Chapter 1: Muscles and Blinds
The screw wasn’t budging. Oli pulled on the screwdriver with all his might, his knuckles white, his feet braced against the kitchen cabinet. It let out a metallic screech and didn’t move a millimeter.
“Come on, you little…” he grunted, putting his entire, admittedly insubstantial, body weight into it.
He slipped. The screwdriver skidded off the head with a nasty clang, and he stumbled back, catching himself on the butcher-block island. A half-empty coffee cup wobbled. His pride, already fragile, shattered completely.
The doorbell rang.
“Perfect,” he muttered, running a hand through his messy hair. He gave the offending screw one last, hateful look—a tiny, brass-colored monument to his inadequacy—and went to answer the door.
She was shorter than he’d imagined from her phone voice, wrapped in a loose, cream-colored jumper, a tool bag slung over one shoulder. Her hair was dark and tied back, and her eyes were a startling, vivid green.
“Oli?” she asked, her voice warm and laced with that melody of an accent. Italian, he remembered from the booking. Sara.
“That’s me. The guy who’s been defeated by hardware. Come in.”
She stepped inside, her gaze sweeping the sunny kitchen with an appraiser’s calm. “It is not so bad. The light is beautiful.”
“The light is the problem. Can’t get the new blind up because the old bracket won’t come off. That screw…” He pointed, his cheeks already heating. “It’s welded in. I think the previous owner used cosmic super-glue.”
Sara set her bag down with a soft thud and approached the window. She studied the screw, her head tilted. She didn’t touch it. Just looked. Oli hovered behind her, suddenly aware of the dust motes dancing in the striped afternoon light and the faint, clean scent of her shampoo.
“You try with the manual driver?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“The electric one?”
“Yes. It just stripped the head a little more.”
“And you pull, like this?” She mimed a weak, sideways yank.
“No, I pulled properly,” Oli said, defensiveness creeping in. “I pulled until I saw stars.”
A low, soft chuckle escaped her. It was a beautiful sound. “Okay, okay. Let me see.” She turned to face him, and with a single, fluid motion, she gripped the hem of her jumper and pulled it over her head.
Oli’s brain short-circuited.
The jumper had hidden a tank top. And the tank top revealed arms. Not just arms. Sculpted, formidable monuments of bicep and tricep, of corded muscle and defined shoulder that flowed into a back that looked like it could carry a car. Her frame was still petite, her waist narrow, but her upper body was a breathtaking, powerful contradiction. She was like a superhero in casual disguise.
His mouth was slightly open. He knew it. He couldn’t help it.
Sara caught his stare. A tiny, mischievous smile played on her lips. She didn’t comment. Instead, she turned back to the screw, selected a different bit from her bag, and fitted it into her driver. She didn’t brace. She didn’t grunt. She simply placed the tip, applied pressure with one formidable hand, and hit the trigger.
The screw shrieked, twisted, and surrendered, spiraling out of the wall with a final, pathetic sigh. It took three seconds.
She plucked it from the air and held it up, pinched between her thumb and forefinger. “Cosmic glue, eh?”
Oli let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I hate it so much.”
Her smile widened. “Is normal. You are a software guy, yes? Your strength is in here.” She tapped her own temple. “Not in here.” She flexed her arm playfully. The muscle jumped, a defined, awe-inspiring ripple under olive skin.
“Clearly,” Oli said, finding his voice again, which was several octaves higher than usual. He cleared his throat. “So. The bracket’s off. Now I just need to… put the new one on.”
“I am already here,” she said, her tone implying it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Show me the new blind.”
They worked side by side in the warm kitchen light. Or rather, Sara worked, and Oli assisted, which mainly involved holding things and trying not to stare at the fascinating landscape of her shoulders as she drilled. Her proximity was a constant, low-level electric hum in the room. When he passed her a bracket, her fingers brushed his. A simple, accidental touch. It felt like a static shock.
“You hold this side,” she instructed, her voice close to his ear. He fumbled with the bracket, aligning it. She reached across him to secure it, her arm pressing momentarily against his chest. He could feel the solid, unyielding strength of it. He held his breath.
“You are very tense,” she observed, not looking at him, focusing on the drill.
“Just… concentrating.”
“On the bracket, or on something else?” The drill whirred, biting into the wall.
Oli’s face burned. He was grateful she was looking at the wall. “The bracket. Definitely the bracket.”
She finished, stepped back, and surveyed their work. “Good. Now the blind itself. This is a two-person job for sure.” Her eyes gleamed. “Even for you, maybe.”
He laughed, the tension breaking. “Hey, I’m an excellent holder-upper-of-things.”
They lifted the blind into place. It was awkward, their arms entangled, her strength making his efforts feel superfluous. As they slid the blind onto its headrail, her hand closed over his to guide it. Her palm was warm, her grip firm and sure.
“There,” she said softly, their hands still together on the now-installed blind. The room dimmed to a pleasant, filtered glow.
She didn’t let go immediately. Oli was acutely aware of the quiet, of the golden stripes of light now patterning the floor, of the solid feel of her hand on his.
“You see?” she said, finally releasing him and beginning to pack her tools. “Not so terrible. Sometimes you just need the right tool.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” Oli said, his voice quieter than he intended.
She slung her bag over her shoulder and put her jumper back on, the powerful silhouette disappearing beneath the soft wool. The transformation was just as jarring. She handed him a card. “For next time something is stuck. Or if you just want… to be sure the job is done right.”
He took the card, their fingers brushing again. “Thanks, Sara.”
“Prego, Oli.” She gave him one last smile, those green eyes crinkling at the corners, and let herself out.
The kitchen was silent. The blind was perfect. The screw sat, tiny and vanquished, on the countertop. Oli looked at her card, then out at the dappled garden, now beautifully framed. He realized he was already thinking of something else in the house that might need fixing. Something complicated. Something that definitely required a specialist.