Page 51 of Knot Just for Show

“Mr. Number Two!?” The redhead gasps, playing at an affront to his dignity. “Who’s Mr. Number One then?” he pouts, pretending to be hurt and dismayed.

“Obviously the guy who is responsible for the giant tray of awesome looking food is Mr. Number One!” I explain—nodding toward the tray replete with delicious looking nibbles and noshes now occupying the center of the table as Lysander and Teddy take their seats around the impromptu feast.

This draws a laugh from everyone, but the so-called ‘Mr. Number One’ leans across the table—taking a small empty plate from a neat stack beside the tray of treats and passing it to me in lieu of a handshake.

“Hey Ash, I’m Mavren—nice to meet you.” He releases the small round of china into my hand and gestures to the good looking spread laid out before us. “Please, help yourselves.”

“We already met in passing earlier.” Teddy juts his well-chiseled jaw in my direction. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he knows who I am, but bless him—he hasn’t said anything to make it awkward yet.

I turn my eyes to Lysander, expecting him to make his introduction—since technically I’ve only heard him called by Mavren so far. I’m more than a little unnerved when we lock eyes—the power of his gaze shockingly intense. He doesn’t evenseem to notice when Ronan hands him a gently clinking glass of ginger-mango spritzer—his brown eyes fixed intently on me.

“I know you from somewhere,” he says, almost dreamily—and suddenly his scent hits me; chamomile, lavender, and spearmint. Like a blanket, it settles over me, threatening to make my eyelids droop.

A theta!? Well shit, this ‘experiment’ just got a whole lot more interesting.

We’re outside, and the others are sitting further away, so I haven’t caught a whiff of them yet. Suddenly self-conscious, I wonder if any of them have caught my scent on the night breeze.

I’m trying to think of something clever to say—my tongue suddenly tied with the heaviness of sleep, when I realize that both Teddy and Mavren are also somehow familiar to me.

Before I can say anything about it though, Teddy jumps in—a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“You ever take a break from Bach and shit to listen to club bangers?” he teases, mussing Lysander’s thick chocolate brown otter pelt with one big, golden hand—sending water spraying.

Lysander plays at ducking away, but he’s laughing.

“I listen to all kinds of stuff, unhand me you peasant—you meathead.” He playfully slaps Teddy’s hand away, and I find myself laughing along easily with them.

“That’s KR30SOTE, you pleb—put some respect on his name.” Teddy grabs a green grape off of the nearby tray and flicks it at Lysander as soon as he has an opening. Lysander succeeds in batting it away—but Teddy sends the grape shooting back at him with a blindingly fast backhand strike; the tiny sphere of green splattering against the side of Lysander’s head as the pair laugh uncontrollably.

It’s in the instant of fluid movement that I realize exactly where I recognize Teddy from.

Undeterred by Lysander and Teddy’s antics, Ronan and Mavren’s heads snap around—their eyes fixed on me with a newfound curiosity.

“Way to blow up my spot, Teddy! Not all of us get to hide behind three feet of lace front wig and a sick samurai costume when we appear on television,” I laugh before imperiously taking a sip of my drink.

“Holy shit!” Lysander squeals, eyes suddenly wide as saucers—turning dumbly to face Teddy with new perspective.

“How did I not see it right away!? You were Jin on ‘Out of Time’!? Weren’t you?”

Teddy seems to demure slightly, though he keeps his megawatt smile up on high.

“Looks like the cat’s out of the bag.” Teddy shrugs. “I’m a wannabe C-lister, guilty as charged.”

“Well, well, well!” Ronan beams, scrubbing a hand through his wild red hair. “All of these celebrities,” he sweeps a hand toward Teddy and I— ending his arc on Mavren, before adding, “And blue blood princes—our miss Ursula must really be something to draw a crew like this together.”

I can’t help but raise a brow at that. I haven’t been able to place Mavren’s face, and I haven’t caught Lysander’s family name—but now I’m even more intrigued.

“The only thing out of place is the rando stoner florist,” Ronan laughs and lays a hand dramatically over his chest, taking a long swig of his drink.

I know he’s aiming for self-deprecation, but already, there’s a grin on my face.

“Well, you’re certainly not the only stoner in this group,” I laugh, my eyes wandering to Mavren—smearing globs of blue cheese onto the rounds of grilled bread, drizzling golden honey in thin ribbons across their surface. “And when you say florist—are you being cheeky?” I pump my snowy white brows at Ronan.

He throws back his head and laughs.

“I don’t grow cannabis, no.” He leans in before adding in a stage whisper, “Not professionally, at least.”

Ronan’s close enough now that I catch his scent—that fresh, after rain smell, peaty oakmoss that reminds you of expensive scotch, and the sweet, herbal funk of geranium; a floral scent that has always seemed to me as if roses and weed had some kind of beautiful hippie lovechild.

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