Page 36 of The Knotheads Next Door
This is dangerous territory. For all of us.
But as I finally force myself to walk away, heading upstairs to my own room, I can't ignore the feeling that somehow, in someway I don't fully understand yet, Rowan Whitley has already claimed a piece of me.
And I'm not sure I want it back.
Chapter 11
Rowan
Focus on the book, Rowan. The protagonist is about to discover who the killer is.
I'm supposed to be reading and keeping an eye on my cat. That's what I told myself when I came out to the back porch with my book and a cup of coffee—that I was going to enjoy the crisp September afternoon and catch up on some leisure reading.
But instead...
I'm not staring at Jasper's forearms. I'm definitely not cataloging the way his muscles flex when he swings the hammer, or how his T-shirt stretches across his shoulders, or the little grunt he makes when he drives a nail home with one perfect strike.
Nope. Not doing any of that.
I'm simply... appreciating craftsmanship. Professional curiosity. Totally normal behavior for a Saturday morning.
"If you keep watching me like that, I'm going to start charging admission," Jasper says without turning around, his voice gruff and low.
Heat floods my face. Busted.
"I'm not watching you," I lie, focusing intently on Gerald, who's batting at a piece of string beside me on the porch steps. "I'm supervising my cat."
"Your cat is fine," Jasper says, finally turning to face me. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and a smudge of sawdust across one cheekbone.
"You, on the other hand, have been sitting there for twenty minutes pretending not to stare at me."
"That's..." Completely accurate. "Ridiculous."
He sets down his hammer, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement makes his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt, and my mouth goes dry. What is happening to me?
Ever since that night with Theo a few days ago—the night I pretended to be asleep while he scent-marked me, the night my body practically melted in response—it's like all my senses have been dialed up to eleven. Especially around the alphas. Especially around Jasper.
It's infuriating. And terrifying. And... something else I refuse to name.
Jasper is still watching me, his expression unreadable. "If you're going to keep hanging around, you might as well make yourself useful."
I blink, surprised by the offer. Jasper has been avoiding me like I'm carrying the plague for the past two weeks. This is the most words he's spoken to me directly since the night I brought Gerald home.
"What do you need?" I ask cautiously.
He gestures to the porch railing he's rebuilding. "Hold the other end of this board while I secure it."
I set Gerald down carefully on the porch swing and approach, hyperaware of Jasper's eyes on me. He hands me the end of a long piece of cedar, positioning my hands where he wants them.
"Don't let it move," he instructs, his fingers brushing against mine during the handoff.
A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm at the contact. I nearly drop the board, earning a raised eyebrow from Jasper.
"Sorry," I mutter. "I'm not usually this jumpy."
"No?" he asks, his tone suggesting he doesn't believe me. "Seems like that's exactly what you usually are. Jumpy. Skittish. Ready to bolt at the slightest provocation."
"I am not," I protest, even as I realize he's right. I have been acting like a nervous rabbit ever since my body started doing... whatever it's doing.
