Page 29 of Knotting With A Stranger

“That’s an original Hemingway you’re mocking,” Archer defends. “Some of us appreciate things that don’t involve climbing gear and protein bars.”

“You installed a climate control system just for your books.”

“A signed first edition ofThe Old Man and the Searequires certain standards, you mountain savage.” The warmth in Archer’s tone takes any sting from the words. “Not all of us want to live like we’re still sleeping in caves.”

“Says the man who spent more on a single book than my truck cost.”

“That Fitzgerald was an investment!”

I glance back and forth, unable to stop grinning at their banter.

Their laughter makes me forget for a moment that I’m stranded in a storm with two men who radiate enough Alpha energy to power a small city. Almost forget, anyway—my body hasn’t quite gotten the memo about playing it cool.

Even my breathing has gone shallow, and I find myself swaying subtly toward them like they’re generating their own gravitational pull. The warmth pooling in my belly has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the wayArcher’s eyes keep finding mine or how Hunter’s deep voice seems to resonate through my entire body.

I catch myself wondering what that rare book collection looks like, then mentally shake myself.Focus, Lily.This is not the time to geek out over first editions, no matter how many episodes of Antiques Roadshow you’ve binged. Though I have to admit, a man who gets this passionate about books is dangerously appealing to my inner literature nerd.

I swallow hard. I’m alone with two strange men during a huge storm. True, one of them made me weak-kneed in my bakery last week, and the other apparently saves lives for a living, but still. The true crime buff in me is cataloging all the ways this could go wrong.

Isolated cabin in a storm? Check.

No cell service? Check.

Two impossibly gorgeous men who are probably serial killers because isn’t that always how it goes in true crime shows? The handsome ones are always hiding something sinister. For all I know, that rare book collection could be bound in human skin, and Hunter’s rescue photos could be his way of picking out victims. I’ve watched enough Dateline to know that ‘mountain rescue specialist’could easily be code for ‘knows all the best places to hide bodies’.

I almost laugh at my own ridiculous thoughts. Most murderers don’t bicker about books and climbing gear like an old married couple.

But the way they’re both looking at me makes my skin flush despite the chill.

Grandma’s warnings about Alphas echo in my head.They’ll make your body betray you, little flower. The trick is not letting them see how much.

Too late for that, Grams. Way too late.

“I need to check the backup generators. Storm like this, we could lose power.” Hunter’s grin does little to mask the commanding presence that seems to roll off him in waves. “Thor, with me.”

The massive malamute that had been eyeing me from his spot by the fireplace rises, padding after his master. At least one of them seems to know what personal space means.

“Good, I’ll handle the tour then.” Archer’s smile spreads, and my stomach does that annoying flip thing again. “Unless you’d rather wait for our host, seeing as it’s his place?”

“Go ahead,” Hunter calls over his shoulder. “I won’t be long.”

The moment Hunter disappears down what I assume is the basement door, thunder crashes outside. The storm sounds closer now, angrier, like it’s trying to remind me why I’m stuck here. Archer steps closer, and immediately, I’m enveloped in his intoxicating scent—bergamot and old books and male, leaving my head spinning. Why does he smell so good?

“Shall we?” He gestures into the hallway. “I promise there are no secret passages, and you’re perfectly safe here.”

I arch an eyebrow at him, thinking of the small mace I carry in my bag, just in case. I tuck the bag under my arm. “That’s quite the specific reassurance there.”

“I can see the worry in your eyes.” His amber gaze softens with understanding. “And I don’t blame you. But this place... it’s home while you’re here.”

“Well, as long as there’s a decent kitchen,” I quip, trying to mask how his earnestness makes my heart flutter. “Though I have to warn you, my mom’s recipes have been known to cause addiction. Strictly the legal kind, of course.”

His laugh is warm and rich. “Ah yes, the famous family secrets. I look forward to trying more of your baked goods.”

“I once had the mayor’s wife camp outside my shop at five AM for the last slice of my apple pie.”

“Now that’s a story I need to hear.” He takes a step up the staircase, then turns back to me with a grin. “Perhaps over coffee? I make a mean espresso.”

“Careful there—a baker never reveals her secrets.” I climb the first step, deliberately ignoring how the shadows seem to shift and stretch along the walls. “But I might be persuaded if this espresso of yours lives up to the hype.”

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