Page 49 of Knot Only His

I scroll down further and pause at the security features listed. “24/7 surveillance,” “gated community with guards,” and “secure perimeter.” It’s like something out of a movie, too extravagant for everyday life.

My chest tightens; he must feel overwhelmed by all this change.

An unusual warmth spreads through me, tinged with an ache deep in my core that feels unsettlingly familiar. I brush it off, trying to focus on the screen in front of me, but it’s hard to ignore.

Then my phone buzzes on my desk, breaking my train of thought.

It’s Carver.

I answer quickly, feeling a rush of anticipation wash over me.

“Hey,” his voice comes through, smooth, like pina colada drizzling down your throat in the Caribbean. Strangely, like he smells.

“Hi!” I try to sound casual, even though butterflies flutter in my stomach.

“Are you looking at my contract yet?” he asks without preamble. He chuckles. “I know you won’t be able to help yourself. Do you know about the deal?”

“I do.”

“What do you think about the house?” He sounds both eager and uncertain. "Do you like it?"

“It’s...a lot.” My heart races again as I wonder how much he really wants this life.

“It is,” he admits quietly. “But it could be worth it.”

“Do you really want to leave New York?”

“I’ll follow you anywhere.”

His words send another jolt through me; warmth pools in my belly, mixing with that odd ache again.

“Would you follow me anywhere?”

“To the end.” He is quick to answer.

My heart pitters against my breastbone.

“Have lunch with me at twelve. I’ll pick you up,” he says.

“Carver—”

“Harlow. You know we’re going to be together.”

“We can’t. Colton—”

“Fuck Colton. He stole you from me when we were kids. I told him you were mine, and he took you, regardless. And I stood back all these years and waited for him to fuck up, and he did. Now—”

“Okay,” I murmur.

He sighs down the phone. “I’ll be there at twelve. But make sure you look at the whole contract, including my agent.”

He hangs up, and I quickly scan through the contract and press my hand over my heart, and gasp.

My name is in black and white next to his.

At 11.57 am, there’s a low purr of an engine outside. I push out of my chair and stroll to the window, and my heart stutters as Carver steps out of a sleek black sports car with that confident swagger he has.

He walks to the front of the car, leans against it, and checks his watch. He wears black trousers that cling to his muscular thighs and a matching shirt, the top button undone, revealing a hint of his collarbone. My gaze wanders to a tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve, bold and striking against his skin.

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