made it two steps past the property line before his whole body swung around like a compass needle finding north.
North, apparently, was Cassie's front porch.
He stood there for a long moment, chest heaving, hands on his hips, staring at the invisible barrier with the expression of a man who was reconsidering every life choice that had led to this moment.
Then he walked to the edge of her property line where the lawn met the sidewalk and reached out one hand.
The air shimmered. Like heat waves rising off summer asphalt, but colder. More deliberate.
His fingers met resistance. He pushed harder. The air pushed back.
"Well," he said, his accent thicker with frustration. "That's that, then."
"What's that?"
"I'm trapped. Completely. Can't leave your property. Can't even stand on the bloody sidewalk." He turned to face her, and the look in his eyes was equal parts fury and resignation. "You've bound me here like a dog on an invisible chain."
"I didn't mean to—"
"Doesn't matter what you meant, does it? Magic doesn't care about intentions. Only results."
Something in Cassie's chest twisted. Guilt, maybe. Or panic. Or the horrible realization that she'd accidentally imprisoned a man in her suburban split-level because she couldn't be bothered to call a plumber three weeks in advance.
"There has to be a way to undo it."
"Aye, there is. You just have to figure out what spell you actually cast, how you powered it, what anchor you used, and then perform the exact counter-ritual without making it worse.
" He crossed his arms, wrench still glowing faintly in his grip.
"Think you can manage that, lass? Or should I just make myself comfortable for the next decade? "
Before Cassie could respond with something defensive and possibly wine-related, a sound came from inside the house.
A mechanical grinding. Then a cheerful ding.
They both turned.
Through the kitchen window, Cassie could see the sink. Which was no longer leaking. In fact, it looked... perfect. The faucet gleamed like it had been polished. The basin sparkled. Even the disposal sounded different—less like a dying garbage eater, more like a gentle purr.
"Did you..." Cassie started.
"I didn't touch it."
They walked back inside. The kitchen had transformed in the ten minutes they'd been testing property boundaries.
The sink wasn't just fixed—it was better. New faucet. New handles. The tile backsplash behind it looked freshly grouted.
The cabinet doors hung straighter. The hinges no longer squeaked.
The one that always stuck now opened smoothly, revealing shelves that had somehow reorganized themselves.
Spices alphabetized. Mugs arranged by size.
The Tupperware lids actually matched their containers, which Cassie was pretty sure violated several laws of physics.
"Well, that's not ominous at all," Liam muttered.
A cabinet groaned. Actually groaned. Like someone stretching after a long nap.
"Finally," a voice whispered from somewhere near the pantry. It sounded creaky. Annoyed. Possibly arthritic. "Do you know how long I've been crooked? Forty years. Forty years of watching you heathens use me wrong."
Cassie's spine went cold. "Did the cabinet just—"
"Complain? Aye. Seems your house has opinions now." Liam ran a hand through his hair, which had finally dried into an appealingly tousled mess that Cassie absolutely was not noticing. "That's what happens when you flood a space with uncontrolled magic. Everything soaks it up."
"Everything?"
The toaster dinged. Then spoke.
"Bonjour," it said, in a crisp French accent that sounded deeply offended by its own existence. "Je suis un toaster. C'est ma vie maintenant."
Cassie stared at it. "My toaster speaks French."
"Apparently."
"Why French?"
"How should I know? Maybe it had dreams of being a croissant warmer in Paris before you condemned it to a life of frozen waffles and sadness."
The toaster made an indignant noise. "Les gaufres congelées ne sont pas si mal."
"It's defending frozen waffles," Cassie translated, because apparently three years of high school French were about to become relevant in the worst possible way. "In French. My appliances are multilingual and judging me."
"Welcome to magical awakening, lass. It's all downhill from here."
Movement caught her eye through the window. In the garden.
The gnomes had moved.
She had three of them—cheap ceramic things she'd bought on clearance years ago when she thought quirky lawn decorations might compensate for her inability to keep flowers alive. They'd been arranged in a little cluster near the rosebush.
Now they were lined up along the walkway. Like soldiers. Or a very small, very judgmental welcoming committee.
One of them—the one with the fishing pole—had turned to face the house. His painted eyes seemed to track her movement.
"Liam."
"Aye?"
"My garden gnomes are watching me."
He glanced out the window. Went very still. "Ah."
"Just 'ah'? That's all you've got?"
"What would you like me to say? 'Oh dear, your ceramic lawn ornaments have developed sentience and possibly malicious intent, how unexpected'?" He rubbed his jaw. "This is what happens when you cast spells you don't understand. The magic leaks. Spreads. Gets into everything."
"So what do I do?"
"You learn to control it. Or you live with a haunted house full of opinionated furniture and judgmental garden decorations." He met her eyes, and something in his expression softened. Just slightly. "Or you let me help you fix this before it gets worse."
The cabinet groaned again. The toaster muttered something in French that sounded distinctly like cursing.
From somewhere upstairs, Cassie heard what might have been her bedroom curtains sighing dramatically.
Her life had become a magical sitcom. Except instead of a laugh track, she had a Scottish handyman who looked like he wanted to strangle her and kiss her in roughly equal measure.
"Fine," she said. "Help me."
"Right then." Liam set the wrench on the counter—or tried to.
It stuck to his palm like it had been welded there.
He sighed. "But we're doing this properly.
No more random spells. No more wine-fueled experimentation.
And for the love of all that's holy, no more summoning strange men into your kitchen. "
"That was ONE TIME."
"Once was enough, lass."
The wrench pulsed in his hand. Warm and smug and entirely too pleased with itself.
And Cassie realized with perfect, horrifying clarity that fixing her sink had been the easy part.
Now she had to figure out how to un-summon a man who looked at her like she was chaos incarnate.
While her house slowly came alive around them, one opinionated appliance at a time.
Despite being magically imprisoned in her home, Liam MacLeod was annoyingly professional.
Within an hour, he'd assessed the damage her spell (or maybe lack of home maintenance) had caused—which was extensive—and created a mental list of repairs that needed doing.
Not magical repairs. Regular ones. The kind that involved tools and competence and forearms that flexed in ways Cassie was definitely not noticing.