Chapter Twelve
Lydia
I’d barely finished my first cup of coffee before I was elbow-deep in a utility closet near the espresso machine.
Riley crouched beside me, flashlight in hand, shining it at a tangle of wires and a rusted-out pipe that looked like it had survived at least two minor apocalypses. The hum of the old refrigerator buzzed steadily behind us like it knew we were plotting its demise.
“So,” Riley said, cheerful as ever, “how much of this do you think is a safety hazard?”
“Depends,” I muttered. “Do you consider a mildly sparking outlet next to a leaky pipe charming or concerning?”
“I’ve called it charming for two years. That feels like denial.”
“You’re not wrong.” I shook my head. “We’ll get the electrician and plumber out stat.”
It was Monday morning, and I was already sweating. I’d told myself I’d ease into the week, maybe make a to-do list, grab a latte, pretend to be a carefree small-town businesswoman. Instead, I was learning how to reset a breaker and subtly suggest to Riley that her fridge sounded like it had unresolved trauma.
Still, it felt good to be doing something. I’d spent too long waiting around in my old life, waiting for someone to fix things, waiting for signs, waiting for my grief to stop sitting on my chest like a soggy blanket soaked in misery.
But this? Working side-by-side with a woman who’d built her business from the ground up? Planning how to restore the bones of a building instead of bulldozing it? This felt right.
“I made a list of what’s personally urgent,” Riley said, tapping a sticky note on her tablet screen. “Outlet near the sink, fridge replacement, maybe some new ceiling tiles so customers don’t get so nervous that something might fall on them.”
“Perfect,” I said, wiping my hands on a rag. “We’ll prioritize and pace ourselves.”
“You’re a dream,” she said.
At that exact moment, the front door chimed.
And in walked a cloud of flannel, frown lines, and brooding energy.
Callum Benedict.
Of course .
His hair was messy in a way that looked infuriatingly good for seven-something in the morning, and his jacket was halfway shrugged off like he’d stormed in on the tail of a gust of wind and sheer irritation.
“Do you not own a coffeemaker at your house or bar?” My brow lifted triumphantly.
He saw me and immediately growled.
Not like a full-on monster movie growl. More like a human version of it. A low, frustrated rumble that vibrated in the air between us.
“Seriously?” he muttered. “You again?”
“Good morning to you, too,” I said, plastering on my most saccharine smile.
He didn’t bother responding; he just stalked toward the counter like the espresso machine owed him money.
Riley popped up from behind the counter, still holding her tablet. “Callum! Just the man we don’t need for heavy lifting!”
He grunted.
“Lydia and I are going over some maintenance stuff. You should see the inside of that closet. I think the pipe hisses when it’s offended, kind of like you.”
Callum glared at me like I’d insulted him, but I was proud of Riley for doing it on my behalf.
“I knew this was coming,” he muttered. “Soon it’ll be a neon sign and metallic wallpaper.”
I stepped out from behind the counter, crossing my arms. “Yes, because God forbid your neighbors want their wiring to meet basic fire codes.”
He gave me a once-over, clearly annoyed that I was still breathing in his vicinity. “Don’t act like you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart.”
“I’m not. I’m doing it because I like it when buildings don’t catch fire .”
Riley slid between us, smiling like we weren’t one wrong word from spontaneous combustion. “She’s actually been amazing, Callum. She’s helping me figure out what’s fixable, what needs replacing, and how to do it without breaking the bank.”
Callum didn’t say anything. He crossed his arms and stared at the coffee maker like it betrayed him.
Riley kept going. “Yeah. God forbid our landlord wants to make our building more modern and up-to-date.”
I watched him stiffen at the word modern , as if it physically pained him.
“That’s how it starts,” he muttered. “New fridge, new lights, next thing you know, we’ve got live music, brunch, and Wi-Fi passwords printed on chalkboard signs.”
I arched a brow. “Wow. You say that like it’s a crime.”
“It is ,” he deadpanned. “A slow, developing crime.”
Riley handed him his coffee, still grinning. “You’ll survive. And who knows? Maybe Lydia will even convince you to fix that crooked sign of yours.”
Callum took the coffee, grumbled something unintelligible, and muttered a thank-you to Riley that sounded more like a threat.
He didn’t say another word to me.
Just turned on his heel and walked out, the bell above the door jingling sweetly behind him like it was mocking his whole existence.
I exhaled slowly.
Riley watched him go, then turned to me. “So... is that the vibe every time you two see each other?”
“Apparently,” I said. “It’s like being glared at by a lumberjack with a deep distrust of modern plumbing.”
She laughed. “To be fair, that sounds exactly like Callum.”
“Excellent. So I’m not imagining it.”
“Nope.” She leaned in. “But I am imagining the day he cracks and accidentally holds the door open for you or—gasp—smiles.”
I stared at the door he’d just exited through.
“Don’t hold your breath.” I shook my head. “He served me weeds in my drink the other night.”
She hid a chuckle, and I found myself smiling at the memory.
But even as I turned back to the list Riley and I had been building, I couldn’t stop the flash of him in my head—scowling, yes, but underneath that? The muscle in his jaw jumped when he bit back something, and the flicker in his eyes said maybe he didn’t hate me quite as much as he had pretended.
