Page 8

Callum

M y saw screams through cedar, drowning out most sounds, which is exactly how I like it. Wood doesn't lie, doesn't want things from you, doesn't leave you second-guessing every decision. It responds to skill and patience, and if you fuck it up, it's your own fault.

I'm measuring twice on a beam for the Morrison cabin when River Brooks appears at my workbench, wearing the kind of grin that means he's about to complicate my day.

I shut off the saw and pull my safety glasses up. "Workshop's closed."

"Got a problem at the store. Pretty omega asking about porch repair, but she's in over her head. Sent her your way." River leans against my workbench, careful not to disturb the lumber I've got staged. "She bought the Anderson place. Sight unseen. From Hollywood."

That explains the grin. The Anderson place is a money pit disguised as rustic charm. Beautiful bones buried under sixty years of deferred maintenance.

"From Hollywood?"

"Actress. But here's the thing. She showed up with hand-drawn sketches and measurements instead of throwing money at the problem. Asked me what tools she'd need to fix it herself." River's expression turns more serious. "Dean asked me to keep an eye out for her. Says she's had a rough time lately."

Dean's protective streak runs deeper than most people know. If he's specifically asking River to watch out for this one, there's more to her story.

"She asking for charity or help?"

"Hard to tell. But she crawled under the porch with a flashlight to get accurate measurements." River heads toward the door. "Anyone willing to get spider webs in their hair deserves a chance, don't you think?"

The image hits me unexpectedly. Some polished city omega on her hands and knees under a saggy porch, trying to figure out what she's dealing with. Either stupidly brave or desperately determined.

After River leaves, I finish the Morrison cuts and stack them. I'm organizing hardware when I hear a car pull up. Engine too quiet for local standards, probably still has that new-car smell.

City car, city girl, city problems.

She's smaller than I expected, compact and curved in ways that make my alpha instincts sit up and take notice. But there's something else. A carefulness in how she moves, like someone who's learned not to take up too much space.

She's trying to blend in instead of standing out, wearing practical jeans and boots, hair pulled back functionally rather than for style. But when she spots me through the window, she heads toward the office with the determined walk of someone who's talked herself into something that scares her.

I meet her at the door, and the first thing that hits me is her scent. Green apples, white musk, and something floral underneath that settles into my chest like it's been waiting for permission to breathe. The kind of scent that makes a man forget why he decided to stay alone.

The second thing is her eyes. Wide and green and filled with nervous determination.

"You must be Callum," she says, extending her hand. "I'm Lila. River said you could help me figure out what I'm dealing with on my front porch."

Her handshake is firm, deliberate, but her fingers are soft against my callused palm.

"Depends on what's wrong with it," I say. "Structural problems? Surface rot?"

She pulls out a notebook and opens it to pages covered with careful sketches and neat measurements. The drawings are detailed enough to show she crawled under there and tried to understand what she was looking at.

Most people either pretend they know more than they do or expect me to handle all the thinking. She's clearly out of her depth but taking it seriously.

"I tried to measure the support structure," she says, and there's something almost defensive in her tone. "But I'm not sure I understood what I was looking at. I've never done anything like this before."

The slight edge in her voice tells me she's expecting to be dismissed or talked down to. Like maybe that's happened before.

"These are good," I say, studying her work. "You got the joist spacing, beam dimensions. Even noted the foundation points."

Her shoulders relax like she's passed some test she didn't know she was taking. "I may have gotten some spider webs in my hair in the process."

Despite myself, I almost smile. She drew pictures. Actual pictures of rotting wood and foundation issues. With measurements. Most people won't crawl under a porch to understand what they're dealing with.

"That's what it takes. Most people won't get under there to see what they're dealing with."

"So you'll help me figure out what I need?" Her chin lifts slightly, like she's bracing for rejection. "I mean, I know you're busy, but I'm willing to pay for a consultation. I just need to understand what I'm looking at before I... before I decide how to handle it."

There's something in that pause that suggests she's not just talking about construction. And the way she phrases it— how to handle it —tells me she's not looking for someone to take over. She wants information so she can make her own decisions.

"I should come take a look," I say, closing the notebook and handing it back to her. "See what we're dealing with before we talk materials."

"Are you sure? I know you're busy." She tucks the notebook against her chest, protective. "I don't want to impose. Maybe you could just tell me what to look for, and I could?—"

"Address still 41 Maple?" I interrupt gently.

She nods.

"I'll be there around three."

Relief floods her face, followed by something that might be gratitude or surprise, like she's not used to people saying yes when she asks for help.

"Thank you," she says. "I really appreciate it."

At three o'clock, I load my tools into the truck. The house looks better than it did six months ago, but I can see the porch problem from the street, the whole left side dips noticeably.

I'm crouched under the porch, examining where one of the main beams has separated from its post, when I hear it.

A sharp curse from inside the house, followed by what sounds like a pipe exploding, then frantic splashing and a muffled "No, no, no, no?—"

I drop my measuring tape and head for the front door.

"Lila?"

"Don't come in here! I'm fine! Everything's fine!"

The increasing volume of water hitting the floor suggests otherwise.

I kick off my boots and head toward the kitchen anyway.

What I find stops me cold.

She's standing in front of the kitchen sink, soaked from head to toe, both hands pressed against the base of the faucet like she's trying to stop a dam from bursting. Water sprays around her fingers, soaking everything and creating a spreading lake across the kitchen floor.

But it's not just that she's wet.

It's how the water has turned her clothes into a second skin.

Blood rushes south before I can stop it, my body responding in ways I haven't felt in years.

Her shirt is plastered to her back, outlining every curve. Even from behind, I can see how the water has turned the fabric nearly transparent, and I have to grip the doorframe to keep from moving closer.

