Page 42 of Knot So Slick (Select-A-Mate #1)

BOONE

Oh, my god.

The sight stops me short, and for a moment, all I can do is stare. But then it hits me—the sheer audacity of Remi’s sense of humor.

Laughter erupts from me, sudden and reckless, rising up from somewhere deep and untended. I laugh so hard my stomach aches, the sound ricocheting through the room, wild and bright and absolutely free.

There’s no holding back; I double over, gasping, tears pricking my eyes, caught between disbelief and delight at the wicked cleverness of it. For a second, all the heaviness dissolves, leaving only joy and the lingering echo of Remi’s mischief.

Black tulips.

With a ribbon that says, “Sorry for your loss.”

On the back of the card, I laugh even harder at what I see.

Guys,

Fuck off.

Not Yours,

Remi.

Knox steps into the room, his easy stride faltering as he catches sight of the flowers perched with improbable grandeur on the table.

For a heartbeat, he is motionless—a figure suspended between one moment and the next, brows knitting in bemusement as his gaze sweeps over the extravagant arrangement.

The dark, inky tulips, lush and funereal, stand in stark contrast to the soft light pooling through the window, their presence both striking and inexplicably ominous.

He moves closer, eyes narrowing as he takes in the details: the bold sweep of the black ribbon, the ironic script twining through it, the sheer audacity of the display.

Confusion flickers across his face, shading into wary amusement as he circles the vase, searching for context, for a reason, for some hidden meaning in the somber blooms. He reaches out, fingertips hovering above a petal, as if half-expecting them to vanish at his touch, and then lets out a slow, incredulous breath—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—still not quite sure whether this is a joke, a message, or both.

“So, she has jokes,” he says, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “I knew she had it in her.”

“What’s this all about?” I inquire, sliding my fingers over the silk ribbon.

“I sent her flowers today, asking if she wanted to come to dinner at our house. This is her refusal.”

I chuckle. “Oh, really?”

He nods, his hand ghosting over the petals of the flower arrangement, but not quite touching them. It’s like he’s treating them reverently. Special. Even though they’re black funeral flowers, he practically glows from within.

As I stand over the vase of inky black tulips, their petals dark as midnight and their ribbon etched with a note of finality, I can’t help but replay every beat of the day in my mind.

The laughter still shivers at the edges of my ribs, reluctant to fade, yet beneath it, a quiet ache takes root.

She refused—cleverly, unmistakably—but in a way that could only be hers.

Not a cold wall, not silence, but a flash of wit, a flare of personality that leaves me both stung and strangely comforted.

I weigh the gesture, searching for what sits just beneath the surface, for the meaning she stitched into every detail.

There is rejection, yes, but also an invitation to see her as she truly is: unafraid to speak her mind, unwilling to let anyone define the rules but herself.

Her refusal is a declaration, sharp and playful, and I sense the door is not entirely closed—perhaps only cracked, daring us to try again, to match her honesty with my own.

The ache of disappointment mingles with a reluctant admiration. Knox wanted her to say yes, to step into the uncertain warmth of his offer. Instead, she has handed us a new mystery, one wrapped in humor and daring.

I find myself wondering if this is a test, a shield, or maybe just the only way she knows how to say she isn’t ready yet.

I replay the memory of her name on the card, the flourish of her refusal, and realize that even in denial, she leaves me wanting more—more of her laughter, more of her light, more of the disarming truth she wields with every word.

“Then ... let’s take the dinner to her?” My words are more of a question than a statement.

Knox’s eyes meet mine, shimmering devilishly. “Sounds like a good plan to me. Make sure our omega is fed and comfortable.”

We move instinctively, as if the unspoken plan has already unfolded in our minds. Knox is the first to snap into action, rolling up his sleeves and crossing to the front room with purpose.

“We’ll need something that travels well. Lasagna? Or—wait—she likes Thai, right?”

I grin, caught up in the gentle chaos of his enthusiasm. “How do you know she likes Thai?” I give him a look, to which he barely gives me a glance in return. “You know what ... never mind. Stupid question. Let’s do lasagna. It’s comfort food, but with enough flair to make an impression.”

Knox nods, making his way through the house until he’s in the kitchen.

He opens drawers and slams cabinets, trying to find what he’s looking for.

His focus shifts to ingredient lists and mental inventories.

Knox has always been a good cook. Eating his cooking is no hardship for me. I can’t wait to devour his lasagna.

“We’ll need to stop by the market. Get fresh noodles. Maybe a triple chocolate cake for dessert?”

The ease between us is a quiet current, a shared intention flickering beneath the practical details.

We trade ideas, each one another step toward bridging the distance Remi drew.

My phone is buzzing with a grocery list, Knox’s voice hums with anticipation as he paces the kitchen, mapping out the path from here to her door.

He’s always been a planner, but even he’s taking it to the next level this time.

The faint creak of the front door interrupts our planning.

Tripp steps inside, shirt askew and hair mussed from the wind, dropping his bookbag beside the hall table.

He pauses, catching the scent of possibility in the air.

He makes his way to the kitchen, coming around the island, his gaze flicking between Knox and me, then landing on the black bouquet with a low whistle.

“Did someone die, or are we about to?” he jokes, but there’s a warmth in his eyes, a welcome intrusion into our scheming.

He shrugs off his jacket, rolling his shoulders, and steps farther into the light. His fingers run over the ribbon as he reads the card. A low chuckle leaves his lips as he peers up at us in happiness.

Knox waves him over hurriedly. “Dinner plans. We’re taking the dinner to Remi.”

Tripp’s brows shoot up, a slow grin curving his lips. “About time we make a move. Need some help?”

