Page 31 of Knot on the Market

"Aunt Maeve, I appreciate it, but?—"

"You're going over there anyway," she interrupts, fixing me with a look that suggests she knows exactly what I was thinking about during my morning jog. "Don't let her live on toast."

"I'm not going anywhere," I protest, which would be more convincing if I weren't already mentally calculating whether I have time to swing by Lila's.

"Of course you are," Maeve says with the patient tone of someone explaining something obvious to a slow child. "She's new in town, living in that big house all alone, trying to figure out how to take care of herself. And you're a nice young man who happens to be on a long shift with time for a quick break."

Mitchell makes a sound that might be a cough or might be a laugh. When I glare at him, he goes back to his paperwork with suspicious intensity.

"Besides," Maeve continues, "I saw Callum Greaves heading over there about an hour ago with his toolbox. Poor girl's probably drowning in good intentions by now."

Something cold twists in my stomach at the mention of Callum. Not that there's anything wrong with Callum. He's a good guy, reliable, knows his way around anything that needs fixing. It's just that the thought of him in Lila's house, being helpful while she looks at him with that grateful smile... makes me wish I'd thought to check on her first.

"She needs the help," I say, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile.

"She needs friends," Maeve corrects. "And maybe someone who understands that helping doesn't have to come with strings attached."

The dig is gentle but pointed, and I'm not entirely sure whether it's aimed at me or Callum or just men in general. Knowing Maeve, probably all three.

"Fine," I say, accepting defeat with as much grace as I can muster. "I'll drop it off."

"Good boy." Maeve pats my cheek like I'm twelve years old. "And Dean? Try not to overthink it. Sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is just show up."

She leaves me standing there with a container of stew and the uncomfortable feeling that my aunt sees right through every carefully constructed justification I've built for wanting to see Lila again.

"Your aunt's something else," Mitchell observes once Maeve's out of earshot.

"She's a menace," I mutter, but there's no heat in it. Maeve raised me after my parents died, and her particular brand of loving interference is as familiar as breathing. I should be used to it by now. Especially when she's right.

I check the clock. 4:30. Still got a long way to go in this 24-hour shift, but Williams won't mind if I take a quick break to deliver this. Just a neighborly check-in. Nothing more complicated than that.

The drive to Lila's house takes seven minutes, during which I manage to convince myself that this is a perfectly normal thing to do. I'm delivering food from Maeve, bringing something to someone who might need it, being a good neighbor. The fact that my pulse picks up when I turn onto her street is irrelevant.

Her front yard looks different in daylight. Tidier somehow, like someone's been working on it. The mailbox is still lying sideways in the grass, but the walkway has been cleared of debris and there are signs that someone's been trimming back the overgrown bushes.

I'm halfway up the front path when I hear it. The sharp thunk of a hammer connecting with wood, followed by a frustrated curse that's definitely Lila's voice.

Then a deeper voice, patient and amused. "Try holding it closer to the head. You'll have more control that way."

Callum.

Something twists in my chest. Jealousy, maybe, but not the angry kind. More like wishing I could be that helpful to her. I force myself to keep walking, container of stew inhand, reminding myself that there's nothing wrong with Callum helping Lila with home repairs. It's neighborly. It's practical. It's exactly what I'd be doing if I'd gotten here first.

The fact that I wish I had gotten here first is between me and my slightly wounded pride.

I knock on the door, which swings open a moment later to reveal Lila looking slightly flustered and absolutely beautiful. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, there's a smudge of something that might be dust on her cheek, and she's wearing jeans and an oversized t-shirt that says "Honeyridge Falls" in faded letters. She must have picked it up from one of the local shops. The sight of her hits me harder than it should. Casual and comfortable and completely unaware of how good she looks.

"Dean!" Her face lights up with genuine pleasure, and some of the tension in my chest eases. "Hi! What brings you by?"

Before I can answer, Callum's voice carries from inside the house. "See? That last one went in clean. Much better than the first few attempts."

Lila glances over her shoulder with a smile that's equal parts pride and exasperation. "He's teaching me how not to bend every nail I touch. Apparently, I hold a hammer like it's a dinner fork."

She steps back to let me in, and I follow her into the living room where Callum is kneeling beside a section of loose floorboards, surrounded by more tools than I knew one person could own. He looks up when we enter, nodding in my direction with the kind of polite acknowledgment that suggests he's not entirely surprised to see me here.

"Afternoon, Dean," he says, then returns his attention to guiding Lila through whatever project they're working on. "Okay, one more time. Remember what I told you about the angle."

I watch Lila position the hammer with exaggerated care, her tongue poking out slightly as she concentrates. The focus on her face is endearing, but what catches my attention is the subtle shift in her scent. Warmer than yesterday, deeper, tinged with something that might be curiosity. When she successfully drives the nail home without bending it, she turns to Callum with a grin that hits me like a physical blow.

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