Page 7 of Knot the Last Chapter

The second one gets my attention first. Always does.

Bit of a rough day. Grave visit. Lemon bars pending.

I read it twice. My thumb hovers. Then I type:

Those times are tough. You deserve lemon bars. And maybe a chapter or two. Sending all the strength in the world.

The screen glows in my hand, waiting. There’s always a moment after I send something where I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. If she’ll ghost me. If the spell will break.

But then:Thanks, Pine. I needed that. And I’m working on those chapters, I promise!

I grin. God help me, I don’t even know her name.

She came into my life on a random Tuesday with a text about hiding a body in the lake, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since. I know it’s probably not smart—maybe even a little sad—but it’s the best part of my day.

I know a few things. I know she’s a writer. Or trying to be. I know she lost her dad. I know she’s clever, sharp, funny, and doesn’t text with too many emojis. I like that about her.

I’m a handyman, not a detective, but Starling Grove isn’t a big place. There’s only so many people she could be, and I’m pretty sure I know who she is.Lila Quinn.Younger sister of Jake, who used to hang out with us before we’d drifted apart.

I’d always had a thing for Lila, but she’d left Starling Grove with big city dreams, and I hadn’t seen her in years. I’m imagining what she might look like now,ifthis is her, and I’m loving every curve, the wild brown hair, the thoughtful eyes. I want to ask her, but I don’t want to scare her off.

The fact that she writes, though…It’s got to be her.

I want to ask, but I also like the mystery. I like the space between us, strange as that sounds. It’s clean. Simple. I don’t have to be anything other than honest in these little text bubbles. I don’t have to explain who I am or how long it’s been since I stopped trying to fit the alpha mold the way some folks think I should.

I take a sip of lukewarm coffee from my thermos and glance up at the sky. Clouds gathering—fast and grumpy. Storm’s coming.

I shoot off a quick reply.

Forecast says thunder later. Don’t let it scare your plot bunnies away.

She doesn’t answer right away. That’s fine. She doesn’t owe me anything. I tuck the phone away and get back to measuring planks and ignoring Mrs. Kendrick’s surveillance.

Hammer, nail, measure again.

By midafternoon, the storm breaks. Wind, then sharp rain, then thunder so loud it rattles my teeth. I duck into the open garage and wait it out, watching sheets of water hammer the driveway. It smells like wet wood and ozone and damp dust.

My phone buzzes.

Plot bunnies are scared, but I bribed them with lemon bars. I think they’ll forgive me, eventually.

I laugh out loud. Probably too loud, because a cat darts out from under the workbench like it’s escaping the apocalypse.

I stare down at the screen, thumb hesitating over the keyboard.

I want to ask her name. I want to tell her mine. I want to find a way to keep this going without tipping it into something she doesn’t want.

But instead, I just type:

If you ever need someone to read a chapter, I volunteer. I promise only mild constructive criticism and a steady supply of snacks.

This time, the reply is instant:What kind of snacks?

Trail mix. Gummy bears. Possibly a morally questionable number of mini pretzels.

You drive a hard bargain, Pine.

What can I say? I take stories and snacks very seriously.