Page 21 of Knotting With A Stranger

“Lily, you need to think about this. A man who won’t tell you basic things about his life, who sends cropped photos?—”

“He listened when I talked about Mom,” I cut in, hating the way my tone breaks. “When I told him about finding her recipes, about how much I missed her. He understood that kind of loss. That wasn’t fake.”

“Or he’s really good at what he does.” Hannah stands, coming around to my side. “Con men don’t succeed by being obvious, Lily. They succeed by finding what people need and becoming exactly that.”

My phone sits silently in my trembling hands. No response. No typing dots. Nothing.

“I need air.” I head for the back door, but Hannah catches my arm.

“You need to delete and block his number.”

“I need to know the truth.”

“The truth?” Her tone rises slightly. “The truth is, you’ve been texting a prisoner who lied to you for weeks. Who knows what else he’s lying about? His name? His crime? Whether he’s even getting out?”

Each question lands like a blow. Because she’s right—of course, she’s right. Hannah’s always right about things. She was right about Marcus in college, about David last year, about every red flag I’ve ever tried to ignore.

But this feels different. The way he wrote about his grandfather’s death, about grief and healing. The way he made me laugh. The way talking to him felt more real than any conversation I’ve had with any guy, ever.

“Give me the laptop,” I whisper.

“Lily...”

“Please.”

She hesitates, then slides it over. I go to the government inmate locator site and type in his name and correctional location.

Eight James pop up. I don’t know his surname… My gut aches and I’m going to be sick.

I close the laptop.

“Get rid of his number,” Hannah says softly. “Whatever this was... it wasn’t real.”

But that’s the thing about real connections—they don’t feel any less real just because they’re impossible. They don’t hurt any less just because you should have known better.

I stare at our last exchange. I could demand answers. Could tell him I know the truth. Could...

Instead, I set the phone face-down on the counter and turn back to my cream puffs. They at least make sense.

“You were right,” I tell Hannah, hating the sympathy in her eyes as I turn toward her. I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over his number.

Then I block him. Part of me feels wrong on the inside…

Hannah reaches for me, gives me a huge hug, then pulls back. “You did amazing, and now we need to figure out what we’re going to do about the Anderson-Pierce wedding.”

I blink at the sudden change of subject. “What about it?”

“Mike called. His delivery guy went to a different town first, and his truck broke down and we’re not getting our specialty flour shipment tomorrow. Could be weeks.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “We need that chocolate-cherry cake for the tasting on Thursday, and you know regular flour won’t give us the same texture for our baked goods either.”

“Seriously? Could this day get any better?” I drop my head onto the counter.

“Actually...” Hannah’s voice takes on that carefully casual tone she uses when she’s trying to help. “Pike Mill’s supply store has them in stock. I rang them but they have no staff to send for delivery. And all couriers are booked.”

I lift my head. “Pike Mill? That’s like three hours away.”

“Exactly.” She starts gathering empty mixing bowls. “You could take my car tomorrow morning. Crank up those awful breakup songs you pretend not to love. Maybe stop at that little coffee shop by the lake.” She bumps my shoulder. “Sometimes, a drive is the best way to clear your head. Get some perspective.”

“You just want me out of the kitchen before I stress-bake three dozen chocolate chip cookies.”

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