Page 61 of The Knotheads Next Door
That's when she stumbles.
It's nothing dramatic—her foot catches on an exposed tree root, and she tilts forward with a small sound of surprise. My reaction is pure instinct—one arm shooting out to catch her elbow, the other wrapping around her waist to steady her.
And suddenly she's against me, her back to my chest, my arms around her, her scent filling my lungs in a rush that makes my head spin.
I should let go immediately. Step back. Reestablish the careful distance I've been maintaining.
I don't.
For one suspended moment, we stay like that—her body warm and solid against mine, her pulse racing beneath my fingers where they circle her wrist, her scent surrounding me, intoxicating in its sweetness.
"Thank you," she says softly, making no move to pull away. "I'm usually more coordinated than that."
"It's the uneven ground," I manage, my voice rougher than usual. I still haven't let go.
She turns slightly in my arms, looking up at me with an expression I can't quite read. "You're very... steady."
It's a simple observation, but something in her tone makes it feel like more. Like she's not just talking about my physical presence.
"I try to be," I say, the words coming out more honest than I intended.
Her eyes search mine, and I have the distinct sensation of being seen—really seen—in a way that's both uncomfortable and exhilarating. Then she relaxes, just slightly, leaning into me with a small sigh that I feel more than hear.
Something in me responds immediately—a protective, possessive instinct that I usually keep firmly in check. My arms tighten around her fractionally, and I find myself breathing deeply, drawing in her scent, wanting to surround her with mine.
Words form on my tongue—gentle words, tender words I have no business speaking—and for a terrifying moment, I almost say them aloud.
Reality crashes back with brutal force. I step away, creating distance, letting my arms fall to my sides. The loss of contact is physical, a cold absence where her warmth had been.
"We should get back," I say, my voice carefully controlled once more. "There's still a lot to do before tomorrow."
Something flickers across her face—disappointment? frustration?—before she nods, her own walls visibly coming back up. "Right. Efficiency."
The walk back to the pavilion is silent, the easy camaraderie of moments ago replaced by a tense awareness of what almost happened. Of what I almost allowed myself to feel.
"Thank you for the tour," Rowan says when we reach the pavilion, where Lala has now joined the decorating crew. "It was... informative."
"Of course," I reply, falling back on professional courtesy like armor. "I should get back to the office. Mayor Tillie will be wondering where I am."
She nods, already turning toward Lala, who's watching our interaction with undisguised interest. "See you at home, I guess."
Home. Such a simple word, and yet so complicated in the context of our situation. It's not her home—not really, not permanently. It's a temporary arrangement, one that's rapidly approaching its end date.
I need to remember that.
Back at the office, I throw myself into work with renewed determination, refusing to think about the way Rowan felt in my arms, the way her scent lingered on my clothing, the way something in me had recognized something in her in a manner that transcended conscious thought.
By the time I get home that evening, the house is quiet. Theo's working the night shift at the clinic, and Jasper's truck is nowhere to be seen. Rowan must still be at the festival grounds, helping with last-minute preparations.
The empty house should be a relief—space to decompress, to regain my equilibrium after the unexpected interaction this afternoon. Instead, it feels hollow, the silence too complete.
I take a shower, trying to wash away the day and the lingering scent of Rowan that clings to my clothes, my skin. It doesn't work. When I step out, I can still smell her on my sweater where she leaned against me.
I should wash it. Instead, I find myself bringing it to my face, inhaling deeply, letting her scent fill my lungs again. Sweet and warm and spicy, with that undercurrent of something that calls to my alpha in ways I'm not prepared to examine.
The arousal that follows is immediate and undeniable. I try to ignore it, to focus on practical matters—dinner, emails, preparation for tomorrow's festival opening.
But when I finally retreat to my bedroom, Rowan's scent still wrapped around me from the sweater I couldn't bring myself to wash, my control slips completely.
