Page 16 of Knot Here for You

I don’t want to watch them move on and live a life without me. Not when I so clearly haven’t. Can’t. It’s taken years to get to where I am today, and I think if I come across a picture of their happy pack, I’ll backslide, all the way to the heartbroken seventeen-year-old girl I was.

No, it’s much better to live in ignorance of everything that has to do with the Werth Pack.

Throwing off my blankets, I stand and stretch, then go to my closet and grab my suitcase.

The best way to avoid thinking about them is to go home to the Kinsella pack, a place that is so full of activity that I can’t possibly linger over memories. Over the realization that the pack has definitely moved on, and I’m still in slow motion.

Rule 4: When in doubt, pretend you don’t know them

My heart beats faster the closer to the city I get, my knuckles whiter, my shoulders more tense.

I wish like hell I didn’t have to do this, to go in person, to sit in on the reading of my grandmother’s will, but it was apparently one of her last requests. If I don’t go, I get nothing. So I guess I don’t have any other choice.

It’s been seven years since I’ve been here. Seven years since I’ve seen the skyline that was once so fucking familiar to me. I didn’t even come back for Gladys’ funeral.

At the start of my drive, I was as relaxed as I could be. The Kinsella pack made sure of that, pampering me for the entire three days I visited. Massages, facials, manicures and pedicures. My blond hair is freshly dyed and my skin is glowing. I managed to keep down almost all the food they plied me with, but with every tire rotation I feel myself tighten up, tension riding my muscles.

By the time I find a parking lot within a few blocks of my grandmother’s lawyer’s office, I’m just one giant knot again. Not the fun kind of knot—the one attached to an alpha’s dick. The really complicated kind. The ones that mysteriously form in a string of Christmas lights after you’ve carefully stored them. The kind that snags in the scarf you’ve been knitting for weeks. The tangle of a muscle fiber in that one spot on your back that you just can’t fucking reach.

I groan as I step out of my car and smooth a hand over my faded black vintage Hidden Rails 1987 tour t-shirt, making sure it’s tucked into my dark high waisted jeans. Maybe I should have worn something a little more formal, but then my grandmother never gave me respect while she was alive. I don’t need to show her it now that she’s dead. It’s not like I’m going to her funeral, just talking to a lawyer.

My low heel black booties click on the sidewalk as I stride down the street. Part of me wants to duck my head, wants to keep my eyes on the cement, just in case I am anywhere near a member of the younger pack Werth. But I keep my chin lifted, even if my eyes don’t really take in my surroundings. I don’t focus on any faces, just keep an eye out for the familiar features of the assholes who broke my heart.

Just as I reach the black steel door frame of the lawyer’s office, my phone vibrates in my bag. I pull it out to see a text from one of my clients. I handle his books year round, and he’s been having trouble with the payment processor I use. Every month, for whatever reason, he can’t pay me electronically. So he ends up sending a check after verifying with me it’s okay.

This is that monthly check in.

I linger on the sidewalk, telling him I’m actually in the city and can swing by in a bit. He sends back a thumbs-up emoji.

Taking a deep breath, I slide the phone into my messenger bag. “Let’s get this over with,” I murmur to myself as I pull open the door.

The interior of the lawyer’s office is just like I expected. Clean, bordering on sterile, with art on the walls that looks like they purchased it at Marshalls or HomeGoods. There are fake potted plants and a bookshelf with what I can only assume are law books lining it. Faux leather chairs line one wall with a low coffee table in front of them.

The woman behind the reception desk looks up and smiles as I approach. “How can I help you?”

I give her my polite smile. “Hi, there. I’m Sylvie Kinsella. I have a meeting with-”

“Holy shit! Is that Vee Benson?”

I turn my head toward the voice. I blink at the familiar woman, recognizing her immediately. Aurora Whitten. We went to high school together before I left. We weren’t exactly friends, but we weren’t unfriendly either. To be honest, I didn’t really try to make friends outside of the five boys I thought would be my pack. Looking back, that was supremely unhealthy.

“Aurie?”

“In the flesh,” she grins at me, showing dimples on either side of her pink lips. Her bright red hair is pulled into some kind of sleek complicated bun, and she’s dressed in a gorgeous light blue suit with a cream colored top corset style top under. I immediately wish that I had taken the time to change before coming here.

She doesn’t seem to notice though as she beams at me. “I can’t believe you’re here! God, it’s been forever.”

I nod, looking between her and the woman behind the reception desk. Aurie must notice because a wrinkle forms between her brows. “Who are you here to see?”

“Mr. Banks, I believe?” I look to the receptionist for confirmation, only she’s looking at me like she’s got some terrible news. And when I look back at Aurie, she’s got a similar expression. My stomach drops. “Oh, no. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing bad,” Aurie rushes to reassure me. “Not really. It’s just that Mr. Banks was called away for an emergency. His wife went into labor. So he’s not here…”

“I was just about to call you to reschedule, Miss Kinsella,” the girl rushes to explain. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to reach you before you came all this way.”

Disappointment hits hard and fast. The last thing I want to do is linger. I’d really hoped I’d be heading back to my little cabin in the woods two hours away by early evening. If his wife is having a baby, I probably won’t be able to see him until tomorrow at the earliest. Which means staying the night or driving home today and then coming back.

Shit.

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