Chapter 1 Midlife Meltdown. Cue Magic #3
"My point, lass, is that you've accidentally performed a binding summoning with a spelled object as an anchor." He held up the wrench that wouldn't leave his hand. "And now I can't leave your property until you release me, which you can't do because you don't know how, do you?"
"I could figure it out."
"Could you? Could you really? Tell me, what's the difference between a warding and a welcoming?"
"One... wards?"
"A banishing and a blessing?"
"They have different letters?"
"A summoning circle and a containment seal?"
"OK, that one sounds like a trick question."
He made a sound that was part laugh, part sob, part Scottish despair. It rumbled from his chest in a way that made her think inappropriate thoughts about what other sounds he could make.
"Jesus, Mary, and all the saints. I'm going to die here. In America. In a kitchen that smells like wine and artificial lemons. They'll find my body next to a singing sink and think I've gone mad."
Another hot flash hit Cassie like a freight train made of rage and hormones. The lights flickered. Actually flickered. The bulb above the sink exploded in a shower of sparks that rained down like angry fireflies.
"Did you just—"
"Menopause," she said flatly. "Want to make something of it?"
He stared at her. At the broken light. At the still-floating tools. At the wrench that wouldn't leave his hand. At the spellbook that was somehow still open to the same page despite the magical chaos.
"You're telling me," he said slowly, like he was explaining something to a child or possibly a concussed person, "that I'm magically bound to an untrained witch going through the change who just summoned me half-naked into her kitchen because she couldn't fix her own sink?"
"When you put it like that, it sounds bad."
"IT IS BAD."
"Well, it's not great for me either! I have a shirtless stranger in my kitchen who can't leave! What am I supposed to do with you?"
His eyebrows went up. A smirk played at the corner of his mouth. "I could think of a few things."
"I—that's not—you know that's not what I—"
The doorbell rang.
They both froze.
"Cassie?" Marjorie's voice sang through the door with the particular pitch that meant she'd seen something interesting and was already composing the group text. "I saw lights flickering! And was that thunder? From your house? Inside your house? That seems wrong, dear."
Cassie looked at the shirtless Scottish man in her kitchen.
He looked at her.
The floating tools continued their lazy orbit like absolutely nothing was wrong.
The pipes switched to "Somebody’s Watching Me," because apparently they had comic timing.
"Hide," she hissed.
"Where? I can't leave your bloody kitchen!"
"I don't know! Behind the island! In the pantry! Under the sink!"
"I'm six foot two, not a bloody hobbit!"
"Cassie? I'm using the spare key! The one from when you had the flu but really we all knew it was a wine hangover but we didn't say anything because we're supportive!"
The lock turned.
"Oh, fuck me," Cassie muttered.
"Bit forward, lass, we've only just met," he deadpanned, but there was heat in his eyes that made her stomach do something complicated.
"Just—just act natural!"
"Natural? I'm shirtless, soaking wet, magically bound to your kitchen, and holding a wrench that won't let go. What part of this is natural?"
The door opened.
Marjorie walked in, took approximately 0.3 seconds to process the scene—Cassie with her wine and rage-cleaned kitchen, the shirtless man dripping on the linoleum, the floating tools still orbiting lazily, the pipes now enthusiastically belting out the chorus—and smiled.
It was the smile of a woman who'd just won the suburban gossip lottery, discovered Christmas came early, and found out her diet pills were actually working all at the same time.
"Well," she said, adjusting her pearls with the practiced motion of someone about to destroy lives with kindness. "Isn't this interesting."
She pulled out her phone.
"Marjorie, no—"
Click.
The photo captured everything: Cassie's wine glass, the Scottish god of handymen, the floating hammer in the background, and what appeared to be sparkles in the air that could not be explained by any Instagram filter.
"The girls are going to love this," Marjorie murmured, already typing. "Cassie Morgan, you dark horse. And here we thought you were depressed!"
The spellbook slammed shut on its own with a bang that made everyone jump.
Like it was laughing.
Or possibly taking credit.
The wrench in the Scotsman's hand pulsed once, warm and smug.
And Cassie realized with perfect clarity that her life as she knew it was over.
"So," Marjorie said brightly, putting her phone away and looking between them with the intensity of a shark who'd just detected blood in the water. "Introduce me to your... friend? Contractor? Victim of kidnapping?"
The man looked at Cassie with those storm-blue eyes that promised retribution. Then he smiled. It was terrifying.
"Liam MacLeod," he said, extending his non-wrenched hand to Marjorie. "Cassie's new live-in handyman."
Cassie choked on air.
Marjorie's eyes went wide with delight.
The pipes started playing "Sexual Healing."
And somewhere in the cosmic distance, Cassie could swear she heard the universe laughing.