Despite being magically imprisonedin her home, Liam MacLeod was annoyingly professional.
Within an hour, he'd assessed the damage her spell (or maybe lack of home maintenance) had caused—which was extensive—and created a mental list of repairs that needed doing. Not magical repairs. Regular ones. The kind that involved tools and competence and forearms that flexed in ways Cassie was definitely not noticing.
"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 beenbuilt 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 enoughto 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."
