Page 5 of Knot in Bloom
“Sorry,” she mumbles. “I was just… you’re getting soaked helping me and I…”
“Don’t apologize,” I say quietly. “I like knowing you’re looking.”
“You know,” she says during a quiet moment, both of us crouched near the back counter sorting through damaged arrangements, “I never asked why you walk by here twice a week with a extra coffee for me.”
Caught.
I focus very carefully on the chrysanthemum in my hands. “Coincidence.”
“Mm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “It’s just that your bookstore is in the opposite direction from The Honey Crumb.”
Heat creeps up my neck. She’s noticed. Of course she’s noticed. Sadie notices everything.
“Maybe I like the longer route.”
“Maybe.” She’s quiet for a moment, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body. Then, so softly I almost miss it. “I like it when you stop by.”
The admission hangs between us, vulnerable and honest. When I look up, she’s watching me with something in her expression that makes my chest tight with possibility.
“I like stopping by,” I admit. “More than I probably should.”
Her scent warms at that, honeysuckle blooming sweeter, vanilla turning rich and inviting. The change is subtle but unmistakable, and my alpha instincts respond immediately, recognizing interest, attraction, the beginning of something that could become so much more.
“Why more than you should?”
Because I’ve been half in love with you since the first time you recommended a book to Mrs. Elmsdale. Because watching you arrange flowers is like watching someone compose music with petals and stems. Because you smell like home and safety and everything, I’ve ever wanted but never thought I deserved.
“Because.” I say instead, my voice rougher than intended, “you’re dealing with enough without your coffee delivery guy developing feelings.”
She goes very still. “Feelings?”
“The kind that make me want to bring you coffee every day instead of twice a week. The kind that make me notice things like how you never eat breakfast and always smell faintly of vanilla.”
Her breath catches. “Levi.”
“The kind that make me want to take care of you.”
The words spill out more intense than I planned, more revealing than is probably wise. But seeing her in crisis, watching her try to handle disaster alone, has stripped away my carefully maintained boundaries.
“You want to take care of me,” she says, like the concept is foreign.
“I want to take care of you,” I confirm. “Among other things.”
“What other things?”
The question is barely a whisper, but it carries weight that makes the air between us thick with possibility.
I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. Close enough that her scent wraps around me like an invitation. “Things that probably shouldn’t be discussed in a flooded flower shop.”
“Maybe not.” Her voice is breathless. “But maybe later?”
“Later,” I agree, my voice rough with promise.
When we’ve savedwhat we can, I help her move the rescued arrangements to her apartment upstairs. The space smells like her—honeysuckle and vanilla and something uniquely Sadie that makes my alpha instincts want to scent-mark every surface.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” I promise, reluctantly stepping toward her door. “We’ll figure out how to make Sarah’s rehearsal dinner arrangements even better than what you originally planned.”
“You don’t have to?—”
