Page 23 of Knot on the Market

On the other hand, the books are practical. She needs information about home renovation, and I happen to find more after she left. The poetry book is... less practical, but I have a feeling she might appreciate words that aren't about fixing things.

I've read that particular poem about building something beautiful from broken pieces at least a dozen times since I pulled it from the shelf. There's something about the metaphor that feels right for someone who's starting over in a place where no one knows her story. Something about the way it talks about strength through transformation rather than despite it.

If I'm being honest with myself, which I'm trying to be, despite how uncomfortable it makes me, the books are an excuse. What I really want is to understand what makes her feel safe, what makes her laugh, what she thinks about when she's alone in that house she's trying to make into a home. I want to know if she likes her coffee black or with cream, if she reads before bed, if she's the kind of person who talks through problems or needs silence to process them.

I want to know everything about her, which is exactly the kind of thinking that drove my ex away and exactly why I should probably keep my distance.

"I'm heading out," I announce, closing the laptop and gathering my things with perhaps more abruptness than necessary. I wrap the books carefully in brown paper, not because they need protection, but because there's something about a wrapped package that suggests intention rather than impulse.

"Those books going somewhere specific?" Levi asks with barely concealed amusement.

"Just returning something I borrowed," I lie.

"Uh-huh. Well, if you happen to see Lila while you're 'returning' things, you should know Dean came by an hour ago grinning like an idiot. Apparently he asked her to dinner." Levi's expression turns thoughtful. "As friends, he was very careful to specify. Seemed to think that was important information to share."

Something uncomfortable settles in my chest at the news, though I can't quite identify whether it's jealousy or something more complex. Dean is exactly what most omegas want. Straightforward, caring, the kind of alpha who doesn't complicate things with too many questions or expectations. The kind of alpha my ex chose when she decided I wasn't enough.

If Lila is looking for simple and healing, Dean is the obvious choice. Dean doesn't come with the baggage of being rejected by an entire pack for being too analytical, too controlling, too much of everything no one actually wants in an alpha.

And maybe that's what she needs. Maybe Dean's straightforward approach is exactly what someone should choose, instead of getting tangled up with someone who over thinks every interaction and wants to understand every thought.

But she didn't seem entirely comfortable with simple when she was standing close enough for me to count the freckles across her nose. She stepped back from me, yes, but her scent told a different story than her body language. Her scent said she was interested, intrigued, maybe even a little breathless.

Her scent said she was exactly as affected by my proximity as I was by hers.

"Good for Dean," I say, which is mostly true. Dean deserves someone who appreciates his straightforward approach to caring for people. And if Lila chooses that path, it'll be the right choice for her.

The fact that it might not be the right choice for me is irrelevant.

"Julian," Levi says as I reach for the door handle. "For what it's worth, I think she notices more than she lets on. The way she kept glancing back at you while I was ringing her up... that wasn't casual curiosity."

I don't respond, but the observation follows me out into the early evening air.

The walk to Lila's neighborhood gives me time to second-guess this decision at least three times. The books feel heavier with each step, not because of their weight but because of what they represent. Another step toward something I'm not sure I'm ready for.

But I keep walking, past the familiar streets and toward the part of town where someone is trying to build a new life from scratch.

The Anderson place sits on its small lot, small and neat with good bones hidden under cosmetic problems. Someone's been working on the yard, the grass is trimmed and the walkway cleared of debris. The mailbox is lying sideways in the grass, but there's something endearing about the evidence of her priorities. Inside first, aesthetics later.

Smart approach for someone learning to fix a house on her own.

I'm halfway up the front walk when her scent hits me properly for the first time today.

It's stronger here, where she's been living and sleeping and moving through space without the overlay of other people's presence. Green apples and white musk, yes, but also something I couldn't identify in the bookstore—a warm, honey-like note that speaks of contentment, of someone who's found a place that feels like it might become home.

The combination is intoxicating in ways I'm not prepared for. My steps slow involuntarily as the scent wraps around me, as my body responds to the evidence of her presence with an intensity that catches me off guard.

This is why alphas get into trouble. This is why we're taught from childhood to respect omega spaces, to understand that scent can be as intimate as touch when it's unguarded and unfiltered. Standing in Lila's space, breathing in the honestevidence of her daily existence, feels like an intrusion even though I'm technically still on public property.

It also feels like coming home, which is a problem I don't know how to solve.

I set the wrapped package of books on her front porch and step back, intending to leave quickly before the scent can affect my judgment any further. But as I turn to go, my fingers brush against the door handle Dean repaired. Solid brass worn smooth by decades of use, now warmed by the late afternoon sun.

For just a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to turn that handle with permission. To walk through that door as someone welcomed rather than someone leaving gifts in the shadows. To see the space she's creating for herself, to understand how she moves through rooms and what makes her feel safe.

To be part of whatever new life she's building instead of just an observer at the edges.

The thought is dangerous enough that I force myself to step away from the door, away from the intoxicating cloud of her scent, away from the temptation to linger in her space longer than I should.

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