Page 15 of Knotting With A Stranger

“She’d tell stories about the books coming alive at night,” I say softly.

“And dance with Dad between the shelves,” Hannah adds.

Dad’s arm tightens around my shoulders. For a moment, I swear I can smell Mom’s perfume—vanilla and cinnamon and home.

The library feels warmer with us three together. Less like hiding and more like choosing our own joy, just like Mom used to.

“Five more minutes?” Hannah asks softly.

“Ten,” Dad and I say together.

“So, Lily,” Hannah says, settling into a worn armchair now. “Who’s James then?”

I concentrate very hard on my dumpling. “Ah, no one. Had to say something to get them off my back.”

“Yeah, right.” Hannah’s eyes narrow. “Sounded pretty real to me. The way you gave details about him...”

I shrug, meeting her gaze. “How about you enlighten us on who your secret lover boy is? You think I haven’t noticed you sneaking off at night for a couple of days here and there, your hushed phone calls...”

The color drains from Hannah’s face. Her fingers twist in her lap. “I wish that was a boy,” she says quietly. “Trust me, it’s not.”

Dad reaches over and squeezes her hand, no questions asked. That’s the thing about Dad—he knows when to push and when to just be there.

“You know,” Dad says softly, his voice carrying that same gentle tone he used when we were kids and the world seemed too big, too scary. “Your mother always said the hardest battles weface aren’t the ones thrown at us but the ones we carry inside.” He looks between us, his eyes full of quiet understanding. “Whatever it is, whenever you’re ready… we’re here.”

Hannah smiles and, in turn, has me grinning.

We sit in comfortable silence, sharing dumplings and the quiet understanding that sometimes family isn’t about blood or tradition or fancy parties. Sometimes, it’s about hiding in libraries, plotting escapes, and knowing exactly who will help you hide a body—metaphorical or otherwise.

The bells on the rooftop Santa sleigh start to chime, making us all jump. Through the library window, more snow falls, turning the world soft and quiet. My phone stays silent in my pocket. No messages from James even though it’s Christmas Eve, but somehow it matters a little less now.

Mom always said the best things take time. Maybe she was right about that, too.

“Ready to face the wolves again?” Hannah asks.

“Yeah,” I say, standing up, joined by Dad.

Together, we head back into the Christmas Eve chaos, a united front against whatever the evening might bring. And if I find myself staring at Michael and his new Omega’s easy affection or the way Charles anticipates Rebecca’s needs... well, maybe wanting something doesn’t mean you’re broken for not having it yet.

Maybe it just means your heart knows what it’s waiting for.

4

LILY

For most of the morning, I’ve been playing catch-up in the kitchen while Hannah handles the steady stream of customers filtering through our storefront. Flour & Fable Bakery isn’t huge—just the long glass counter showcasing our daily offerings, the register area where Hannah works her magic with the customers, and the main domain—the kitchen visible through the wide archway behind the counter when the door is open.

Even with Christmas packed away and already one week into the new year, I’m still hummingJingle Bellswhile the industrial mixer whirs, my hands working through another batch of cinnamon rolls. They’re still selling out faster than fresh coffee. These are Mom’s recipe—the one that took her three years to perfect, tweaking the cream cheese ratio until it was exactly right. Even now, years after losing her, I still catch myself turning to share a joke or ask her opinion, usually right when I’m dusting flour off my favorite plum-colored dress that she would’ve lovingly scolded me for wearing in the kitchen.

Then, a new scent finds me, and I’m breathing it in deeper, unable to get enough. It stops me in my tracks, something inside me fluttering…

Between one heartbeat and the next, my world narrows to that scent—bergamot, old books, and autumn leaves, with an underlying sweetness that makes my insides flutter. The mixing bowl slips in my suddenly trembling hands, but I catch it before nearly sending frosting everywhere.

I set the bowl down with shaking fingers as I drift toward the kitchen archway. Through the open doorway, I spot Hannah manning the counter, boxing up pastries. The bakery is in full swing, regulars clustered around, the bell above the door chiming every few minutes with new customers.

But the usual comfortable chaos of our little shop fades to background noise as I step into the main bakery. Everyone keeps glancing up from their conversation, trying to be subtle about their staring and failing miserably.

Because there he is.

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