Page 69 of The Knotheads Next Door
Tillie follows my gaze, her expression softening with understanding that makes me immediately uncomfortable. "She's fitting in beautifully, isn't she? Almost like she's always been part of our little town."
I make a noncommittal sound, deliberately turning away from the sight of Rowan descending the ladder, laughing at something Lala has said.
"You know," Tillie continues, undeterred by my obvious reluctance to discuss the topic, "sometimes the best things in life are the ones we don't plan for."
"Is there a reason you're waxing philosophical instead of reviewing the fire safety protocols?" I ask, more sharply than intended.
She just pats my arm, unfazed by my tone. "The protocols are fine, dear. Your heart, on the other hand..."
She walks away before I can formulate a suitably professional response, leaving me with the unsettling sensation of having been seen far too clearly.
I return to my duties, forcing myself to focus on the endless details that need attention before the festival officially opens tomorrow. It's easier when I'm moving, checking items off lists, directing volunteers, solving the small crises that inevitably arise when organizing an event of this scale.
But my eyes keep finding her.
I never expected this. When Theo first suggested renting out the spare room, I saw it as a simple financial transaction—a necessary evil to help us meet the balloon payment. A temporary inconvenience at worst, a neutral presence at best.
I never anticipated Rowan Whitley with her dry humor and stubborn determination and the way her scent fills our house like it belongs there. I never anticipated how natural it would feel to have her at our breakfast table, how empty the place seems when she's not there.
I never anticipated attachment.
A movement across the square catches my attention. A man I don't recognize—tall, dark-haired, with the unmistakable confident stance of an alpha—is watching Rowan with undisguised interest. Festival season always brings tourists, some less welcome than others.
I tell myself it's nothing to be concerned about. Rowan is perfectly capable of handling unwanted attention. She's made that abundantly clear, especially after the coffee shop incident with Ben the beta.
But when the strange alpha starts moving in her direction, something primal and protective flares in my chest.
Before I've made a conscious decision, I'm crossing the square, moving through the crowd with purpose. I reach Rowan just as the stranger approaches, sliding smoothly into her space as if we've been in the middle of a conversation.
"The lanterns look perfect," I say, placing a hand lightly on the small of her back—a casual touch that nonetheless sends a jolt of awareness through me.
"Mayor Tillie will be thrilled."
Rowan glances up at me, one eyebrow raised in question, but she doesn't pull away from my touch. "I'm sure she has a spreadsheet somewhere tracking optimal lantern placement."
"Three, actually," I confirm, allowing a small smile. "Color-coded by festival zone."
The stranger has paused a few feet away, clearly reassessing the situation now that another alpha is present. When Rowan's scent mingles with mine—the result of my proximity and thelight touch at her back—he takes a step back, then turns and melts back into the crowd.
Mission accomplished. I should remove my hand, step away, return to my actual responsibilities.
I don't.
"What was that about?" Rowan asks, her voice low enough that only I can hear.
"What was what about?" I counter, feigning ignorance even as my thumb traces a small circle against the fabric of her shirt, almost of its own volition.
She gives me a look that says she's not buying it for a second. "The territorial alpha routine. Complete with scent-marking."
"I wasn't—" I begin, then stop myself. No point in lying when she's clearly aware of exactly what I was doing. "There was an alpha watching you. He looked... predatory."
"So you decided to stake a claim?" Her tone is challenging, but there's something else beneath it—a warmth that suggests she's not entirely displeased.
"I decided to discourage unwanted attention," I clarify, though we both know it's more complicated than that.
"And if it wasn't unwanted?" she presses, her gaze steady on mine.
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. I'm saved from having to answer by Lala's theatrical throat-clearing.
