Page 11 of Down Knot Out
The question reminds me of how different our childhoods were, with mine spent in these woods and hers never leaving the city.
“Some things. If you know what’s safe.” I squeeze her hand. “First camping trip I took with Dominic and Holden, I tried to show off my wilderness knowledge. Ended up with all three of us covered in nettle stings because I misidentified a plant.”
Her laughter bubbles up, bright and clear. “Seriously? I can’t imagine you making a mistake like that.”
My lips curve upward at the memory, my embarrassment mellowed into fondness by time. “Dominic wouldn’t let me live it down for months. Kept leaving drawings of nettles littered with skulls and crossbones on my desk.”
We resume walking, the path now carpeted with pine needles that cushion our steps and fill the air with a sharp, clean scent.
“What else happened on these camping trips?” Chloe asks, alight with curiosity.
The question opens a floodgate of memories, four young Alphas trying to coexist in the wilderness, learning each other’s strengths and weaknesses years before we’d share a home.
“Second trip, Holden insisted he knew how to start a fire without matches.” I shake my head, remembering his determined expression. “Two hours of him rubbing sticks together, hands blistered, while Dominic, Blake, and I froze our asses off waiting.”
“Did it work?” She steps over a jutting rock, her body leaning into mine for balance.
“Nope. When Holden took a bathroom break, Dominic pulled matches from his pack and lit it. Swore us all to secrecy.” The memory still bringswarmth to my chest, Dominic’s wink as he struck the match, our silent conspiracy to protect Holden’s pride. “When Holden came back, we acted amazed that his friction method had succeeded.”
Chloe’s lips twitch with amusement. “Did he believe you?”
“For years. Dominic confessed when we were moving into the Homestead together. Holden didn’t speak to him for two days.” The recollection draws a chuckle from me. “Then he baked Dominic’s favorite coffee cake as a peace offering but left out all the sugar.”
Her laughter joins mine, our combined sounds rising through the thinning trees. The scent of saltwater grows stronger with each step, the rhythm of waves more distinct.
“You four…” She shakes her head, pink strands catching the increasing light. “I can’t imagine you all in university.”
“Chaotic, mostly, each of us figuring out our places in the pack.” My thumb traces circles on her knuckles. “But it was incomplete until you arrived.”
The words emerge without planning, raw truth instead of careful construction. Her scent shifts, warming with pleasure.
The trees open before us, revealing a smallcrescent of shoreline curved around the ocean. Water stretches to the horizon, the surface rippling with wind patterns, sunlight creating a pathway of light across its center.
Chloe freezes beside me, her intake of breath sharp and quick. “Oh.”
I watch her face instead of the view, seeing the familiar landscape reflected in her expression breathes new life into it, transforming a place I’ve visited dozens of times into a magical experience.
She steps forward, drawing me with her, onto the boundary where the forest floor transitions to the open shore. Her steps slow as the ground changes beneath her feet, becoming uneven, shifting.
“It’s real sand!” She drops to her knees, pulling me into an awkward half-crouch beside her.
Her free hand, the one not gripping mine, presses into the damp surface, fingers spreading out. The fine grains, dark and mixed with small pebbles typical of Pacific Northwest beaches, push up between her fingers as she presses down.
“It’s cold,” she says, wonder in her voice. “And it moves, but not like dirt. It’s…”
She tips her face up to me, searching for words.
“Yielding,” I offer, setting the picnic basketdown to kneel next to her. “But it holds your shape for a bit before it fills in.”
She lifts her hand, revealing a perfect impression that is already beginning to lose definition, tiny avalanches of sand filling in the deepest parts of her handprint.
“In books, they always describe beaches with soft white sand and warm oceans.” She lifts her head to stare out over the water. “But this is beautiful, too. Gritty.”
“It is.” I run my fingers through the cool grains beside her handprint. “You have to have guts to go into these waters and risk freezing.”
She absorbs this information the same way she approaches everything new, fully present and entirely engaged. I wonder at what stories spin away in her mind and if one of her next books will hold a setting like this.
“We should set up before the tide changes.” I stand, offering my hand again, which she takes without hesitation.
