Page 14 of The Knotheads Next Door
Theo's eyebrows draw together. "So what, we just kick her out if any of that happens? Where's she supposed to go?"
"That's not our concern," I say, even as something uncomfortable stirs in my chest. "This is a business arrangement, not a rescue mission."
"Right," Theo says, studying me with that knowing look of his. "Just business."
I ignore the implication. "I'm going to get some work done before dinner. Let me know when the pizza gets here."
As I head to my room, I try to focus on spreadsheets and budget projections, on the clean certainty of numbers. But my mind keeps circling back to Rowan—to the careful way she held herself in the kitchen, to that flash of steel when I pushed too far, to the nagging sense that we've just invited disruption into our carefully ordered lives.
One month, I remind myself. Just four weeks, and then she's gone.
But even as I think it, I can't shake the feeling that something has been set in motion—something none of us, least of all Rowan herself, is prepared for.
Chapter 5
Rowan
I've been awake since 5:17 AM and definitely not by choice. My body's internal clock is apparently still set to "escape this nightmare" mode, even though I managed to survive my first night in the Alpha Testosterone Palace without a major incident. Unless you count Jasper glaring at me over barbeque chicken pizza like I might be plotting to steal the silverware.
The house is quiet this early, just soft creaks and the occasional sigh of old pipes. It feels different than my apartment in Heraford—more alive somehow, like it's gently breathing around me.
I slip out of bed, wincing as the floorboards protest. My plan for the day is simple: find a job, like, yesterday. The small nest egg I have from my severance pay will cover rent for two months, maybe three if I'm careful. But careful's never been my strong suit, and I'm not about to risk homelessness again.
The shower schedule posted on the bathroom door is laminated. Laminated. With color-coded time slots for each roommate and helpful notes like "15-MINUTE MAXIMUM"and "PLEASE SQUEEGEE GLASS." Wells's handiwork, I'm guessing.
I've been assigned the 6:30-6:45 slot. It's barely 6:00, but I doubt anyone's going to complain about me being early. I shower quickly, scrubbing with my unscented soap and applying a thin layer of scent blocking lotion afterward. I've been using it since my teenage years when my body first started sending mixed signals, making everyone—including me—think I was on the verge of presenting.
Fifteen years later, I'm still waiting.
Downstairs, I find the kitchen empty but already showing signs of life. The coffee maker is still warm, and there's a note on the counter in blocky handwriting: COFFEE LEFT. HELP YOURSELF. NOT POISON.
Charming. That has to be Theo.
I pour myself a cup and am pleasantly surprised to find it's actually good—rich and strong without being bitter. Small mercies.
A town map is pinned to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a wine bottle. Vineyard Groves: WHERE EVERYBODY KNOWS YOUR NAME (Whether You Want Them To Or Not).
That's... mildly threatening.
I study the map, trying to get a sense of the layout. It's small, centered around a town square with shops radiating outward like spokes on a wheel. The lake is to the east, the vineyard to the west, and residential areas scattered between. Our house is on the northern edge, close enough to walk to town but far enough to avoid tourist traffic.
Perfect for job hunting on foot.
By 7:30, I'm dressed in what I hope passes for "hire me immediately" casual—jeans, a sweater that doesn't have any suspicious stains, and my one pair of boots that aren't fallingapart. I leave a note on the kitchen counter:Gone exploring. Thanks for the coffee. —R
The morning air has that crisp autumn sharpness that makes my lungs feel invigorated. Vineyard Groves is even prettier by daylight—tree-lined streets with Victorian houses in various states of renovation, flower boxes still blooming despite the season, and actual honest-to-god white picket fences. It's like someone took every small-town cliché and turned the saturation up to eleven.
I follow the main road toward the town square, passing exactly one coffee shop (Noble Grounds Café, looking moody and mysterious), one bakery (Musings and Morsels, exuding aggressive cheerfulness with pink awnings), and several boutique shops that probably sell things like artisanal soap and wine-themed oven mitts.
On the corner nearest the square, a storefront catches my eye. Not because it's flashy—it's actually one of the more subdued buildings, painted a soft sage green with large windows—but because of what's inside. Flowers. Hundreds of them, a riot of color that makes something in my chest loosen just looking at them.
The sign reads "Crystal Clear Florals." A bell tinkles as I push open the door, releasing a wave of humid, fragrant air. It smells like earth and sweetness and growing things.
"Be with you in a minute!" calls a voice from somewhere in the back.
I wander through the shop, trailing my fingers over the edges of buckets filled with dahlias and late-season roses. There's something soothing about being surrounded by living things that don't ask questions or make judgments. Flowers don't care if you're alpha, beta, or omega.
"You're new."
