Fix What’s Broken
© Luciana Rielle 2026. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the author’s written permission.
CALEB
“Hello, this is Iron & Oak Handyman Services. How may we help you today?” Miranda chirped into the phone the second I stepped through the doors.
I turned toward her. She started to smile then it wiped clean off her face, replaced by pure exasperation. Without a word, I knew exactly who was on the line.
“Lindsey, I’ve said this more times than I can count, stop calling the company line…” Miranda trailed off, shooting me a look. I shook my head. “Mr. Rowe is not available. Yes, yes, he hasn’t arrived yet.”
A pause.
Miranda’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean you saw him enter the building? Are you stalking him?”
I ran a hand down my face. This was getting beyond tiresome.
Lindsey, my ex-fiancée of exactly two months, was the reason Miranda looked like that. The guys had warned me early on, crazy eyes, they’d said. I’d laughed.
Then came date three.
I brought her home while Roland was at a sleepover. I turned my back for two minutes—two—and when I came back, the framed photo of me, my late wife, and our kid lay shattered on the floor. Glass everywhere.
When I asked what happened, she blinked and said, “I don’t know.”
Like the picture had thrown itself off the wall.
Never again.
Miranda hung up with a dramatic sigh and muttered, “Girl needs a hobby that isn’t felony-level obsession.” She spun her chair toward me. “You’re welcome. Again. One of these days, I’m whooping that girl's ass for real.”
“Thanks, Miranda.” I managed a half-smile. “You’re a saint.”
“Tell my husband that. He thinks I’m a dictator.” She winked. “Go hide in your office before she circles back with binoculars.”
I didn’t argue. I pushed through the door to my office, dropped into the worn leather chair, and let out a long breath.
The framed photo on my desk stared back at me—Roland and me at the county fair last summer. His grin was huge, cotton candy smeared on his cheek. My thumb brushed the edge of the frame. Seven years old now, and every day he looked more like his mom. Same bright eyes. Same stubborn chin.
I powered on the computer, the Iron & Oak logo blooming across the screen.
This place had saved me.
After Jenna died, a car accident, gone in an instant, I’d been too gutted to do much of anything.
I couldn't work my old construction job. Couldn’t look at blueprints without seeing her handwriting in the margins of our house plans.
Then one day, Mrs. Alvarez next door had a leaking ceiling. I fixed it. Just to feel useful.
Word spread. A few more jobs followed. Then Jaxon, Miles, Noah, and Kaiden, my college buddies who’d stuck around through the worst said, “Let’s make it official.”
Iron & Oak was born.
Five guys. One rule: fix what’s broken. No drama.
(Ha. Tell that to Lindsey.)
The booking calendar loaded. Solid week ahead, roof patch in town, electrical work in the new subdivision, custom shelving for the bakery.
Good. Busy kept the thoughts quiet.
My phone buzzed. Jaxon.
I hit speaker. “Yeah?”
“Boss man,” Jaxon’s deep rumble came through. “You at the office? I’m on site at the Miller place. Structural beam’s worse than we thought. Gonna need Miles’ eyes on the wiring before we demo.”
Miles’ voice cut in from somewhere close—probably the break room a few feet away. “Already on it. And Caleb, I’m billing you overtime for your ass not being here to hold his hand.”
I snorted. “I’m here. Just got in. What’s the damage?”
“Beam’s cracked like an egg,” Jaxon said. “Owner’s freaking out about the timeline. I told her we’ve got it, but she wants you.”
“Translation,” Miles added, “she wants to flirt with the boss. Again.”
“Shut up,” I said, though there was no heat in it.
These guys were my lifeline, Jaxon the muscle, Miles the brain, Noah the charm, Kaiden the artist. We’d built this from nothing, and somehow, it worked.
“Drinks tonight?” Jaxon asked. “Rusty Nail?”
“I’m in,” Miles said. “Need to wash the crazy off after dealing with that HOA lady yesterday.”
“Count me in,” I said. “One beer. Maybe two.”
“Pussy,” Jaxon teased.
“Dad life,” I shot back. “Some of us have bedtimes to enforce.”
They groaned in mock sympathy. We bullshitted a bit more about job updates, then I hung up.
The office fell quiet again. Just me, the hum of the computer, and the photo.
I rubbed my eyes and dove back into emails.
Hours blurred. When I finally glanced at the clock, it read 3:00 p.m.
Pickup time.
I grabbed my keys and headed out. Haven Creek Elementary was only ten minutes away, small-town perks. Rain had started again, that typical Oregon drizzle, turning the roads slick and the air heavy with the scent of pine.
Roland was waiting under the awning, backpack nearly bigger than he was, bouncing on his toes. The second he saw me, his face lit up like Christmas.
“Dad! Guess what? We learned about volcanoes today! And I drew one that erupts chocolate lava!”
I laughed, ruffling his hair as he climbed into the truck. “Chocolate lava? Sounds delicious. Way better than boring magma.”
“Right? Mrs. Thompson said it was creative. She gave me a sticker!” He held up a shiny star. “Can we get ice cream? Pleeeease? I earned it.”
“Homework first, champ. Then maybe.”
He groaned dramatically but launched into a nonstop recap of his day, volcanoes, recess kickball victory, the girl who traded him half a granola bar for his apple.
I drove, nodding, asking questions, soaking it in. These rides were my favorite part of the day. Just us. No jobs. No exes. No ghosts.
We turned onto the long gravel drive to our place, a big old farmhouse on ten acres outside Haven Creek. White siding, wraparound porch, red barn out back. Jenna had loved it. We’d bought it right after Roland was born.
Now it was home even if it still echoed sometimes.
Roland hopped out the second I parked, racing toward the porch. I grabbed his backpack and followed then froze.
A gray sedan sat in front of the Alvarez place next door.
The Alvarezes had left for Florida two weeks ago. No one had mentioned a house-sitter.
Unease curled in my gut.
Then a scream tore through the air—sharp, panicked, female.
My keys hit the ground.
“Roland, inside. Now,” I barked, already moving toward the neighbor’s door.
He stared at me, wide-eyed. “Dad?”
“Now!”
The scream came again—louder. Desperate.
I sprinted across the wet grass, heart slamming, every instinct screaming trouble.
