Page 8 of Knot on the Market

Or worse, until I'm forced to rely on attractive alphas to handle everything for me while I pretend that's not exactly what I was trying to avoid.

I sit at the kitchen table and let myself cry until I'm empty, surrounded by the lingering smell of my domestic failure.

That's when I hear the sirens.

At first, I think they're just passing through town, emergency services heading somewhere else for someone else's crisis. Butthey're getting louder, closer, and then they stop. Right outside my house.

Heavy footsteps pound up my front porch, followed by urgent knocking.

"Fire department! Is everyone okay in there?"

Oh no. Someone called the fire department because of my culinary disaster. This is the exact opposite of proving I can handle things myself. This is announcing to the entire town that I can't even heat up leftovers without requiring emergency services.

So much for independence.

Chapter 4

Lila

Ifreeze at the kitchen table, tears still streaming down my face. I can't face them like this—red-eyed and sobbing over a burnt casserole.

This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. Day two of my independence experiment and I'm already requiring emergency services to save me from basic cooking.

Maybe if I stay quiet, they'll think it was a false alarm and leave.

"Fire department! We're coming in!" "Stand back!"

The door explodes inward with enough force to send my makeshift repair flying. The hair tie snaps, door knob pieces scatter across the floor, and two firefighters in full gear flood into my entryway, helmets and heavy coats and serious expressions that immediately scan for danger.

One of them is Dean.

Even under all the protective equipment, I recognize his warm brown eyes and the way his shoulders fill out the bulky coat. He takes in the scene—me on my knees surrounded by door knob pieces, the lingering smoke, my tear-streaked face—andhis expression shifts from professional concern to something softer.

Great.The one person who was nice to me yesterday gets to witness my complete domestic breakdown.

"Lila," he says, pulling off his helmet. "Are you hurt? We got a call about smoke and fire alarms."

"Mrs. Jones next door called it in," the other firefighter explains, looking around for signs of actual emergency. He's shorter than Dean, with graying hair and the kind of weathered face that suggests he's seen every possible domestic crisis. "Said she saw smoke pouring out the windows and heard alarms going off."

I want to disappear into the floor. "It's just... I burned dinner. I'm fine. Everyone's fine. There's no fire."

The older firefighter—his nameplate reads "Mitchell"—relaxes slightly but continues his assessment. "Mind if we take a look around? Make sure everything's secure?"

I nod miserably and watch him head toward the kitchen, leaving me alone with Dean in the wreckage of my front door.

This is humiliating. Twenty-four hours ago I was determined to prove I could handle things myself, and here I am, kneeling on my floor surrounded by the evidence of my failures while Dean looks at me with what's probably pity.

"Hey," Dean says gently, crouching down to my level. "I'm so sorry we broke your door knob."

"I tried to fix it this morning when it fell off," I explain, my voice still thick from crying. "It broke earlier but I spent hours fixing it and used my hair tie to hold it together. It was working... until you had to break in."

"Mitchell!" Dean calls toward the kitchen. "Everything good in there?"

"All clear!" comes the response. "Just some burnt food. Oven's off, windows are open. No structural damage."

Mitchell emerges from the kitchen and notices the scattered door hardware on the floor. He crouches down to examine the pieces, picking up the broken hair tie.

"You broke it when you shouldered the door," Dean points out. "You were too rushed."

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