Chapter Two
The Handyman’s Problem
Daniel
I have fixed a lot of things in my life.
Broken doors. Leaking pipes. Collapsed porches. Wiring that should have started a fire six years before I arrived with a screwdriver and a healthy fear of death. I once repaired a chicken coop while being actively attacked by three hens and a rooster named Sir Flaps-a-Lot.
I’m not easily intimidated.
Until I walk into Sweetique Bakery and meet Holly Black.
My fated mate, covered in flour, and glaring at me like she’s considering whether my body would fit in her industrial oven. And just like that, every useful thought I have ever had abandons me like a coward.
The bond is still burning through my chest as I kneel in front of the dead mixer, tool bag open at my side, hands moving on instinct while the rest of me tries very hard not to turn around and stare at the woman behind the counter.
I fail. Repeatedly.
She’s small compared to me, but nothing about her feels fragile. Soft, yes. Curvy, definitely. Warm in a way that makes my wolf pace restlessly beneath my skin. But not fragile.
No. Fragile things crack when pressure touches them. Holly looks like pressure made the mistake of touching her and got bitten for it.
Her dark hair is twisted into a messy knot on top of her head, little strands falling around her face.
Flour streaks one cheek. There’s a smear of chocolate near her wrist. Her apron says ‘Hot Buns Served Daily’, which should not affect me, because I’m a grown man with control over my thoughts and body.
Except my body is currently calling me a liar.
My wolf presses hard against my skin. Mate.
I tighten my grip on the screwdriver. “I know.”
The mixer does not answer, obviously, because it’s a machine and not emotionally invested in my downfall, unlike fate.
From the front of the bakery, Holly laughs at something a customer says.
The sound hits me low and hard. It’s not a big laugh.
Not bright and careless. It’s quick, sharp, and almost surprised, like laughter is something that sneaks out of her when she forgets to keep her guard up. That makes me want to earn another one.
Which is ridiculous, dangerous, and deeply inconvenient. I have known this woman for eleven minutes and thirty-six seconds, not that I’m counting.
I remove the side panel from the mixer and immediately find the problem. A burned belt, worn gears, and a motor close to giving up. If this machine were a wolf, someone would have taken it behind the barn and apologized before putting it out of its misery.
“You better have good news,” Holly calls.
I glance over my shoulder. Bad idea. She’s leaning against the end of the counter, arms crossed and chin lifted.
Her eyes are a warm brown, darker around the edges, and they don’t let me get away with anything.
Her mouth is full and soft and currently pressed into a suspicious line.
My gaze drops there for half a second too long, and her eyes narrow.
I clear my throat and look back at the mixer. “Define good.”
“The mixer lives, my bank account does not cry, and I don’t have to sell a kidney on the black market.”
“Is it a good kidney?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying, if it’s one of the fancy kidneys, maybe hold onto it.”
Silence. Then a tiny snort. I smile before I can stop myself, and my wolf wags his damn tail.
Holly pushes away from the counter and stalks toward me. Her scent grows stronger with every step. Sugar, vanilla, warm bread, woman, and wolf. But under all of it is something sharper, older, and wounded.
The bond reaches for her, and I force myself to stay still.
She stops a few feet away, close enough that the heat of her body teases mine, far enough that she can pretend she’s not keeping distance on purpose.
I notice. I notice everything about her.
The way her fingers curl into the fabric of her apron. The way she positions herself with a clear path to the door. The way her wolf watches me through human eyes, wary and curious and aching.
Someone hurt her. No, not someone. Her mate.
The thought makes something violent and ugly stretch inside me.
I keep my voice even. “The belt is burned, and the gears are worn down. I can patch it for today, maybe tomorrow if the Goddess is feeling generous.”
“She’s usually busy ruining lives.”
The words come too fast. Too practiced. My hand stills around the screwdriver, and Holly stiffens like she did not mean to say it.
I don’t look at her right away. A woman like Holly does not want pity. I know that with the same certainty I know I will need a new belt, replacement gears, and possibly divine intervention to keep this mixer alive through another rush.
“Then we won’t rely on Her,” I say. “I’ll make it work.”
Her silence is deafening. When I finally glance up, she’s staring at me like I have become a math problem that hurts her head.
“What?” I ask.
“You say things like that.” The words are soft but somehow still accusatory.
“Like what?” I feel my brows draw down.
“Reasonable things.”
“I can stop.”
“I would prefer it, yes.”
