Page 40 of Knot on the Market

I watch his hands as he shifts into reverse—large, capable hands with calluses that speak of real work. When he drapes his arm across the back of my seat to look over his shoulder, I catch his scent more directly, and have to resist the urge to lean closer.

"Are deer a legitimate concern?" I ask, clicking the belt into place and trying not to notice how his t-shirt stretches across his chest when he reaches for the gear shift.

"In Honeyridge Falls? Always." He backs out of my driveway with easy competence, one hand on the steering wheel, the other draped casually over the back of my seat. "Plus, my insurance doesn't cover omega projectiles."

I snort with laughter. "Omega projectiles?"

"Technical term," he says solemnly, though the grin tugging at his mouth gives him away. "Very dangerous. Especially when they're pretty and smell like green apples."

The casual compliment catches me off guard, sending something fluttering through my chest. Dean delivers it without expectation, like he's just stating a fact about the weather, but there's something in his voice that makes me glance at his profile.

He's focused on the road, that easy smile playing at the corners of his mouth, completely relaxed in a way that makes the space between us feel intimate instead of awkward.

This is exactly what I didn't want,I think as we turn onto the main road.Getting distracted by attractive alphas who make me feel things.

But I can't deny that sitting here, surrounded by Dean's scent and his easy warmth, feels dangerously right.

"So," Dean says, glancing over at me, "what's the game plan? Full furniture haul or just the essentials?"

"Depends on what you consider essential," I say, settling deeper into the passenger seat. "But I figure we start with the big pieces—couch, maybe a dining table. Work our way down to the details."

"Very practical."

"I try to be." He turns onto the main road that leads out of town, and I watch his profile, noting the strong line of his jaw, the way his hands move confidently on the steering wheel. "Though I have to admit, I'm curious to see what kind of stuff catches your eye."

"What if I have terrible taste?" I ask.

"Then I'll help you carry terrible furniture up your front steps with a smile." He grins at me. "That's what friends do."

Friends.The word should be reassuring, a clear boundary that keeps this shopping trip in safe territory. Instead, it makes something twist in my chest that feels like disappointment.

The drive to Pine Valley takes forty minutes through mountain roads that wind between forest and farmland. Dean keeps up easy conversation the whole way, asking about my plans for the house, sharing stories about growing up in Honeyridge Falls, making observations about the changing scenery that reveal someone who genuinely loves this place.

"There," he says, pointing to a distant peak as we round a curve. "That's where my brother Caleb and I used to go camping when we were kids. Thought we were such badasses, hiking up there with our little backpacks and sleeping bags."

"How old were you when you went on these adventures?" I ask.

"Twelve, maybe thirteen? Old enough to think we knew everything, young enough that Aunt Maeve still packed us sandwiches." His smile turns fond with memory. "We'd build these elaborate forts out of fallen branches and convince ourselves we were surviving in the wilderness."

"While eating Maeve's sandwiches."

"Hey, wilderness survival doesn't mean giving up good food." Dean laughs. "Though I'll admit, her chocolate chip cookies probably aren't traditional camping fare."

The easy way he shares pieces of his past makes me want to do the same, to offer stories of my own childhood. But most of my memories from that age involve acting classes and auditions, a childhood carefully constructed around a career that started before I was old enough to choose it.

"What about you?" Dean asks. "Any wilderness survival experience in your background?"

"Does getting lost in a mall count?"

"Absolutely. Malls are basically concrete jungles. Very dangerous." He glances over at me with mock seriousness. "How'd you survive?"

"Hot Topic and a cell phone." I find myself smiling at the memory. "I was supposed to be shopping for a premiere dress with my publicist, but I wandered off and spent two hours in the music section instead."

"Sounds like you had your priorities straight." Dean's tone is warm with approval. "Band t-shirts over ball gowns any day."

The casual way he dismisses the glamorous aspects of my old life, like he genuinely believes band t-shirts are a better choice, makes something in my chest loosen.

"I still have some of those t-shirts," I admit. "Packed away somewhere. Probably don't fit anymore, but I couldn't bring myself to get rid of them."

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