Blackthorn Eternal Bind

The Handyman's Welcome

Ellen watched Luke vanish into the manor with her heaviest box like it was filled with feathers, not books and bourbon. Show-off. She grabbed another—lighter this time, labeled EX-JUNK (remnants of Jake's crap she'd meant to torch)—and trailed him up the porch steps. The wood groaned under his boots, but he moved with that effortless stride, glancing back with a crooked smile that did unfair things to her stomach.

"Turret first?" he asked, pausing in the foyer. Sunlight slanted through the grand windows, gilding dust motes into golden flecks. The air hummed with salt and aged wood, the distant crash of waves a rhythmic underscore. Up close in the light, Luke looked even better—faint stubble shadowing a strong jaw, those gray eyes holding secrets like storm clouds over the sea.

"Yeah," Ellen said, setting her box down. "Gonna turn it into my war room. Writing desk by the window, whiteboards for plots. You know the place well—any leaky roofs up there?"

He chuckled, low and warm, hefting both boxes up the sweeping staircase. "Leaky? Nah. I've patched every drip this house has thrown at me. Turret's solid—best view in Maine. Follow me."

She did, pulse quickening at the casual flex of his back under the henley. The stairs creaked like old bones, portraits lining the walls: stern faces in sepia tones, eyes seeming to track them. Creepy ancestors, she thought, shoving down a shiver. At the top, a narrow door opened to the turret—a circular room bathed in watery light, panoramic ocean vista through wraparound panes. Waves churned below the cliffs, foam white against black rock. Wind rattled the glass faintly, promising storms.

"Perfect," she breathed, dumping her box by a scarred oak desk. "Jake—my ex—always said I needed 'real world distractions.' Joke's on him; this is my distraction paradise."

Luke leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her with quiet intensity. "Ex, huh? Sounds like he didn't know a good thing." His tone was light, but those eyes sharpened, like he'd seen a thousand heartbreaks.

Ellen snorted, unpacking notebooks onto the desk. "Understatement. Caught him with my editor, stealing my manuscript ideas. Two years down the drain. Haven't written a full chapter since." She straightened, meeting his gaze. "What about you? Got a story behind the handyman gig? Or just love fixing rich idiots' messes?"

He pushed off the frame, helping unpack with efficient hands—cool fingers brushing hers as he slid books into shelves. That tingle again, like static from wool socks. "Something like that. Been here long enough to see 'em come and go. Betrayals, windfalls... people don't change much." He paused, stacking her laptop with care. "But you? Writer's block's a beast. What's the book about?"

"Romance," she admitted, cheeks warming. "The swoony, impossible kind. Cursed lovers, maybe. Trying to remember why I believe in it." She gestured at the view. "This helps."

Luke's smile softened, almost wistful. "Curses are overrated. Real magic's in the pull—the one that hits like a rogue wave." His hand lingered near hers on the desk, close enough to feel the chill radiating off him. Weird. AC must be cranked.

They moved downstairs, him carting boxes like a pack mule, her directing: kitchen (rustic beams, a massive farmhouse sink), library (leather-bound tomes gathering dust), ballroom (crystal chandelier swaying faintly). He pointed out quirks—"That creak's the settling foundation, not ghosts"—and fixed a sticky door with a pocket knife flick. No sweat, no complaints. Timeless competence.

By late afternoon, most boxes gutted, they ended in the kitchen. Ellen rummaged for the coffee maker, plugging it in. "Fuel up? You want a cup?"

"Nah, I'm good." Luke waved it off, leaning on the counter. "Intermittent fasting. Keeps me sharp." He eyed the bourbon bottle she'd unpacked earlier. "But that? Tempting."

She brewed her mug anyway—black—and they migrated to the parlor. A massive stone fireplace dominated, unlit but promising. Rain pattered the windows now, thunder growling offshore. Ellen curled on the velvet settee, sipping, spilling more: Jake's gaslighting, her stalled career, the ache of starting over at 32.

Luke sat across, elbows on knees, listening like she was the only voice in the world. "Sounds like he poisoned more than your trust," he murmured. "But poison fades. You rebuild stronger." His words hung heavy, echoing the realtor's tale without her clocking it.

Ellen laughed softly. "Poetic for a handyman. You read romance too?"

"Enough lifetimes' worth." He rose smoothly, tossing logs into the hearth like he'd done it yesterday. Flint sparked—no matches needed?—and flames crackled to life, casting shadows that danced across his sharp features. "Rain's picking up. Better head out before it pours—shed's calling. Get some rest, Ellen. Tomorrow, more fixes."

She nodded, watching him grab his jacket from a hook by the door. "Thanks, Luke. For everything." Her voice caught, gratitude mixing with that stupid spark.

He paused at the threshold, gray eyes lingering. "Anytime. Sweet dreams." The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the fire's warmth and the storm's howl.

Ellen sank deeper into the settee, mug cooling in her hands. For the first time in months, her muse stirred—a whisper of words, a flicker of plot. Handsome mystery handyman. Cursed lovers? Yeah. The ocean roared approval outside.

But in the growing gloom, unnoticed, the mantel clock ticked backward to 1905.