Page 52 of Knot on the Market

I pull the small toolbox I borrowed from Levi out of my messenger bag. Basic screwdrivers, a hammer that feels wrong in my hands, some screws that might work.

How hard can it be?

The answer, significantly harder than I thought.

The mounting bracket is bent at an impossible angle. The screws are scattered across the lawn like they're mocking me. When I try to straighten the bracket, it springs back with a metallic ping that sounds suspiciously like laughter.

I glance toward the window. Lila's still there, still watching me accomplish absolutely nothing.

The screwdriver slips in my sweaty palm and I nearly face-plant into the mailbox.

Perfect. Make a complete fool of yourself. That'll impress her.

This was supposed to be simple. Show up, fix something, demonstrate that I can be useful for more than book recommendations. Be the kind of alpha who doesn't overthink everything. Be straightforward.

"You make everything so complicated,"echoes in my head."Can't you just be like them?"

Well, I'm trying. And failing spectacularly.

I'm contemplating whether it would be less humiliating to admit defeat or continue this charade when I hear footsteps behind me.

"Need some help with that?"

Callum's voice is calm, completely free of judgment, but I can feel heat creeping up my neck anyway. I look up to find him standing a few feet away, toolbox in hand, taking in my scattered attempts at mailbox repair with those steady hazel eyes.

"I've got it," I say automatically, the lie tasting bitter.

Callum crouches down beside me, his movements deliberate and confident. He examines the bent bracket, the scattered screws, the general chaos I've created.

"Bracket's bent pretty bad," he observes, picking up one of the screws I dropped. "Probably need to replace the whole mounting system."

"Right," I say, as if I'd already reached that conclusion instead of spending fifteen minutes trying to force broken pieces back together through sheer determination.

"Want to hold it steady while I anchor it?" Callum asks, already reaching into his toolbox for what appears to be exactly the right tool for the job. "Two sets of hands make this easier."

The offer is casual, practical, delivered without judgment. There's something quietly generous about how he frames it. Notlet me fix this for youbutlet's work on this together. Gives me a role that lets me keep some dignity while actually getting things done.

He knows why I'm doing this. And he doesn't mind.

That settles something in my chest. Callum gets it, this isn't really about mailbox repair, it's about wanting to be useful to Lila, wanting to fix things in her space. And instead of making me feel like an idiot, he's helping me actually accomplish it.

No judgment about my obvious incompetence. No comments about how I'm "too much work" for simple tasks. Just quiet help.

We work in comfortable silence, Callum's competent hands making quick work of what had seemed insurmountable. He measures twice, cuts once, positions everything with the kind of precision that comes from years of understanding how things fit together. I hold pieces steady and hand him tools, grateful for any way to be helpful while he does the actual work.

"There," Callum says finally, testing the stability of the newly mounted mailbox. It stands straight and solid, looking like it could weather another sixty years of mountain storms. "Should hold."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than the simple words can convey. "I appreciate the help."

Callum nods, already gathering his tools with efficient movements. "Good to have working hands when you need them."

The phrasing is careful, acknowledging my assistance without highlighting my obvious limitations. It's a kindness I hadn't expected and definitely didn't deserve.

The afternoon sun is starting to lower, casting longer shadows across her front yard as Dean emerges from the back porch, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his t-shirt. The movement reveals a strip of golden skin that catches the afternoon light, and even I can appreciate the unconscious confidence in his movements.

"Mailbox looks good," he says with genuine approval. "Professional job."

"Callum did most of the work," I admit.

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