My mouth twitches. “Noted.”
She huffs and looks away, but there’s no hiding the pink that climbs up her neck. My wolf notices that too. He’s becoming a real problem.
I turn back to the mixer before I do something stupid, like tell her she’s beautiful when she already looks one compliment away from stabbing me with a whisk.
The front bell jingles again. Customers come and go.
Her assistant, Maisie, moves around the bakery with easy competence, giving me curious looks every few minutes.
She knows. Not everything, maybe, but enough.
Humans underestimate themselves. They can’t smell a bond, but they know when the air changes.
And the air around Holly and me is one lit match away from disaster.
I work in silence for a while, cleaning the gears, adjusting tension, replacing what I can with parts from my kit. It’s not perfect, not even close, but I have done more with less.
Story of my life. Useful Daniel. Fix-it Daniel.
Call him when something breaks, pay him, thank him, forget him.
It’s not the worst life. It’s steady. Simple. No pack politics. No Alpha breathing down my neck. No council of old wolves deciding my worth based on bloodline, bite strength, or who my father was.
I left that behind years ago.
I drift from town to town, fix what needs fixing, take cash or barter, and move on before anyone can decide I belong to them. Wolves are funny that way. They want family until family gets complicated. They want loyalty until loyalty costs them something.
I’m good with my hands. Good with tools. Good in a fight. Good at leaving.
That was until I stepped into a bakery, breathed in sugar and pain, and suddenly leaving feels impossible.
The mixer jerks under my hands when I test the switch. It gives a grinding groan, shudders, then starts spinning. Not smoothly or happily. But spinning.
From across the kitchen, Holly gasps, and the sound goes straight through me.
I stand, wiping my hands on a rag. “Temporary miracle.”
She rushes over, eyes bright in a way that punches right through my ribs. “You fixed it?”
“For today.”
She touches the mixer as if it were a beloved pet returned from war. “Oh, thank fuck.”
I laugh, and her eyes flick to mine. For one second, she smiles, really smiles. No suspicion. No armor. No sharp edges. Just Holly. Her mouth soft and eyes warm. Flour on her cheek and relief shining through every line of her face.
The bond slams into me so hard I almost step back. My wolf lunges.
Mate. Ours. Touch. Claim. Keep.
No. I lock every muscle in my body and force myself not to move. Her smile fades a little when she sees whatever crosses my face. Fear flickers through her scent so fast it nearly guts me.
I lift both hands again, palms open. “I’m good.”
“You don’t look good.”
“Thank you. That’s exactly what every man wants to hear.”
Her lips twitch, but the tension stays. “You looked...”
“Wolfish?”
“Hungry.”
Well ... that is inconveniently accurate. I swallow, my throat tight. “I am hungry.” Her eyes narrow. “For breakfast,” I add quickly.
The bakery goes very quiet again. Holly stares at me before she bursts out laughing. It’s not graceful or soft. It’s loud enough that Maisie looks over from the espresso machine with wide eyes.
And Goddess help me, I want to hear that sound every day.
“That was terrible,” Holly says, still laughing.
“I panicked,” I admit.
“I noticed.”
“I’m usually smoother.”
“No, you’re not.” She shakes her head, still smiling.
“You don’t know that.”
“I have instincts.”
“Your instincts are mean,” I point out.
“My instincts have kept me alive.”
The laughter fades too quickly after that. There it is again. The past standing between us like a third person neither of us invited.
I nod slowly. “Then we listen to them.”
Her brows pull together. “What does that mean?”
“It means if your instincts say step back, you step back. If they say stop, we stop. If they say Daniel Reed is too handsome to be trusted, then obviously your instincts are only half right because I’m extremely trustworthy.”
She blinks at me, and I hold her stare.
“That was almost sweet,” she says. “Then you ruined it.”
“I do that sometimes.”
“Good to know.”
I lean one hip against the counter, keeping distance between us even though every part of me hates it. “What happened to you, Holly?”
The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it. Her face shutters, immediately. Complete. And the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.
“None of your business.”
“You’re right.”
That surprises her. I see it in the tiny shift of her expression. The way she expected me to push and I don’t. I hate that she expected it. I hate whoever taught her to expect it.
I keep my voice low. “It isn’t my business unless you make it my business.”
Her fingers curl around the edge of the counter. “And if I never do?”
“Then I never ask again.”
Her breath catches. The bond hums between us, no longer a roar but a quiet, aching thing.