"Toolbox in the storage shed. Belonged to my grandfather. Don't know what's in it."
"Let me look after breakfast. If I fix your table, is that enough proof I know what I'm doing?"
Clara studied him, green eyes assessing. Finally, she nodded. "The table's been driving me crazy. Fix it so it doesn't wobble, I'll believe you. Then maybe you can tackle that window before we both lose our minds listening to it rattle."
"Deal." Jack straightened, smiled. "See? The universe put me here for a reason. Your table needs me."
"My table needs someone who knows what they're doing. Jury's still out on whether that's you."
"Guess we'll find out."
The thing was — tables he could fix. Windows, handrails, loose joints. Give him a problem with edges he could measure and he'd solve it before lunch.
It was the stuff without edges that got him. But that wasn't today's problem.
Today's problem wobbled, and he knew exactly how to fix it.
three
The storm had scrubbed the world clean, which was great for the earth's complexion but terrible for Clara's carefully maintained emotional distance.
Because Jack Callahan, damn him, was turning out to be annoyingly competent.
Clara stood on the rocks outside the lighthouse, breathing in salt air, and tried not to admit that Jack had made himself useful over the past two days. The wobbly table—fixed. The sticky window—planed smooth. The loose handrail—tightened and secure.
She prided herself on being handy, but there was a limit to her skillset. Jack? No limits. Just quiet competence and an irritating tendency to make difficult repairslook easy.
And all it took was feeding the man some basic grub to get the jobs done.
Which felt suspiciously like some kind of domestic arrangement she definitely wasn't ready for—and to hammer that point home, she'd reclaimed her bed and gave him the couch. There was a limit to her generosity and it tapped out on Day Two of giving up her bed.
"How was the couch last night?"
Jack stretched, his shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of stomach. Clara's gaze snagged on it before she could stop herself.
Stop that.
"I've slept in worse places," he said. "Never expected you to give up your bed that first night anyway."
"After getting bashed against rocks, I thought you might need it. But you seemed pretty hardy, and I wanted my bed back."
"Fair." He drew a deep breath of sea air. "God, I love how the earth smells after a good rain. Fresh. Clean."
She agreed, though she wasn't about to get poetic about it. "So. You're in luck. Blue skies, no rain clouds. Ready to play tourist?"
"My favorite game."
An hour later, Clara led him down to her private dock where her little boat bobbed in the water. After she settled in and turned the key, the engine sputtered, backfired twice—come on, you temperamental bitch—then chortled to life.
They headed toward Beacon's End, skirting the coastline. Wind in their faces, sun on their cheeks. The kind of perfect morning that made Clara suspicious because perfect mornings usually preceded terrible afternoons.
"I know you're not big on sharing but I gotta ask, how long have you lived at the lighthouse?" Jack called over the engine's putter.
"Technically, three years full-time but I grew up in Beacon's End. My grandparents lived in the lighthouse before that. As a kid I spent summers with them at the lighthouse. Some of my best memories were made there."
"So, you've never left your hometown?"
"I didn't say that," she corrected. "I left home for a job in Portland. An ad agency." Clara adjusted their heading. "Hated every second and when I realized I'd had enough, I left."
