Page 31 of Knotting With A Stranger

Something soft and vulnerable flickers across his face. “I have a few back at my place in town.” He pauses. “My biggest obsession is my 1845 copy ofThe RavenfromGraham’s Magazine. Found it in an antique shop when I was twelve. My mom used to read Poe to me during thunderstorms.”

The raw honesty in his words makes my heart squeeze. “That’s incredibly rare.”

“‘Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,’” he quotes softly, eyes distant with memory. “Those lines... they meant everything the year I lost my mom. Still do. Sometimes the darkness you’re staring into isn’t just darkness—it’s everything you’re afraid to face, everything you’ve lost.”

“I love that you know it by heart,” I say, surprising myself with how gentle my response sounds.

His gaze finds mine again, and something electric passes between us. We’re standing closer now, though I don’t remember moving.

“What about you?” he asks. “Any other lines that stayed with you?”

“‘We loved with a love that was more than love,’” I quote softly, my heart thundering in my chest. The words feel dangerous here, alone with him in this cabin, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

His breath catches. For a moment, he’s perfectly still, looking at me like I’ve just handed him a key to something precious.

“You really are full of surprises.”

I should step back. Should break this moment before it overwhelms us both. Instead, I find myself asking, “What other secrets are you hiding besides your love of gothic poetry?”

“Many,” he freely admits, his smile turning enigmatic. “But somehow, I think you might be the most dangerous one that’s walked through these doors.”

His eyes lock with mine, and the intensity in them makes my breath deepen. For a moment, we’re both perfectly still. Him towering over me. Pulse on fire in my veins. I’ve never met anyone else who enjoys such gothic literature as I do.

“Come on,” he says finally. “There’s more to see upstairs.”

I follow him, trying to ignore how every step feels like I’m moving closer to something I might not be ready for… but can’t seem to resist.

We pass a bathroom where an open door reveals marble and chrome and a bottle of what I’m sure is obscenely expensive perfume.

The next room Archer shows me is clearly a gym. He leads me to the end of the hall, opening a door to reveal a room that somehow manages to be both luxurious and cozy. A window seat overlooks the mountains—or would if the storm wasn’t turningeverything into shifting shadows. The en suite bathroom is bigger than my kitchen.

“This is you. Your haven until the storm passes,” he says.

I try not to think about the implications of being in the same home as him and Hunter. Or how the storm seems to be pressing us closer together in this space that suddenly feels very small.

“I should let you get settled,” he says, but doesn’t move.

Thunder rolls outside, and I swear I can feel it in my bones. Or maybe that’s just the effect of having him so close, his scent surrounding me, his height making me feel deliciously small.

“Right,” I manage. “Settled.”

His chuckle grows loud, and he gives me a wink as he backs away, leaving me to wonder what exactly I’ve gotten myself into. And why the prospect of seeing him again thrills me more than it should.

He leaves me alone, and I stick my head out into the hallway to notice he’s gone. Hearing the muffle of voices downstairs, I assume it’s Archer and Hunter chatting.

That’s when I find myself staring at a photo that stops me in my tracks.

The black-and-white image shows two people outside what looks like an old-fashioned bakery. One is clearly Hunter’s grandfather, based on the other photos, decades younger but with the same strong features. And the woman beside him, laughing at something out of frame...

“Wait.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “That’s... that’s my grandmother. In her first bakery.”

8

ARCHER

I’m chopping carrots in Hunter’s kitchen, the thud of the knife against the cutting board almost drowning out the howling wind outside. Fuck, the blizzard’s gotten worse in the last hour, turning the windows into solid sheets of white. Something about the storm feels wrong—too intense, too purposeful, as if it’s trying to keep us all trapped here. As if it’s hiding something out there.

“You know,” Hunter states from behind me, and I glance back to see him rustling through his walk-in pantry. “You don’t have to cook.” He emerges with a jar of honey-roasted peanuts, but there’s tension in his shoulders I’ve never seen before. “We could just...”

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