A/N: Hello, dear reader! You've stumbled upon my story! So thanks for that. I hope you enjoy this little introductory chapter with more on the way. If you like it, I'd love it if you'd leave me some feedback on your way out!

Happy New Year!

xxsb

I'm not sure how long the phone was ringing before I realized what the noise was and picked the damned thing up. I could say that this is a rare occurrence, but to do so would be to tell a lie. I do this often. I get engrossed and thus become unresponsive to all external stimuli. It might not be a bad idea to rig the phone to some neon lights. Maybe a bear horn.

"Hello? Er, Campbell Restorations?"

"Still not embracing the administrative side of the business, I see?"

"Fuck off, Cook. What's up?"

"Cool your jets. I found you some work, sugar lumps. A nice big project with all sorts of little headaches and pain-in-the-ass impossibilities. Just your type."

"Oh yeah? What've you got? And don't call me sugar lumps or—"

"Empty threats, dove. It's a theater. Bristol. Old, smelly, dirty. Your favorite."

"You really are the worst. But I'm in a decent mood, so give me the number and I'll pretend to forget what a dickhead you are."

"Already texted it to you."

"Oh. Thanks, then."

"Don't mention it, my radiant, glowing, magnifi—"

"Goodbye, Cook."

I hang up the phone and toss it back onto my desk before heading back over to my work. It's gotten dark sooner than I expected. I switch on the work lights and pick up my rag again when I hear faint footsteps behind me.

"Are you coming to tell me something?" I ask, turning around to find my dog, Carter, giving me the "you know what time it is" look.

"Right, right. It's time to feed the dog."

He barks his affirmation."

"Alright. You win. We'll call It a night."

I lock up the shed and walk with Carter back to the house. "You're terrible for business, you know. I'm never going to get those columns done at this rate."

xxxx

"Carter, would you get me the box?"

He cocks his head a bit and gives me a questioning look from his chair."

"You heard me. The box. It's in the mud room."

He makes a noise that I assume is the canine equivalent of "Harrrumph" and jumps off the armchair, bounding into the other room.

I'm hunched over the coffee table, with a dropcloth taped to its surface and another spread on the floor beneath it. Carter comes trotting back into the room with the leather handle of my box in his mouth. I take it from him and set it on the ground next to me.

"Good boy, Carter."

He barks and wags his tail.

"Alright." I give in quickly and open the box and grab a treat for him out of the top compartment. "Here you go. You've earned your keep." I toss the treat to him and he jumps back into his chair with it.

I root around in the box for a minute before wrapping my fingers around the handle of the tool I'm searching for.

I'm restoring an old wardrobe, currently. Picked it up from an acquaintance whose aunt had left him the house in her will when she died. It's gorgeous. 6 feet tall, chestnut, patterns on the doors and top. Excellent. At least, it was. And it will be again, soon. Right now I've got the crown of the piece on my coffee table. It's rather large and it's in rough shape. Someone attempted to restore it long ago and did so quite unsuccessfully. The aging finish has been painted over, and someone put a polyurethane seal on it. A big mistake, but nothing I can't fix. I did the last round of paint thinner on the paint and poly a few days ago and now I'm working on breaking down the stubborn bits of the original finish that are stuck in the crevices of the crown detailing.

I'm about to take the wood chisel to a particularly tough bit of sloppily applied finish when the phone rings again. Frustrated by the interruption, I drop the chisel back into the box and pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Me again, sweetums."

"Give it a rest, Cook."

"Alright. Someone's grumpy. Have you eaten today?"

"Yeah. 'Course. I ate some, er, well I had a bit of a sandwich."

"Right. And when was that?"

"Around nine."

"A.m.?"

"No, genius. 2 hours in the future. Yes, a.m."

"Jesus, Naomi. I've told you a thousand times, you've got to take a break from that work long enough to eat, at least."

"I know, it just slipped my mind."

"Right. Tell me you at least fed your dog."

"Of course. What kind of person do you think I am?"

"Just forgetful, Naoms. Just forgetful. Anyway. I'm going to go for take away and bring it to yours. Don't argue because I'm hanging up. Bye!"

He hangs up.

"Great. Excellent. Looks like we're getting company tonight, Carter."

xxxx

"'Evening, snookums." Cook grins and holds up a brown paper bag. "I come bearing meatball subs and cheeseburger soup." He steps through the door and into the house before depositing the bag into my arms and greeting carter with enthusiasm.

"How's my good buddy, huh? Keeping blondie in line?"

Carter barks his response.

"Excellent. No pooch better than you, Carty."

Cook follows me into the kitchen.

"Would you get the plates down?" I ask him.

"Plates? You're joking, right? Take away means no dishes. We eat it as is. Now go sit at the table while I grab the beer."

I shrug and take a seat as instructed.

"Did you call that theater yet?" He asks from inside the fridge.

"No. Not yet."

"Well what are waiting for? This place is perfect. And by perfect, I mean it's a disaster. Just like y—I mean, just your speed."

"Gee thanks, arseface. I'll be getting right on it, then." I can't deny myself an eyeroll as I open the beer Cook's set in front of me.

"You know what I mean."

"I know that you're a git with an atrocious attitude and an even worse personality."

"Ouch. Cut me deep there, Naoms. You know I just want good things for you. And being a pain in your arse is the best way I know to give you a nudge in the right direction."

"Christ, Cook. Way to get serious before we're even a few sips in. But I know. And you know that even though I think you're a git, I know there's a decent human being in there somewhere."

"Not likely," he grins. "But thanks anyway."

"New topic, why were you in Bristol in the first place?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Just visiting. Gloucester gets boring as shit, you know that."

"Right. Visiting anyone in particular?"

He smirks, "Maybe. Kind of. A bit. I dunno." He seems to be blushing a bit.

Cook is like family. To see him get flushed and goofy about a girl is obviously amusing.

"Well, spit it out. Who is she?"

He sits back and takes a long sip of his drink. "Her name is Katie. I went to school with her. Ages before I knew you. I was a real shit back then. I'm surprised she'll even speak to me. It's been ages since I'd seen her and then about a month ago I bumped into her at a mutual friend's get-together." He sighs and scratches the back of his head roughly. "And, well, I've gone back a few times since to meet up with her for coffee and such."

"I see. That's great, Cook."

"Anyway," he presses on, looking nervous, "she's just inherited this big theater from some rich Fitch uncle." He notices my questioning look. "Their name is Fitch. They as in Katie and her sister. They own the place. Christ, that was a mess of an explanation." He's rambling. "Katie and her sister own the theater and it's a mess and that's where we—I mean, you—come in. Because you're great and it will look good and I'll—"

"Got it. Take a breath, Cook." I take a drink and a moment to think. "So you want me to swoop in and impress your girlfriend for you?"

"Potential girlfriend. If I'm lucky. I was kind of hoping you might let me help."

"Are you mad? You help me? A theater? In Bristol?"

"Come on, Naoms. It's got potential to be a beautiful place. And it's big. You're going to need the extra hands. And I'm not totally worthless, you know!"

He looks desperate. I can tell this means a lot to him. I think the fact that he wants me to impress his girlfriend for him is shit but mostly amusing.

"Alright. I'll think about it."

He breathes out a sigh of relief. "Thank God. I love you, Naomi. Seriously, you are the fucking tip-top."

"Yeah, I know. Now are we going to eat this food or watch it get cold?"