Page 26 of The Knotheads Next Door
"I bet you were the kid who had separate binders for each subject, with color-coded tabs."
"As opposed to the crumpled papers stuffed in the bottom of a backpack approach?"
She grins. "Hey, I'll have you know my chaos has a system. I always knew which crumpled paper was which."
"Somehow, I don't doubt that," I say, finding myself almost smiling. "You strike me as someone who appears disorganized but actually keeps track of everything."
"Wow, that's... actually kind of accurate," she admits, looking at me with new interest. "Most people just assume I'm a mess."
"Most people don't pay attention," I say simply
.
We lapse into silence again, but it's more comfortable this time. Rowan gazes out at the rows of trees we pass, their leaves beginning to color with the promise of fall.
"It's beautiful here," she says softly. "Different from Heraford. Slower."
"You miss the city?" I ask, genuinely curious.
She considers the question. "Parts of it. The anonymity, sometimes. The way you can reinvent yourself on any given day and no one notices or cares."
She turns to look at me. "But it's also exhausting, being around that many people all the time. All those scents, all that noise. It can be... overwhelming."
Something in her tone catches my attention. "Especially for someone with sensitive senses?"
She stiffens slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Just that some people are more affected by sensory input than others," I say carefully.
"Particularly those with... fluctuating hormones."
Her heart rate picks up; I can hear it from where I sit. "I don't know what you're implying, but—"
"I'm not implying anything," I interrupt, keeping my voice neutral. "Just an observation.Being latent, that can come with unpredictable sensory responses."
She relaxes fractionally, but her scent has sharpened with something like anxiety. "Right. Well, yes. That's... accurate."
We turn onto a gravel road that leads to the flower wholesaler, a large greenhouse complex that supplies most of the florists in the county. The lights from the main building glow warmly in the darkness.
As I park, I notice Rowan's breathing has changed—it's faster, shallower. When I look over, her cheeks are flushed, and she's pressing a hand to her forehead.
"Are you okay?" I ask, immediately alert.
"Just... suddenly hot," she murmurs, fumbling with the button of the cardigan. "Maybe it's the car heater."
But I already know it's not the heater. Her scent has shifted dramatically in the last few minutes, growing sweeter, headier, with an undercurrent that makes my alpha instincts snap to attention. It's unmistakable, even through the blockers.
Heat spike.
I reach out instinctively, catching her wrist to check her pulse. It's racing, her skin hot to the touch.
"Rowan," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I think you're experiencing a heat spike."
Her eyes widen, fear and embarrassment washing over her face. "No, I'm not. I can't be. I'm just—it's nerves, or maybe I'm coming down with something."
"It's okay," I say, trying to sound calming rather than affected by her emerging pheromones.
"I've read that it happens sometimes with latent adults. Short, unpredictable spikes. We should get you home."