"I said don't come in!" she says without turning around. "I can handle this!"

"Looks like it," I manage, my voice rougher than it should be.

She spins around, and suddenly I'm getting the full impact of what water has done to her shirt. The fabric clings to her chest, outlining the swell of her breasts, the delicate lace pattern of her bra visible underneath. Water trails down her throat, and her jeans are molded to her hips and thighs.

My pulse pounds and I have to fight every instinct that's screaming at me to close the distance between us.

"The handle came off in my hand," she says, water still dripping from her hair. "And now it won't stop and I can't figure out how to turn it off."

Her voice cracks on the last word, and I can see her shoulders shaking, from cold, from frustration, maybe both.

Focus. Fix the problem.

"Water main's under the sink," I say, closing the distance between us. "Need to shut it off at the source."

I drop to my knees beside her legs, close enough that her scent—green apples and clean water—wraps around me like a physical thing. The main supply valve is corroded but functional. I give it a hard turn, and the spraying stops immediately.

The sudden silence is deafening.

"Oh," she says in a small voice. "It was that easy?"

I stand up, and suddenly we're very close in the small kitchen. So close I can see water droplets caught in her eyelashes, so close that when she breathes, her chest rises and falls in ways that make it impossible to think about anything else.

She's shivering now, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to do something about it. Wrap her in something warm, pull her against my chest until she stops shaking.

Instead, I force myself to look at her face. "You're soaked."

"Yeah, I noticed." She pushes wet hair out of her eyes, the gesture making her shirt pull tighter. "I was trying to tighten the handle because it was loose, and then it came completely off."

"Old faucets do that. Packing nut probably gave way."

She's looking up at me with those wide green eyes, water still dripping from her hair, and electricity arcs between us that has nothing to do with plumbing.

I should step back. Give her space, maintain professional distance.

Instead, I reach out.

My hand moves without conscious thought, fingers lifting to brush a drop of water from her cheek. Her skin is soft and cold under my callused fingertips, and when I touch her, she goes completely still.

The contact sends heat straight through me, and I realize I'm harder than I've been in years from nothing more than touching her face.

For a heartbeat, we're frozen like that. My hand against her face, her eyes wide and startled, the kitchen quiet except for water dripping from her hair to the floor.

Then she draws in a sharp breath, and I realize what I'm doing.

I drop my hand and step back. "You should get changed before you catch cold."

"Right." Her voice comes out slightly breathless. "I should… yes. Change."

But she doesn't move, and neither do I.

The moment stretches between us, charged with something I'm not ready to name. Finally, she breaks eye contact and moves toward the counter, grabbing a dish towel and wrapping it around her hair with hands that aren't quite steady.

"So," she says, focusing intently on the towel instead of looking at me. "How bad is the damage?"

I pick up the broken handle. "Not terrible. Need a new cartridge, some washers. Basic repair."

"I meant the porch, but yes, now add that to the list too."

"What list?"

She gestures at the house around us with something that might be frustration or exhaustion. "Things I don't know how to fix. The door handle that fell off yesterday, the window that won't open, the porch that's slowly collapsing, and now this."

Her tone carries the bone-deep weariness of someone who's been handling everything alone for longer than three days.

"Takes time," I say. "Can't expect to figure out sixty years of problems overnight."

"Most people call contractors for everything," I add, setting the broken handle on the counter. "Even the simple stuff."

"Will you show me?" she asks suddenly, and there's something almost vulnerable in the request. "How to fix it, I mean. I know you probably have better things to do, but I want to learn. I need to learn."

The request hits me harder than it should. Most people want me to fix their problems, not teach them how to fix their own. But there's something in her voice, determination mixed with uncertainty that makes me want to say yes.

"I can show you," I hear myself say. "But we should get you dried off first. And I still need to finish checking your porch."

Relief floods her face, followed by something that might be gratitude or surprise, like she's not used to people saying yes when she asks for help.

"Go change," I say. "I'll finish the porch assessment. Then we can talk about what you're dealing with."

When she disappears upstairs, I let out a breath and adjust my jeans so she doesn't see how much she affected me.

By the time she comes back downstairs in dry jeans and flannel, I've got the kitchen cleaned up and the broken faucet temporarily fixed with supplies from my truck.

I walk her through what I found. The porch needs work. Foundation settling, compromised supports, and rot in two of the main beams.

"Fixable," I say. "But it needs doing right."

Relief floods her face. "I was worried you'd say the whole thing needed to be torn down."

"Bones are solid," I say. "Just needs someone who knows old construction."

"And you understand how they work."

"I do." I meet her eyes. "Question is whether you're serious about learning, or if you're looking for someone to fix everything while you watch."

Her chin lifts slightly, and for the first time since I met her, I catch a glimpse of whatever steel kept her working in Hollywood for years.

"I'm serious," she says, and something raw flickers across her face. "I can't be the person who runs when things get hard. Not again."

There's something in that last part that tells me there's more to her story than River mentioned.

"All right then." I look around the kitchen, at this house that's too big for one person, at this woman who's trying so hard to build something new from something broken. "See how you do with the basics before we move on to structural work."

"And if I'm hopeless at it?"

"Then we'll figure out a different approach." I meet her eyes. "But something tells me you're not as hopeless as you think."

She steps closer, close enough that I catch her scent again, green apples and determination and something that might be hope.

"And if I am?"

"Then you'll learn anyway." The words come out rougher than I intended. "Some things are worth the trouble."

The way she looks at me then, like I've said something that matters more than it should, makes the air between us feel charged.

"Two days," I say, stepping back before I do something stupid. "We'll start with the faucet."

She's still standing close enough that I could count her freckles, close enough that her scent wraps around me like a promise I'm not ready to make.

"Two days," I repeat, more to remind myself than her.