He was still fighting with the wrench, increasingly agitated. His bicep flexedwith effort, which was both concerning and mesmerizing. "What did you DO?"
"I don't know! The book said to fix what's broken and I said the thing and you just—appeared! With my wrench! That I was just using! Under my sink, which is still leaking, by the way, so if you could just?—"
"The book?" His eyes narrowed dangerously. "What book?"
She pointed at the spellbook, still innocently open on the counter, pages gently fluttering like it was pretending to be normal.
He went very, very still. The kind of still that happened before tornados. Or murders. Or Scottish people saying things that couldn't be taken back.
"You read from that. Out loud. Without any training or protection or basic bloody sense."
"It's my book!"
"It's a grimoire, you daft woman!"
"I'm not daft! I'm having a very reasonable response to a shirtless stranger in my kitchen!"
"I'm not strange, I'm Scottish!"
"That's not better!"
They glared at each other across the kitchen, breathing heavily. The floating tools rotated slowly between them like lazy satellites. The pipes had moved on to "Let's Get Physical," which felt pointed and inappropriate.
The magical sparkles were starting to settle,coating everything in a fine shimmer that would probably never come out of the grout.
And Cassie became aware that she was having an argument with a half-naked man who'd materialized in her kitchen, while holding day-wine and wearing a shirt that advertised her alcohol preferences.
This was not her finest hour.
But God, he was magnificent when he was angry.
He triedto walk toward the door.
Made it three steps before hitting an invisible wall with a solid thunk that would have been funny if it wasn't terrifying.
"Oh, that's not good," he muttered, pressing his hand against nothing and meeting resistance. Like glass that wasn't there. "That's very not good."
He backed up, rubbed his nose where he'd smacked it, and tried again at a different angle. Same result. The air just... stopped him.
He tried the window. Same result. Then the back door. Then, in desperation, the cat flap.
"Why can't you leave?" Cassie's voice pitched higher with each word. "You need to leave. I didn't mean to summon you. This is a mistake. A big, wet, Scottish mistake."
"You THINK?" He spun to face her, and wow, angry really looked good on him. Unfairly good. The kind of good that made her consider terrible decisions. "You've bound me here with your wee spell, haven't you? Christ, it's always the new ones. Always the middle-aged awakeners who think magic is just Pinterest with sparkles."
"I am NOT middle-aged!"
"You're literally holding a glass of day wine."
She looked at her wine glass. Traitor. "That's... that's from last night."
"It's Thursday morning."
"Your point?"
"My point is that I was in my own bloody bathroom, in my own bloody house, minding my own bloody business like a normal bloody person, and now I'm trapped in a stranger's kitchen wearing nothing but my work jeans because you couldn't be bothered to call a proper plumber!"
"I tried! He can't come until Tuesday!"
