Page 24 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

I gave him a faint smile. “Maybe not to you.”

But I still had everything to prove.

Adrian and I settled into a corner booth in the lobby lounge, warm mugs between us and soft jazz murmuring in the background. It was early enough that the place was quiet, sunlight slanting through the tall windows and catching the steam curling off our drinks.

I leaned back, exhaling. “So... how’s the newly mated man?”

Adrian chuckled. “Karl called last night. Landed in Italy. They’re doing some luxury villa thing on the Amalfi coast. Said Sophie’s already trying to plan another wedding for them over there. Just the two of them, sunset ceremony, Italian string quartet. The works.”

“Sounds like Sophie,” I muttered with a smile. “She never does anything halfway.”

He nodded. “She deserves it.”

There was a beat of comfortable silence, then I sipped my coffee and said, “Speaking of ceremonies... the woman you were dancing with—Olivia, right?”

Adrian didn’t answer right away.

But the small smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth? That was pure, honest, and about as subtle as a flare gun. For a man who normally kept his cards close, it was practically a billboard.

“She’s... yeah. A little wild.”

“Wild?” I grinned. “Adrian, she looked like she could set fire to the dance floor with a wink. And you—you’re practically a lecture in control. Maybe it’s the gods’ way of balancing the two of you.”

He laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck like a teenager caught staring. “Maybe.”

I raised a brow. “You in trouble?”

He gave a dry chuckle but didn’t deny it. Just stared into his coffee like it might give him answers.

Yeah, he was deep in it. That kind of quiet, helpless love you couldn’t admit yet—but couldn’t hide either. I didn’t press. I knew what it felt like to fall hard for someone without knowing if the ground would catch you or break you.

“So,” Adrian said, changing the subject like a good Alpha does when the spotlight gets too bright, “what’s the plan today, chef? Gonna rest those sore feet?”

“Tempting,” I admitted. “But no. I’ve got three apartment viewings lined up.”

He perked up. “Already?”

“Yeah. Found a few affordable places. Nothing fancy. Small. Quiet. Functional.”

“You’re not staying here forever?” he teased.

“Depends. You planning to start charging me rent?”

Adrian smirked. “No, but I was hoping you’d redecorate the lobby while you’re around. Put some of that trust fund taste to good use.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered, sipping my coffee, “the trust fund’s dead, and I’m trying not to live off anyone else anymore. I want something that’s mine. Even if it’s small.”

Adrian nodded, serious now. “You’ll find it.”

I hoped he was right.

Apartment hunting in Blue Springs was like trying to find truffle oil in a gas station—possible, but mostly painful.

The first place was above a laundromat that smelled like mildew and regret. The floorboards creaked with every step, and the ancient heater in the corner groaned like it had one winter left before it gave up completely. The landlord proudly showed me the “open-concept kitchen,” which was really just a microwave on top of a mini fridge and a cracked sink wedged into the wall. “You’re a chef, right? So you’ll barely be home anyway.”

I left before he could show me the “bonus closet that could totally be a second bedroom.”

The second apartment looked decent from the outside—clean brick exterior, decent parking, even a few potted plants by the stairwell that suggested someone, somewhere, gave a damn.

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