We do, and he’s already washing up, sleeves rolled, ready to join the fray—three conspirators rallying beneath the oddest banner: black tulips and the stubborn hope of a shared table, wherever it might be set tonight.

After I make a run to the market and come back, we’re well on our way to preparing dinner for our omega. The smells inside the house are infusing into our pores, causing me to salivate. It smells delicious. I know it will be, and I hope Remi thinks so too.

Calling a car, we make our way out with the lasagna, dessert, and a side salad. Each of us holds one dish, being as careful as humanly possible. We don’t want to ruin anything because this is step two in the process of gaining favor with Remi.

The cold evening air nips at our cheeks as we step out of the car, arms laden with careful stacks of dinner and hope.

Knox leads the way, his stride just a little too quick, the foil-wrapped lasagna clasped like a treasure.

Tripp balances the cake box in both hands, grins at me, and issues an unspoken dare to keep the side salad upright.

The driveway’s lamps glow golden, pooling around the familiar shape of Remi’s car.

Relief—sharp and bright—fizzes in my chest.

“She’s home,” Knox murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips, and Tripp lets out a quiet whoop, his enthusiasm barely contained. For a second, we pause near the steps, the three of us a mismatched trio haloed by porchlight, almost giddy with anticipation.

We exchange a glance, united by the simple, buoyant knowledge that she is here. Together, we climb the steps, each dish held steady, careful not to spill even a shred of effort— a procession of hope and nervous laughter, carrying dinner to Remi’s door.

Knoxx balances the lasagna on one hand and raises the other to knock. For several minutes, we stand there in comfortable silence.

Remi can turn us away. She can take one look at who is on the other side of her door, shake her head, and dismiss us like we’re nothing.

I wouldn’t blame her, either. In fact, I’d commend her for standing up for herself.

She’s shown so much courage and strength in the last few days that I’m in awe of who she is as a person.

Knox raps his knuckles against the door once more, this time a little firmer.

It's less out of impatience than a need to reassure himself that she’s truly here, that we haven’t arrived with our arms full of hope and carbs only to be left standing in the cold.

The sound echoes through the entryway, and as the seconds tick by, my heart ratchets higher into my throat.

I shift my footing, suddenly all too aware of the shallow rhythm of my breath and the way my hands flex around the salad bowl, knuckles whitening.

Each moment that passes without footsteps on the other side feels like another stone sinking in my stomach.

What if she’s just out of earshot? What if she saw us from a window and decided she wasn’t ready, that tonight is not the night for second chances or olive branches wrapped in foil?

Tripp nudges me with an elbow, the ghost of a grin faltering as even he senses my growing unease.

Knox glances back, his brow furrowed, searching my face for a sign—any sign—that we’re not frozen here on her porch, balanced precariously between hope and regret.

My nerves spark and tangle with every silent second, until the only thing I can hear is my own pulse thudding in my ears, waiting, waiting, waiting for Remi’s answer.

Then, that’s when I hear it, the tiny shuffle of feet across her hardwood floors.

Relief expands inside my chest, quickly followed by a smile.

My cheeks hurt so much from smiling, but I can’t seem to help myself.

It’s Remi on the other side of this door, and I can’t wait to see her, to get my Remi fix.

It's already dark outside, due to the fast-approaching winter season. For all we know, she could’ve been in bed getting settled for the night. I know she likes to read. So do I. She was probably in bed reading her book and snuggling in.

Oh, what a sight that would be. I can just imagine lying by her feet, shooting a look at her every now and then as we both read our choice of book. The thought of it nearly makes me weep with want. Nothing else sounds even remotely better than just being in her presence.

The door opens with a slow, hesitant creak, spilling a wedge of warm light onto the porch.

Remi stands in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the soft glow behind her, hair tousled, a book still in hand as if she’s only just been pulled from the world of its pages.

Her eyes flick over each of us—steady, searching, and then, to my astonishment, softening at the corners before she realizes herself and hardens.

An electric charge ripples through the space between us.

All at once, the air changes. It’s more than the comforting aroma of baked cheese and garlic rising from our dishes—it’s Remi, and something heady and unmistakable radiates from her, turning the air thick, spiced, magnetic.

It’s a scent that feels like warmth and want, earthy and bright, a note that hits the back of my throat and makes my mouth go dry with anticipation.

It’s dizzying, this silent, shared awareness—how we’re drawn suddenly, hungrily, to the presence of her, how just standing here, breathing her in, feels like a promise and a challenge all at once.

I see Tripp swallow, Knox’s grip tighten around the edges of the pan, and I know, without a word passing between us, that we are all helplessly, hopelessly receptive to the gravity of Remi—her courage, her vulnerability, her undeniable allure.

And the scent that drifts off her is a scent I know all too well. It’s the same scent she had when she opened the door to Knox and me the other night. She was doused in Tripp’s scent, but there was no mistaking the underlying scent just below his.

She’s aroused. Heavily aroused.

Her cheeks have a dusting of pink, and there’s a sheen of sweat on her skin, especially at the base of her throat. My eyes take in every inch of her, from her tousled hair to her pink, terry cloth robe, down to her bare feet.

My nostrils flare once more, dragging in her scent. A rumbling growl reverberates inside my chest as I lock eyes with her. The flush deepens, and she breaks eye contact, looking away in embarrassment.

She shouldn’t be embarrassed. She should be afraid. Very afraid.

It’s going to take everything inside of me not to grab her up, sling her over my shoulder, and take her back to her bedroom to finish what she started with my tongue.

“Naughty girl,” I whisper, watching with extreme satisfaction as her eyes dart back to mine, wide and dilated with arousal.