Page 4 of Keep Me, Knox
I watch her eyes as she says it. There's something there—somethingtiredaround the edges. Like maybe she knows a little something about chasing peace, too.
Chapter 3
Knox
Irinsethebowlswhile she pokes around the bookshelves like she's trying to figure me out by what I read. She runs a finger along the spine of an old field guide, then turns and points to the massive steel blade mounted on the wall above the fireplace.
"Did you make that in your forge?"
I glance up. "Yeah."
"It's beautiful. The pattern in the steel, the handle work. God, I sound like a blade nerd, but this is seriously impressive."
“You know about blacksmithing?”
She blushes. “Not really. I’ve just seen every episode ofForged in Fire.”
“Then you know more than most people.” I dry my hands and lean back against the counter. "It was a project. After my divorce, I couldn't sleep. I thought it was the city noise keeping me awake, but then I moved here and still had insomnia. Too much noise in my head, I guess. So I started forging again. One blade led to another, and now half the knives in the county have my mark on them."
Her eyes soften. "Therapy by way of hammer and anvil?"
"Something like that."
She walks over to examine the blade more closely, her fingertips trailing along the display case like she's reading the steel's story. The Damascus pattern ripples through the metal like flowing water, hundreds of layers folded and forge-welded together. It does something to me, watching her appreciate something I made with my own two hands.
"You sell them?" she asks.
"Custom orders. A shop in town handles most of it. I don't deal with customers directly."
She turns and quirks a brow. "Let me guess—not apeople person?"
I give a half-smile. "I'm better with bears."
Her gaze lingers on me for a second too long before she drops back onto the couch with a soft sigh. "I get it."
And dammit, I think she might.
I grab a fresh mug and fill it from the pot on the stove. It's strong, black, and hot—just how I like it. I hesitate for a second, then pour a second cup.
"Coffee?"
She lights up like I just offered her a solid gold brick. "God, yes. If it's not instant."
I hand her the mug and sit down in the worn leather chair across from her.
"It's not instant," I say. "I have standards."
She takes a sip and moans—actually moans—and I have to look away before I start imagining what else I can do to make her sound like that.
"This is heaven," she says. "How are you single?"
"Same reason I live on a mountain, probably."
Sage chuckles and pulls her legs up under her, folding herself into a comfortable ball on my couch like she's been here a dozen times. No makeup. No polish. Just tangled blonde hair and eyes like a summer sky. She doesn't try to be anything she's not.
And in my eyes?
She's perfect.
