Page 16 of Knot the Last Chapter

Soft. Sweet. A little spice to her bite. Something just under the surface that would drive an alpha to his knees if he leaned in too close.

I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my forearm and squint up at the trim I’ve been working on for the past hour. It’s straight. Solid. Level. And completely out of focus, because my phone buzzed about thirty seconds ago and I’ve been pretending not to care.

I’m too old for this kind of teenage twitch. I’ve never gotten hung up on a woman before—not really. Sure, there’ve been flings, some warm nights and sweeter mornings. But nothing like this.

Nothing like her.

I grab my phone off the window ledge and unlock it.

If I tell you I tried to write today and ended up alphabetizing my mother’s spice rack instead, will you judge me?

I grin, my chest tightening in that now-familiar way. Something about her voice—even in text—is so sharp and bright it knocks the wind out of me.

Only if you put cumin before chili powder. That’s a war crime.

The dots appear, then vanish. Then appear again. I picture her sitting somewhere with a cup of tea and a laptop she’s ignoring. Bare feet tucked under her. Maybe wearing one of those big soft cardigans omegas always seem to disappear inside when they’re thinking too hard.

God, I want to see her. Want to smell her.

The thought is dangerous, and I shove it back down.

She doesn’t know me. Not really. And I don’t know her—except I do. In flashes and shadows. In every clever reply, every vulnerable sentence she slips past her guard. I can almost see her through the phone.

And I still wonder if I already have.

Lila Quinn. Five years younger than me, sister of a quiet alpha named Jake who used to sit behind me in high school math. She’d come to school dances once or twice, small and sharp-eyed and constantly scribbling in a notebook. The kind of kid who hated being called “kid.”

The last time I saw her, she was a teen.

But this? This Lila?

This isn’t a kid.

This is a woman who broke open and rebuilt herself. Who makes me laugh out loud while I’m elbow-deep in drywall and makes me ache with one offhanded comment about the smell of old bookstores.

I don’t know if it’s her, but the name’s right. And when I close my eyes and imagine that girl grown up, mouth full of fire and fingers full of stories… it lines up a little too well.

Still. No pressure. She’s skittish. Careful.

I get it. Hell, I respect it.

But I want to see her. So I try to be casual.

Real question. You ever go to the Cherry Blossom Festival?

She replies fast this time.

Of course. Grew up here. I used to sneak out to drink warm lemonade and throw petals at boys.

I smile. My chest warms.

Same. Though I was more of a funnel cake and pocketknife kind of guy.

I can read her smile in her reply:I knew you were trouble.

Only the charming kind.

A beat before I continue.