Page 18 of Knotted By my Pack
I exhale once the door shuts behind him. My knuckles are white on the counter, my pulse thumping somewhere low and infuriating. That man is the definition of everything I hate, and yet my body hasn’t gotten the memo.
Why the hell does he smell like that?
I grab a cloth and start wiping the counter again, harder than necessary, trying to scrub him out of the air, out of my thoughts, out of this whole damn day.
But the tension doesn’t leave. It pools under my skin, electric and impatient. Noah, then Elias, now Julian.
If one more hot man with confident eyes and broad shoulders walks into this bakery today, I might throw my apron at someone and lock the doors.
I glance at the clock. Just past noon.
Still four hours to go.
And I’m already counting down the minutes until Elias comes back.
Because pastries aren’t the only thing getting hot around here.
6
JULIAN
The door clicks shut behind me, soft bells still jingling in my wake. I pause on the sidewalk for a beat, jaw tight, hands at my sides.
She got under my skin. It only took Lockwood minutes before he told me all about her. Her past growing up in a foster home, her best friend Noah, and most importantly, how fond she is of her shop.
And how fond the town is of her.
This could be a problem. If she’s influential, she could derail the town’s support for my project.
Cora fucking Bellamy, with her stained apron and sugar-dusted sass, didn’t flinch once. Not when I leaned in, not when I challenged her, not even when I told her I’d be seeing more of her.
Most people bend. She didn’t even blink. And for reasons I’m not eager to unpack, I liked that. Maybe a little too much.
As I walk toward the truck, there’s something else clawing at the back of my mind. A scent. Barely there. Soft, sweet, and heat-laced. Arousal.
Her body gave more away than her mouth did, and my cock sure as hell noticed. I shift my jaw and shove the thought down, adjusting my slacks as discreetly as I can.
Focus, Julian.
The truck parked half a block down is a beat-up navy-blue Ford F-150 from God knows what year. Somehow, this was the most efficient of the cars at the rental, so I’m stuck with it for now.
The Broncos were a lot more worse for wear. I don’t care much for this truck, but it’s the best I can do for now. The thing growls when I turn the key, like it’s waking up angry.
It doesn’t drive like my Tesla. It doesn’t glide or purr or sync to my goddamn calendar. But the leather seats are soft, worn from years of use, and the engine’s got a satisfying hum beneath it. Practical. Powerful. I hate how much I enjoy it.
I roll down the window, left arm resting on the sill, and start cruising slowly down Main Street. The buildings are small, mismatched, stubborn.
Brick, wood, stone. No sleek glass towers. No symmetry. I spot a handful of available office spaces as I pass. Most look like they haven’t seen a decent renovation since the nineties, but that’s not what I’m interested in.
I park along the curb just before the bakery. The building beside it is a boxy, two-story structure with sun-bleached green trim and a front porch that sags slightly. But it’s solid. Central. Visible. Close to Cora.
Too close? Maybe. But something about that makes me smile.
I grab my phone and call Lockwood.
“Julian,” he answers too quickly, always eager.
“I need to know who owns the space next to Whisked,” I say.
