Chapter 3 One Tiny Spell. One Big Mistake
ONE TINY SPELL. ONE BIG MISTAKE
Five days of cohabitation with a magically bound Scottish handyman had taught Cassie several things.
One: Liam MacLeod was insufferably competent.
He'd fixed her gutters, her fence gate, the squeaky step on the back porch, and something complicated in the attic that she hadn't even known was broken.
All while wearing Derek's increasingly ridiculous leftover wardrobe—yesterday it had been a polo shirt that said "I'd Rather Be Golfing" stretched across his chest like a cry for help.
Two: The man consumed an ungodly amount of tea. She'd had to make an emergency grocery delivery order because he'd gone through her entire dusty box of Earl Grey in forty-eight hours and looked at her coffee maker like it had personally offended his ancestors.
Three: Living with someone you were magically bound to but trying very hard not to be attracted to was absolutely, categorically, cosmically unfair.
"You're staring again," he said without looking up from the cabinet hinge he was adjusting.
"I'm not staring. I'm... supervising."
"Aye. Very supervisory, that look."
She grabbed her coffee mug—the one she'd spelled to stay perpetually warm, one of her first successful intentional spells—and retreated to the table.
The binding was still there, a constant hum in the background of her awareness.
Not painful, just... present. Like having an extra sense she didn't know what to do with.
They'd settled into careful parallel lines. Polite. Professional. He helped train her in the basics when Margaret came by—grounding, shielding, how to direct magic instead of just leaking it everywhere. She practiced without complaint. They ate meals at the same table without making eye contact.
It was unbearable.
But somewhere in the unbearableness, she was getting better.
The house had stopped randomly rearranging itself.
Jacques the toaster had developed a daily routine of greeting her in French each morning.
The gnomes mostly stayed in one place—though they still tracked movement with their creepy little eyes.
Progress.
Today, she had to go back to work. Two days of “personal emergency” plus a conveniently timed weekend was all her PTO could handle, and Dana had already sent seventeen passive-aggressive emails about "coverage concerns" and "team commitment."
The thought made her want to crawl under her bed and never emerge.
"You'll be fine," Liam said, still not looking at her. "You've got better control now."
"How do you know I'm nervous about work?"
"You're thinking very loud. And you've reorganized that salt shaker four times in the last minute."
She looked down. The salt shaker was indeed in a different spot than it had been.
"The binding," she said. "Can you... feel what I'm feeling?"
"Not exactly. More like... echoes. You're anxious about something, I can sense that. But I don't know why unless you tell me." He finally looked up, and his expression was carefully neutral. "It goes both ways. You probably feel some of mine too, if you pay attention."
She had been feeling something—a steady sort of weariness, like background noise. She'd assumed it was her own exhaustion.
"Your ex-wife," Cassie said carefully. "The one with magic. Did she... was there a binding?"
His jaw tightened. "No. She didn't need one.
Love spells, mood adjustments, little nudges here and there to make me agree with things I shouldn't have agreed to.
" He set down his screwdriver with deliberate precision.
"I didn't even realize it was happening until I was so far in I couldn't see straight.
All those years of marriage, and I don't know how much of it was real and how much was her magic making me compliant. "
"God, Liam. That's—"
"Manipulation. Aye. That's what it was." He met her eyes, and there was something raw there.
Something hurt. "So when I tell you to be careful with magic, to learn control, to think before you cast—it's not because I think you're incompetent.
It's because I know what happens when witches treat magic like it's harmless. "
Cassie's chest ached. For him. For the years he'd lost. For the trust that had been so thoroughly broken.
"I won't do that to you," she said. "I wouldn't even know how, but—"
"I know." His expression softened slightly. "You're chaotic, lass. Not cruel. There's a difference."
She didn't know why that felt like such a compliment, but it did.
"I should get ready," she said, standing. "Work. Visibility. Pretending I didn't have a complete breakdown last week."
"Cassie."
She paused.
"You didn't have a breakdown. You had an awakening. Those are messy."
"Mine was messier than most."
"Aye. But you're still here. Still trying." He picked up his screwdriver again, dismissing her gently. "That counts for something."
