Chapter 2 Meet Grump. Cue Chaos #2
"Your gutters are a disaster," he said, walking the perimeter of the house like he owned the place. "Downspout's disconnected. Fascia board's rotting. And I don't even want to talk about what's happening with your foundation drainage."
"So don't."
"I'm trapped here. Might as well be useful." He shot her a look that was somewhere between exasperated and resigned. "Unless you'd prefer I sit on your couch eating crisps while your house falls apart around us."
"I don't have crisps."
"Of course you don't."
He was still shirtless. Still distractingly, aggressively shirtless. Every time he turned or reached or breathed, muscles did things that made Cassie's brain short-circuit.
"I should..." She gestured vaguely at his chest, then immediately regretted drawing attention to it. "Find you a shirt. Probably."
"That would be appreciated. Bit nippy out here."
She fled inside before her face could catch fire.
The only men's clothing in the house belonged to Derek—a box of things he'd "forgotten" during the divorce that she'd shoved in the garage and never dealt with because avoidance was a lifestyle choice.
She dug through it with the enthusiasm of someone defusing a bomb, finally emerging with a faded T-shirt that said "World's Okayest Golfer. "
It was too small. Obviously. Derek had been built like a man who considered walking to the fridge cardio.
She brought it outside anyway.
Liam looked at the shirt. Looked at her. Looked at the shirt again.
"World's Okayest Golfer," he read flatly.
"It was my ex-husband's."
"Ah." He pulled it on anyway. It stretched across his shoulders like it was being tortured, rode up to show a strip of stomach every time he moved, and made him look like a Scottish lumberjack who'd lost a bet. "Fits perfectly."
"I can see your belly button."
"Then stop looking at my belly button."
Fair point.
He got to work anyway, because apparently dignity was optional when there were gutters to inspect.
He climbed a ladder he'd found in her garage, and Cassie found herself cataloging details she had no business cataloging.
The way his jeans fit. The muscles in his back moving under that ridiculous shirt.
The focused set of his jaw as he worked.
He caught her staring. Of course he did.
"See something interesting, lass?"
"Just making sure you don't fall."
"Aye. Very safety-conscious of you."
His voice had dropped. Just a little. Just enough to make her stomach flip in a way that felt both wonderful and deeply inconvenient.
A hot flash chose that moment to surge through her—because her hormones had apparently decided that if they were waking up from a five-year coma, they were doing it with maximum drama. Her cheeks flushed. Sweat prickled along her hairline. The garden hose turned itself on.
"That wasn't me," she said quickly.
"Didn't say it was."
"I'm just... it's warm today."
"It's sixty-two degrees."
"I run hot."
That smirk again. The one that suggested he knew exactly what was happening and found it entertaining. "Clearly."
She excused herself to get water—and to fan her face in the privacy of her kitchen while the cabinets murmured sympathetically and the toaster offered what might have been encouragement in French.
When she came back outside, Liam had moved to the fence line. He was inspecting the gate, which had been sticking for months, when a voice floated over from the neighboring yard.
"Oh my. You've finally done it, haven't you?"
Cassie turned.
It wasn't Marjorie. Marjorie lived on the other side, in the house with the aggressive rose bushes and the Welcome sign that felt more like a warning.
This was Margaret. The quiet neighbor. Older, silver-haired, with a garden that always seemed to be in bloom regardless of season. She wore flowing linen and an expression of knowing amusement that made Cassie's skin prickle.
"Done what?" Cassie asked carefully.
Margaret's eyes flicked to Liam. Then to the faintly glowing wrench still stuck to his palm. Then back to Cassie with a smile that was somehow both warm and unsettling.
"Woken up, dear." She adjusted the basket on her arm—herbs, Cassie realized. Fresh ones. Arranged in bundles that looked suspiciously deliberate. "I've been wondering when you would. Your great-aunt Elspeth mentioned you might be a late bloomer."
"You knew my great-aunt?"
"We were friends for decades. Fellow practitioners." Margaret's gaze was steady. Warm. "She was quite the witch in her day. Powerful. Creative. Absolutely terrible at following instructions." A pause. "You remind me of her."
Cassie's brain stuttered. "You're a... practitioner? Like a witch?"
