Page 30 of Knot on the Market

Her house looks peaceful in the morning light, curtains drawn but no signs of distress. I almost turn around and head home, but then I catch a glimpse of movement in the front window. Just a shadow passing by and relief floods through me that she's up and moving around.

See?She's fine. Mission accomplished.

I'm halfway back to town when my phone buzzes with a text from Mitchell at the station.

Early call came in. Handled it. Captain wants to see you when you get in.

Great. Nothing says "good morning" like an unexpected meeting with the boss. I pick up the pace and head home, my peaceful morning run officially ruined.

The quick shower and change into uniform feels rushed, but I make it to the station with a few minutes to spare. The familiar smell of coffee and diesel fuel greets me as I walk in. Mitchell's at his desk doing paperwork, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Morning, sunshine," he calls without looking up. "Captain's in his office. Fair warning he's got that look."

"What look?"

"The one that means he's about to volunteer you for something you don't want to do."

Fantastic.

Captain Williams waves me into his office with the weary expression of a man who's been dealing with municipal politics since before I was born. "Close the door, Dean. We need to talk."

I settle into the chair across from his desk and wait. Williams has this way of starting conversations that makes you feel like you're already in trouble for something you haven't done yet.

"Community outreach," he says without preamble. "City council wants us more visible, more involved with local events. They think it'll help with the next budget approval."

"Okay," I say carefully. "What kind of events?"

"Berry festival's coming up. They want a fire safety booth, demonstrations, the whole dog and pony show." Williams leans back in his chair. "Normally I'd assign this to Stevens, but he's out on paternity leave for another month. You're up."

"I can handle that," I say, because really, how hard can it be? Set up a booth, talk to kids about stop-drop-and-roll, maybe demonstrate the equipment. Easy.

"Good. First planning meeting is Thursday. Oh, and Dean?" Williams fixes me with a look that's more knowing than stern. "Heard you've been helping out our new resident. That pretty omega who bought the Anderson place."

"Sir?"

"Small town," Williams says with a warm smile. "Word gets around when one of my guys is cooking dinner for a lovely young lady. About time you started dating someone, son. Just make sure you're treating her right."

I nod, surprised by how much his approval means to me. Having Williams's blessing feels important in a way I can't quite explain. My whole face must light up because Williams chuckles and shakes his head with obvious fondness. Though I have to admit, if Lila had been a seventy-year-old guy instead of a beautiful omega who smells like green apples and trouble, I probably wouldn't have stress-cooked enough food for six people.

"Understood, sir."

"Good. Meeting's at ten on Thursday. Don't be late."

The rest of the morning passes in routine maintenance tasks. Checking equipment, reviewing protocols, the kind of busywork that keeps a fire station running when there aren't any actual emergencies. But I keep catching my mind wandering back to Lila, wondering what she's doing with her day, whether she's making progress on any of those house projects she mentioned.

I'm in the middle of reorganizing the supply closet when Aunt Maeve appears in the station doorway like she's been summoned by my thoughts.

"Dean Matthew Maddox," she says in that tone that means I'm about to be conscripted for something, "I need to talk to you."

Mitchell looks up from his paperwork with the expression of a man who's about to witness something entertaining. "Morning, Mrs. Bennett. How's the bakery business?"

"Busy enough to keep me out of trouble," Maeve replies, but her attention is focused on me. "Dean, come here."

I approach cautiously, because Maeve in full-on auntie mode is a force of nature that shouldn't be underestimated. She's carrying a large container that I recognize as one of her good storage dishes, the kind she only uses for special occasions or when she's trying to make a point.

"I made too much stew last night," she announces. "No sense letting it go to waste."

She presses the container into my hands with the kind of authority that makes arguing seem pointless. The stew smells incredible, rich and hearty, with that indefinable quality that makes everything Maeve cooks taste like a warm hug.

---