"This is not happening," Cassie backed against the counter, clutching her wine glass like a shield. "This is a stroke. I'm having a stroke. A wine-and-menopause stroke."
The pipes under the sink joined in, humming what sounded suspiciously like "Singin' in the Rain." Then shifted to what was definitely "It's Raining Men," because apparently her plumbing had a sense of humor and a Spotify account.
"WHAT DID I DO?" Cassie grabbed the counter as the vibration intensified. Her wine glass skittered across the granite, saving itself at the last second like it knew she'd need it for whatever came next.
The refrigerator started humming harmony. The dishwasher added percussion. Her kitchen had become a demented orchestra, and she was the idiot conductor who'd started this with bad pronunciation and day-drinking.
The air sparkled. Actually sparkled. Like someone had dumped body glitter into reality itself. It swirled in patterns that hurt to look at directly, geometry that shouldn't exist in a three-dimensional kitchen.
The temperature dropped so fast her breath came out in clouds.
Then rose until sweat beaded on her forehead.
Then did something complicated that made her ears pop and her teeth ache.
The spellbook's pages flipped manically, like it was looking for something. Or laughing. Could books have seizures? Was that a thing?
The lights flashed—every bulb in the kitchen strobing like the world's worst rave. The microwave beeped SOS in morse code. The ceiling fan reversed direction three times.
Thunder crashed.
Inside her kitchen.
Which seemed both impossible and rude.
"I take it back!" she yelled at the spellbook. "I don't want a plumber! I'll live with the leak! I'll move! I'll burn the house down for the insurance money!"
The book ignored her.
Smoke billowed from absolutely nowhere—not gray smoke like from a fire, but silvery-blue smoke that moved wrong, curling up and then sideways, defying physics and common sense. It smelled of leather and sawdust and something masculine that made her ovaries wake up from their five-year nap and start paying attention.
There was also pine. And rain on hot concrete. And that specific scent of a man who actually knew how to use tools instead of just owning them for decoration.
"Oh my God, I summoned a demon. I summoned a demon with bad poetry and now I'm going to die and they'll find my body and—wait, why does the demon smell good? Do demons smell good? Is that part of the temptation thing?"
The smoke swirled faster, tighter, forming a column in the middle of her kitchen. Lightning crackled inside it—actual lightning, indoors, which her insurance definitely didn't cover.
The floating tools arranged themselves in a circle, some kind of supernatural greeting party.
A figure materialized in the smoke.
Tall. Broad. Human-shaped but in a way that made human seem like an inadequate category.
"—and Susan will plan my funeral and she'll serve those dry-ass lemon squares and tell everyone I tried my best?—"
The smoke cleared.
A man stood in her kitchen.
No—not stood.Existed.In a way that made standing look like something lesser mortals did while this man simply occupied space with authority.
Six feet and change of confused Scottish irritation, wearing worn jeans that fit in ways jeans shouldn’t be legally allowed to fit, and absolutely nothing else. Just wet hair, broad shoulders, and an expression that suggested murder was an option he was actively considering.
His chest was a geography lesson in things Cassie had forgotten existed. Shoulders that could carry lumber. Or emotional baggage. Or her, if she asked nicely. Arms that had muscles with actual purposes, not gym-sculpted vanity, but the kind you got from swinging hammers and hauling materials and doing mysterious manly things with wrenches.
He was barefoot. His feet were actually nice feet, which felt like an unfair detail to notice while her kitchen was flooding, but there it was. Even his feet were annoyingly attractive.
His skin was pale but not office-worker pale—more like Scottish-winter pale with a side of "I work outside but Scotland doesn't believe in sun." There were scars. Little ones that told stories about tools and time and a life actually lived.