"Retired, mostly. These days I just keep a garden and occasionally help new witches avoid burning down their houses." She smiled at the scorch marks visible through the kitchen window. "Looks like I might be needed."
"Can you help us?" Liam asked. "Break the binding?"
"Eventually, yes. These things take time—you can't just snap your fingers and undo a summoning spell, especially one powered by that much raw emotion.
" Margaret studied them both with an appraising look.
"Elspeth's grimoire pulls hard when it pulls.
The binding is solid. But it's not permanent.
You just need to learn enough control to unravel it properly. "
"How long?" Cassie asked.
"Depends on how quickly you learn. And how much you fight it.
" She looked between them, and something flickered in her expression—amusement, maybe.
"The spell connected you because you asked for someone to fix what's broken.
He happened to be the nearest qualified contractor with experience dealing with magical messes.
Bad luck for him. Interesting luck for you. "
"Experience?" Cassie turned to Liam. "You've dealt with this before?"
His jaw tightened. "My ex-wife had magic."
That was clearly all he intended to say on the matter. The set of his shoulders said don't push.
Margaret rescued them from the awkward silence. "I'll come by tomorrow, bring some supplies, start teaching you the basics. Grounding, shielding, not setting things on fire every time you have a hot flash." She smiled kindly. "You'll get through this, Cassie. Elspeth believed in you. So do I."
She retreated into her cottage-like house, leaving the scent of rosemary and mystery in her wake.
Cassie turned to Liam. He was staring at Margaret's door like it held answers he wasn't sure he wanted.
"Your ex-wife was a witch?"
"Is a witch. We're divorced, not dead."
"What happened?"
A long pause. The afternoon light caught his eyes, and for just a moment, she saw something old and tired there.
"She used magic on me," he said finally.
"Small things at first. Mood adjustments.
Making me agree with things I shouldn't have agreed to.
I didn't even realize it was happening until years in.
" He met her eyes, and his expression was carefully guarded.
"So if you're wondering why I'm not thrilled about being magically bound to another witch—that's why. "
Cassie absorbed this. Her first instinct was to apologize, but something told her that wasn't what he needed.
"I won't do that," she said instead. "Use magic on you. I wouldn't even know how, but even if I did—I wouldn't."
"You already did. You summoned me here against my will."
"That was an accident."
"Aye. But you can see why I might be cautious."
She could. God, she could.
"I'm sorry," she said. "For the binding. For... all of this."
Something in his expression shifted. Not forgiveness—they weren't there yet—but something adjacent to it. Acknowledgment, maybe.
"Just learn to control it," he said. "So we can undo this and get back to our lives."
"I will."
He nodded once, then turned back to the fence gate, dismissing her with the efficiency of a man who'd said all he intended to say.
Cassie watched him work for a moment longer—the competent hands, the focused attention, the way he treated her broken gate like it mattered.
Her hormones, newly awakened and entirely unhelpful, suggested that he could be her next magical accident, too, and they wouldn't even complain.
She told them to shut up.
They didn't listen.
"Let me see that wrench."
Cassie didn't know why she said it. The words just fell out of her mouth like her brain had decided to freelance without consulting the rest of her.
Liam raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"Because it's my wrench. And it's stuck to your hand. And maybe if I just—"
She reached for it before he could protest.
The moment her fingers touched the metal, sparks flew.
Actual sparks—little golden fireflies of energy that danced between their hands where they both gripped the wrench. The metal went hot, then cold, then something in between that felt like static electricity with an attitude.
Cassie tried to pull back. Her hand didn't want to cooperate.
"What the—" Liam's voice was strained. "Cassie, let go."
"I'm trying."
She wasn't trying. She couldn't try. Her hand was stuck, fingers wrapped around the wrench handle just below his, and wherever their skin almost-touched, the sparks intensified.
The wrench pulsed. Once. Twice. A third time, like a heartbeat.
Then it released them both.
Cassie stumbled back, her hand tingling. Liam shook out his fingers, scowling at the wrench like it had personally betrayed him.
"Well," he said. "That's new."
"What was that?"
"The binding, I'd guess. You're connected to me through the spell, and the wrench is the anchor." He turned it over in his hands—it wasn't stuck anymore, but it still glowed faintly. "When you touched it, you touched the magic that's holding us together."