She carried that thought upstairs with her as she got ready.
In the bathroom, she found the grimoire sitting on the counter. She definitely hadn't brought it up here.
"House," she said to the ceiling. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
A cabinet door opened slightly. Then closed. She took that as a yes.
The book was open to a page she hadn't seen before. Or maybe she had seen it and skimmed past, too overwhelmed by all the rest.
To reveal inner light, To shine with honest might, Let all who see you know The radiance you show.
A glamour. Not a disguise—an enhancement. The text described it as "revealing one's true essence" and "projecting confidence naturally."
Cassie thought about walking into that office. About Dana's smug face. About her boss who never remembered her name. About feeling invisible for years.
She thought about Liam's words: You're still trying. That counts for something.
Maybe she could try a little harder.
The spell looked simple. Safe. Just a small boost to help her feel more like herself—the self she used to be before Derek convinced her she was too much.
Liam's voice drifted up from downstairs: "If you're thinking about casting something, don't."
How did he—
Right. The binding. He could feel her magic gathering.
"I'm just reading!" she called down.
"Cassie."
She closed the book. Definitely not casting anything. Definitely not going to boost her confidence with a tiny, harmless spell while he couldn't stop her.
Definitely not.
She waited until she heard the shower turn on.
Then she opened the book again and read the words aloud. Carefully. Pronouncing each syllable the way the guide suggested.
The magic rose in her like champagne bubbles—fizzy and golden and alive. It tingled through her veins, sparkled behind her eyes, made her skin feel like it was humming with possibility.
She looked in the mirror.
Her eyes were brighter. Her skin glowed with health. Her hair fell in perfect waves. Even her posture was different—shoulders back, chin up, taking up space like she had every right to it.
"Oh," she breathed. "Oh."
This was what magic was supposed to feel like. Not chaos and sparks and accidentally kidnapping handymen. This was control. This was choice.
This was Cassie Morgan, finally visible, finally radiant, finally enough.
The shower shut off.
She quickly closed the book and tried to look innocent.
The glow, unfortunately, did not get the memo.
Work had been incredible.
Cassie floated through the office like a woman who'd finally figured out the cheat codes to life.
People looked at her. Actually looked. Not through her, not past her—at her.
The receptionist complimented her skin. Her boss remembered her name on the first try.
Dana, who'd been stealing her ideas for three years, actually asked for her opinion in the meeting instead of just taking it later.
She'd felt visible. Powerful. Like she was finally taking up the space she deserved.
The glow had faded slightly throughout the day—dimming from "ethereal goddess" to "really good skincare routine"—but she could still feel the magic humming under her skin. Warm and golden and hers.
She was still riding that high when she pulled into her driveway.
And stopped.
And stared.
"What the fuck."
Her garden had exploded.
Not figuratively. Not in a "oh, things are growing nicely" way. Her garden had detonated into a botanical fever dream that would make the Chelsea Flower Show weep with inadequacy.
The rosebushes—previously half-dead sticks she'd been meaning to either revive or remove for two years—were now eight feet tall and covered in blooms. Not just red roses.
Red and pink and yellow and a purple that definitely didn't exist in nature, all growing from the same bush like it couldn't decide what it wanted to be when it grew up.
The lawn had become a meadow. Actual wildflowers had erupted through the grass—daisies and poppies and things with blue petals she couldn't name—creating a carpet of color that looked like someone had spilled a paint factory.
The tree in the corner, which had been a sad little maple struggling through life, was now a towering oak draped in flowering vines. Butterflies circled it in lazy spirals.
And the gnomes.
Oh, God. The gnomes.
They were still lined up along the walkway. Still in their little soldier formation. Still watching.
But now they were three feet tall.
The one with the fishing pole—previously a cheerful ten inches of ceramic whimsy—now came up to her waist. His painted smile, scaled up, looked significantly more menacing. His fishing line dangled at chest height.
"This is fine," Cassie whispered to herself. "This is totally fine. This is just... aggressive gardening."
She got out of the car slowly, keeping her eyes on the gnomes. They didn't move. But she could have sworn the one with the wheelbarrow tilted its head slightly as she passed.
The front door burst open.