Or maybe I was just projecting.
Which would be easier to believe if I didn’t keep noticing how his shirts always fit just right, or how his voice scraped across my nerves in a way that left heat behind.
It was almost as if I craved this challenge of a man.
I shook my head and focused on the ceiling tiles again.
It was too early for this much emotional whiplash and way too early to admit that the most infuriating man in town might also be the reason I couldn’t stop daydreaming before noon.
It was barely nine-thirty, and I already needed a second cup of coffee and a full therapy session. The first could be handled with a refill from Riley. The second… well, that might take a bit longer.
I stood behind the counter, staring down at the tablet Riley had given me, but I wasn’t really looking at the list of maintenance notes. I was thinking about a man with a permanent frown, a closet full of flannel, and a jawline that really had no business being that sharp at this hour of the morning.
Callum Benedict.
Ugh.
He was a walking contradiction…surly but magnetic, guarded but oddly thoughtful. Even when he was being a complete grump, something in his eyes made me feel like he was always one breath away from saying something vulnerable or punching a wall. It was hard to tell which.
And that only made it worse.
Or better.
Depending on the moment.
God, what would my mom say?
That question settled over me like it always did. Her voice wasn’t really gone. It still echoed in the quiet moments, usually when I was alone and making decisions she’d want to know about.
I could almost hear her now, laughing as she poured herself a cup of coffee, her hair wrapped up in a scarf because she never quite finished getting ready until after noon.
“Oh, Lydia,” she’d say, amused. “You’ve got a type, haven’t you?”
I’d groan, roll my eyes, and mutter something about liking good conversation and meaningful connection.
“Sure,” she’d say. “And if that comes with some tattoos and a frown? Who’s complaining?”
I missed her so much that it made my chest ache.
She would’ve had something wise and slightly inappropriate to say about Callum. She always saw right through the brooding types. She used to say that people like that wore their hurt like armor. They growled to keep people out, but they really wanted someone to knock on the door and maybe even pick the lock if they had to.
But she had been the lock-picker in our family. I’d just been the quiet one who watched and learned.
And now?
Now I owned a building full of stubborn tenants, one grumpy bar owner who clearly didn’t want me here, and a growing list of repairs that included a fridge that sounded like it was dying a slow death.
I took a deep breath and shook off the wave of emotion.
There was no time to stand around fantasizing about emotionally constipated men who smelled like cedarwood and sarcasm.
Still.
That image of him from earlier, shoulders tense, jaw set, eyes flickering to the list in Riley’s hands like it might explode, was burned into my brain.
I hated that he got under my skin so easily.
And I hated even more that he seemed to think I was some clueless city girl on a makeover mission, here to paint everything white and rip out the town’s identity in favor of curated hipster nonsense.
God forbid I wanted working plumbing.
He didn’t know me. Not really.
But he’d made his assumptions and stuck to them, cemented in place with a scowl and a healthy dose of judgment.
It wasn’t just insulting. It was infuriating.
And the worst part?
Part of me still thought about how his arms looked when he leaned on the bar, or how his voice dropped when he was just tired enough to let his guard slip.
Which brought me right back to square one… annoyed, intrigued, and in desperate need of a plan.
I tapped my fingers against the counter.
If he thought he was going to intimidate me into tiptoeing around this building like a timid little landlord, he had another thing coming. I wasn’t going to back down or soften my ideas just because a man with a beard and commitment issues didn’t like change.
This wasn’t a dating game. This was my business.
And he was going to see exactly what I was made of.
I didn’t come here to get rolled over by a man with a bad attitude and a few pretty tattoos.
I came here to build something. For myself. For my mom. For the version of me that sat on the edge of her twin-sized bed in a one-bedroom apartment and dared to dream of more.
This building was mine now.
And if Callum Benedict needed a reminder of that, I was more than happy to give it to him.
With polite professionalism, of course.
And maybe a little flair.
I picked up my notebook from the counter, flipped it open to the maintenance schedule, and jotted down a few notes with a new purpose.
Get quotes for the ceiling tiles
Replace the sparking outlet
Buy paint samples for the shared hallway
Be unshakably kind to Callum until it drives him completely nuts
That last one might’ve been more of a personal goal than a structural improvement, but morale mattered.
Riley left the back room, wiping her hands on a rag. “You good?”
I looked up, smiling. “Better than good. I’ve got a plan.”
“Oh boy,” she said, grinning. “Does this plan involve renovations or revenge?”
“A little of both.”
She laughed and raised her coffee cup in a toast. “That’s the spirit.”
As she turned to serve a new customer, I looked out the shop window and spotted Callum walking along the sidewalk toward his bar, keys in hand, head down like he was already mentally cursing the day.
A flicker of amusement sparked in my chest.
It wasn’t that I wanted to antagonize him.
Okay, maybe I did.
A little.
But mostly, I wanted to prove that I belonged here. That I wasn’t the enemy. That I wasn’t afraid of him, or his bad mood, or the shadow of whatever legacy he thought he was protecting.
Let him stomp around and growl.
Let him roll his eyes and mutter about city people and Instagram aesthetics.
I’d still be here. With my notebook. My hammer. And maybe a fresh coat of paint that didn’t match anything but felt exactly right.
Let’s see who really ran this block.