"So we're... what? Magically handcuffed?"
"Something like that. The binding links us until it's properly broken. Physical proximity probably makes it stronger." He set the wrench on the counter, carefully, like it might bite. "We should avoid touching each other until Margaret can look at this."
"Right. Yes. No touching." Cassie was nodding too fast. "Totally reasonable. Very professional."
The sparks had felt... not bad. That was the problem. They'd felt like something waking up. Something she'd thought was dead coming back to life.
Very inconvenient.
Movement in the doorway caught her eye.
Luna padded into the kitchen, moving with her usual liquid grace. She hopped onto the counter—which she knew she wasn't allowed to do—sat directly on the still-warm spellbook, and began grooming her paw.
"Well," the cat said, in a voice like velvet dragged over gravel. "This is interesting."
Cassie's brain stopped.
Just... stopped. Like someone had pulled the plug on her entire nervous system.
The cat continued grooming, completely unbothered by the fact that she had just spoken actual words in Cassie's kitchen like that was a normal thing cats did on Thursday afternoons.
"Did my cat just talk?"
Luna paused mid-lick, one paw still raised, and fixed Cassie with a look of profound disappointment.
"I've always talked," she said. "You just never listened. Typical human."
"I—you—but—" Cassie turned to Liam, desperate for someone to confirm she hadn't finally snapped. "The cat is talking."
"Aye." He didn't look surprised. He looked tired, which was somehow worse. "Happens sometimes when there's a lot of magical energy around. Animals pick it up. Cats especially—they're already halfway to supernatural on a regular day."
"I'm not supernatural," Luna said primly. "I'm just finally being heard. Do you have any idea how long I've been offering commentary on your life choices? Years. Years of excellent advice, and you thought I just wanted treats."
"You do want treats."
"I contain multitudes." Luna's tail swished. "Also yes, I want treats. But that's not the point."
Cassie grabbed the counter for support. Her kitchen was haunted. Her appliances spoke French. Her garden gnomes had formed a militia. She was magically handcuffed to a Scottish stranger whose ex-wife had manipulated him with magic. And now her cat had opinions she could actually hear.
"I'm dreaming," she said weakly. "This is a wine-induced nightmare."
"The wine might be contributing," Luna agreed. "But no. This is your life now." The cat's golden eyes gleamed with what might have been sympathy, or might have been amusement. Hard to tell with cats. "Welcome to it."
Liam picked up the wrench, testing it. It stayed in his hand this time without glowing. Whatever the sparks had been, they'd settled.
For now.
"I suggest," he said, "that we both get some sleep. Margaret will be here tomorrow. We'll figure this out then."
"Sleep. Right." Cassie laughed—the slightly unhinged laugh of someone who'd reached the end of her coping capacity. "I'll just sleep in my haunted house with my talking cat and my grumpy Scottish houseguest while my toaster judges me in French."
"Bonne nuit," Jacques offered from the counter.
"See? Even the toaster thinks you need rest."
Luna hopped down from the counter and wound between Cassie's ankles—a rare gesture of affection from a cat who usually treated physical contact as beneath her dignity.
"It'll be okay," the cat said, almost gently. "You're a mess, but you're not hopeless. I've seen hopeless. You're just... chaotic."
"Is that supposed to be comforting?"
"It's the best I've got. I'm a cat."
Cassie looked at Liam. Liam looked back. Between them, the wrench sat on the counter, quiescent but watchful. The binding hummed in the air, invisible but present, tying them together in ways neither of them had chosen.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow," she agreed.
Luna was already padding toward the bedroom, tail high. "I get the left side of the bed. You kick."
"You've always slept wherever you wanted."
"Yes, but now I can tell you about it. Progress."
Cassie followed her cat down the hallway, leaving Liam in the kitchen with the glowing wrench and the talking toaster and the full weight of a magical disaster neither of them had signed up for.
Tomorrow, Margaret would come.
Tomorrow, they'd start fixing this.
Tonight, she just had to survive sleeping in a house that had opinions about her emotional state, while a man she'd accidentally kidnapped slept in her guest room, while her cat narrated her dreams.
Piece of cake.
The walls flickered a nervous shade of yellow.
Even the house wasn't convinced.