Page 8 of The Knotheads Next Door
He makes a noncommittal grunt and continues on his way. Jasper's been in a mood all week—more than his usual baseline grumpiness. He spent all of yesterday reinforcing the lock on thespare room door "just in case," like our new roommate might be a professional cat burglar masquerading as an accountant.
I check my phone again. No new messages, but I reread the last exchange for probably the fifteenth time.
On my way! GPS says arrival around 2-3 pm if traffic cooperates. Thanks again for the opportunity. —Rowan
We still don't know if Rowan's an alpha or beta. They never responded to that particular question, which has sent Jasper into full conspiracy-theory mode. Wells's trying to be the voice of reason, pointing out that normal people don't check their messages at 3 AM, but I can tell he's a little concerned too.
Me? I'm just curious. And maybe a little excited. Living with the same two people for seven years—even when those people are your best friends—can get predictable. A new perspective might be exactly what we need.
A car I don't recognize turns onto our street—a battered Tonda Civic that's seen better days, and my nose picks up engine trouble before I even catch sight of the vehicle itself. The thing smells like burning rubber and dirty oil. I lean forward, scanning the street, just to confirm.
Yep. There it is.
The silver sedan rattles like it’s being held together by duct tape and sheer willpower. What is that? A 1992? How’d he manage to drive anywhere with that rust bucket? The car groans to a stop in front of where I’m waiting on the sidewalk, making one final, pitiful wheeze before the engine cuts off entirely, and I straighten up, adjusting my shirt. First impressions go both ways.
The truck pops open with a groan. The driver’s side door creaks open, and thenshesteps out.
I blink.
I look into the car again, because maybe I missed something. Maybe this is Rowan’s girlfriend, or sister, or cousin, or a person who just hitched a ride in this death-trap of a car.
But there’s no one else in the passenger seat.
She must be the one.
And if she’s Rowan, then—wow, is Jasper going to bepissed.
Rowan is not a tall, broad-shouldered alpha dude, like I assumed. No. Rowan is... Rowan is smaller than me, about average height for a woman. She’s got a mass of honey blond curls that are piled into a lopsided bun on her head. She’s wrapped in an oversized hoodie, dark leggings, and sneakers that have clearly seen better days. After parking the car, she steps out and raises her arms high above her head, clearly feeling tension in her shoulders. She tilts her head to one side, then the other, and I swear I hear her mutter, "Still alive. Ha. Suck it, universe."
I bite back a grin.
I step forward, closing the distance, and try to make my smile look more excited and less like a nervous grimace. "Hey, you must be Rowan," I say, doing my best to sound normal. But I’m pretty sure my voice cracks a bit as the words come out.
She jumps a little, like she wasn’t expecting to have an audience. Her eyes widen with something between surprise and panic before she forces herself to look calm.
"Rowan?" I call again, taking a few steps toward her.
She offers a tentative smile. "That's me. You must be... one of the three guys I'm about to live with, which I realize now sounds like the setup to either a funny sitcom or a horror movie."
As she walks up our path, I can see dark circles under her eyes and a determined set to her jaw. She looks exhausted but resolute, like she’s someone who's reached the end of one rope and is desperately grabbing for another.
I laugh, extending my hand. "I'm Theo. The friendly one, according to house polls. Here, let me help with your bags."
As she shakes my hand, I catch a whiff of her scent, and something about it makes me pause. It's... unusual. Not quite alpha, not quite beta, and definitely not fully omega, but with hints of something sweet underneath, like vanilla barely detectable under layers of scent-dampening soap.
Interesting.
"That would be amazing," she says, breaking the moment. "Most of my stuff is still in my car, but fair warning—I may have panic-packed seventeen different mugs and forgotten essentials like, I don't know, pants."
I grin at her. "We have a strict 'pants optional' policy here anyway."
Her eyes widen, and I quickly add, "That was a joke. We're very pro-pants around here. Wells especially. He color-codes his sock drawer."
"Good to know," she says, looking slightly relieved. "I'd hate to have misjudged the clothing situation on day one."
I help her grab a duffel bag and a surprisingly heavy box from her backseat. "So you drove all the way from the city?"
"Yeah," she sighs, shouldering her backpack. "Six hours of nothing but cornfields, gas station coffee, and my own increasingly questionable life choices."
