Page 54 of Knotting the Cowboys

Cole's hand moves like he's going to reach for me, then returns to the wheel.

The almost-touch burns more than contact would have.

The feed store bags thump against the truck bed with each pothole, a percussion section to Wendolyn's endless monologue about which families have been feuding since the Nixon administration.

I try to focus on her words, on the mundane gossip that should ground me in normalcy, but my thigh still burns where Cole's hand rested, even though it was hours since we arrived and got down to business.

Even through the denim, I swear I can feel the exact outline of his fingers, branded into my skin like a claim I'm not ready to examine.

I swear I’m going insane…

"—and then Margaret's prize heifer got into Paul's alfalfa field, and well, you can imagine the fireworks after that," Wendolyn continues from the backseat, apparently unbothered by my minimal responses. "Though personally, I think they're both being ridiculous. It's been three years!"

Cole's driving has shifted from the focused intensity of earlier to something more relaxed, one hand draped over the wheel while the other rests on the center console.

Close enough that I could touch if I were brave.

Just a few centimeters that every breath brings his scent—pine and leather and something indefinably male that makes my inner Omega self want to purr despite my best efforts to silence her.

When was the last time I even purred for an Alpha. ?

I can’t even remember making the sound for the Iron Ridge Pack…let alone Blake himself, the orchestrator of that relationship.

Main Street unfolds before us like a postcard that's trying too hard. Storefronts painted in jewel tones—emerald, sapphire, amethyst—catch the afternoon light, their windows gleaming with small-town pride. Hanging baskets overflow with chrysanthemums and ornamental kale, defying October's chill with bursts of copper and purple. Wrought-iron benches line the sidewalks, each bearing a brass plaque: "In Memory of..." "Donated by..." "For Our Beloved..."

It's aggressively charming, this main street, like the whole town got together and decided to cosplay as a Hallmark movie. But underneath the fresh paint and careful maintenance, I catch glimpses of what it costs to keep up appearances. A crack in the sidewalk hastily patched. A storefront with a "Coming Soon!" sign that's faded from seasons of false promises. The way people's waves at Cole's truck carry a weight of expectation, like they're cataloging who he's with and why.

"There it is!" Wendolyn practically bounces as we pull up to a Victorian house converted into commercial space. "Wildflower & Wren" is painted in flowing script above windows dressed for autumn with paper leaves and tiny pumpkins. "I still can't believe it's really mine sometimes."

The building is painted a soft lavender with white trim, feminine without being cloying. Window boxes burst with trailing ivy and late-blooming petunias. Through the glass, I glimpse warm light and the promised merger of books and café that seems almost too perfect to exist in a town this small.

Cole exits first, circling the truck with that controlled grace that makes my mouth dry. When he opens my door, his hand is there again—offered, not demanded.

I take it, letting him steady me onto the sidewalk, trying not to notice how his thumb brushes my pulse point before letting go.

"After you," he says, one hand finding the small of my back as we follow Wendolyn inside. The touch is light, barely there through my sweater, but it might as well be a brand for how aware I am of each finger's placement.

The shop's interior assaults my senses in the best way. Coffee—rich and dark—mingles with vanilla and cinnamon from whatever's baking in the café section. But underneath flows the deeper scent of books: old paper and binding glue, fresh ink from new releases, the indefinable smell of stories waiting to be discovered. It wraps around me like a familiar embrace, and for the first time since arriving in Sweetwater Falls, I feel something in my chest unclench.

The familiarity of being back in such a cozy space gives me an odd sense of peace.

"Welcome to my kingdom," Wendolyn says with a flourish, green eyes bright with pride and something like nervousness. "Books on this side, café over there, and my apartment's upstairs, though that's not part of the tour unless you're into organized chaos."

Floor-to-ceiling shelves create an intimate maze, each section marked with hand-painted signs in Wendolyn's flowing script. "Romance Heroes Worth Swooning Over." "Mysteries to Keep You Up Past Bedtime." "Self-Help for When You Can't Help Yourself." The humor makes me smile despite myself. It’s even funnier to see Cole’s confusion as he’s trying to understand it all.

"Nice," Cole tells her honestly. I bet he’s seen the place before, but maybe didn’t know it belonged to Wendolyn. "How long have you been open?"

"Just over a year." She glows under the praise, copper hair catching the warm light from vintage fixtures. "Left my corporate marketing job in Denver after a spectacular breakup and decided to follow a dream instead of a man,” I can tell she’s exaggerating, but I guess it’s more to entertain us than to go into the dramatics and past she probably doesn’t like to tell many about. “Obviously, the firefighter stuff was a bonus, but yeah. Investing in my dream shop was the best decision I ever made, even if some folks think I'm crazy for trying to make a bookshop work in a town this size."

Cole positions himself near the door, hands loose at his sides, but eyes constantly scanning. It should make me feel trapped, this protective watching, but instead I feel... safe. Like whatever threats exist in the world, they'll have to go through him first.

The thought sends an inappropriate thrill through me that I ruthlessly suppress.

"These are my babies," Wendolyn says, leading us to a climate-controlled case. "First editions, signed copies, a few manuscripts that probably shouldn't exist outside private collections but somehow ended up in estate sales."

She opens the case with reverent hands, pulling out a cloth-wrapped volume.

"Pride and Prejudice, first edition. Found it in a box of romance novels at a yard sale. The woman selling it had no idea what she had."

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