"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 intensityof 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."
