Page 20 of Knotted By my Pack

This view? This air? It does something to me.

And not all the town is dull. Some parts are mouthy. Sweet. Soft and sharp at the same time, with eyes that spark when challenged. And lips that part just the tiniest bit when you’re too close.

Cora Bellamy.

She doesn’t even know what’s coming.

And I’m starting to think I’ll enjoy showing her.

Three daysafter settling into the house, I finally start to breathe a little easier.

The furniture’s arriving in batches thanks to Brielle, who, despite being a bossy pain in my ass, knows how to outfit a home better than most interior designers I’ve paid six figures to.

She managed to get my bed, desk, espresso machine, and most of my things onto a freight truck without even sending me a dozen frantic texts. I call that progress.

I’m at my dining table flipping through the site plans for the dock project, sipping strong coffee from a matte black mug, when it hits me.

Shit.

The permit.

I was supposed to swing by and grab it from the assistant mayor today. I shove the plans into a leather folder, grab my keys, and head into town.

Lockwood’s office is a closet with bad lighting, a coffee pot that probably hasn’t been cleaned in weeks, and a photo from his wedding framed on the wall like it was a political campaign.

He’s hesitant as usual, still giving me that suspicious small-town stare.

“You sure about tearing down the docks?” he asks again, scratching at the back of his neck.

“I wrote the cheque, didn’t I?” I hand him the signed papers, lean on his desk, and watch him hesitate. “Ten grand’s a lot for nostalgia.”

His fingers twitch before he signs. “Fine. But you deal with the fallout.”

“I’ve handled worse.”

I walk out with the permit and slide behind the wheel of the truck, flipping on the AC. The sun is sharp today, slicing through the windows.

Main Street is a little busier than usual.

Kids licking ice cream cones, someone walking a mutt with three legs, old women camped on benches, talking like their lives depend on the next sentence.

I park just down the block and walk the rest of the way.

Jonah’s already outside my new office, sleeves rolled up, arms streaked with dust and sun. He’s on a ladder securing the matte black metal sign I had delivered this morning.

It reads “VANCE REAL ESTATE” in clean, bold lettering. Beneath it, “Coastal Development & Strategy.”

My HQ is directly next to Whisked. Jonah gives me a nod, barely acknowledging me before going back to work.

He agreed to the job, but it’s obvious he doesn’t like me. Maybe he doesn’t like what I represent. Change. Disruption. Big city money.

I don’t care.

I stand with one hand in my pocket, going over the list of things I need to finalize before construction can start. Materials, labor schedules, dock demolition orders.

I’m mid-thought when something shifts in the air.

There it is again. That scent. Sugar and citrus, and something warmer underneath. Then I hear her voice.