Page 40 of Knotting With A Stranger

11

LILY

The morning sun filters through the cabin windows. I’ve barely slept, the confession from James playing on repeat in my mind like a suspense movie I can’t stop watching. Every time I think about it, I want to be both sick and giddy at once. Butterflies perform an entire circus routine in my stomach while my brain screams danger.

How can I be terrified, furious, and excited simultaneously? Something is seriously wrong with me. Of course, he would be drop-dead gorgeous. Of course, I would fawn all over him like a lovesick teenager. Why couldn’t it just be a simple attraction? But no… he had to be him.

The clock on the microwave reads 6:42 a.m. My mind won’t shut off. Questions circle like vultures. What did he do? How long was he in prison? Is he dangerous? And most disturbing of all—why am I still attracted to him knowing what I know?

Hot liquid suddenly burns my fingers, snapping me back to reality.

“Shit!” I hiss, yanking my hand away as coffee continues pouring from the pot, overflowing the mug’s rim. I lunge for the dish towel hanging from the oven door, nearly knocking over the sugar canister in my haste. Dark brown liquid spreads across the counter like a miniature flood. The rich aroma of French roast fills the air, a pleasant scent at odds with my frantic scrambling.

While I mop up the mess, my mind races ahead to Hannah finding out. My sister’s words echoes in my head.The truth is, you’ve been texting a prisoner who lied to you for weeks. Who knows what else he’s lying about?If he’d been a guard working there, he wouldn’t be hiding it, right? The man I’ve been sharing my thoughts with, flirting with, dreaming about,isa criminal.

Just perfect. Another stellar pick from my impeccable taste in men. Dad would be so proud.

The coffee soaks through the thin towel, staining my fingertips brown. I throw it in the sink and grab another, crouching to wipe up the puddle on the floor. My hair falls in my face, and I blow it away in frustration.

“Three strikes and you’re out, Lily,” I mutter to myself. “First, the wannabe rock star who stole your credit card. Then, the charming accountant with the secret wife. And now...” I trail off, scrubbing harder at a stubborn drop. “Now a convict. You really know how to pick ‘em.”

Heart racing, I finally get the kitchen cleaned up and grab my coffee-filled mug. That’s when I hear it—a soft exhale behind me that wasn’t there a second ago.

“Morning.”

The single, deep male’s word sends an electric current racing up my spine. I turn, and there he is, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen. My throat goes dry.

James is not just handsome—he’s sinful. That copper hair tousled from sleep, falling across his forehead in a way that calls to me. His jaw, shadowed with stubble, clenches slightlyas our eyes meet. He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt that stretches across shoulders broad enough to make the doorframe seem small, the fabric clinging to muscles that ripple with the smallest movement. A vein runs down his forearm, prominent and masculine. Storm-gray eyes watch me closely and leave me covered in goosebumps, as if he’s cataloging every detail, searching for weaknesses.

There’s something feral about him in the morning—less polished, more dangerous. A small scar cuts traces along his jawline. Marks of violence that only enhance his appeal, which says something deeply concerning about my psyche.

I try to catch my breath without being obvious. In that split second, I make a decision—act like I know nothing. Because how exactly do you casually bring up, “So, prison, huh? What were you in for? Nothing murdery, I hope?” And God, all those serial killer jokes I made in our messages...

“Sleep well?” I ask, aiming for nonchalance but landing somewhere closer to breathless. My fingers tighten around my mug, seeking something solid to ground me.

One corner of his mouth quirks up. It’s not quite a smile—more like he’s laughing at a private joke. “Not particularly.” His eyes never leave mine, unblinking, unwavering. The intensity in them has me feeling like prey being assessed by a predator who isn’t particularly hungry but might hunt for sport.

I take a sip of coffee to hide whatever expression might be betraying me. It burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain as a distraction from the heat building elsewhere in my body.

“So, looks like the storm is even worse this morning.” Outside, the snow continues to fall in thick, heavy flakes, obscuring everything beyond a few feet of the glass.

His grin widens, predatory and knowing. “It sure is.” Simple words that somehow carry the weight of a threat—or a promise.

I’m dying on the inside, melting like sugar in hot water. My legs feel unsteady, my skin too tight, too sensitive. Every nerve ending stands at attention, hyperaware of his presence, the distance between us, and the air molecules that separate our bodies.

He pushes off from the doorframe with the lazy grace of a panther and crosses to the coffeemaker. The kitchen suddenly feels the size of a postage stamp. He doesn’t touch me as he moves past, but the heat radiating from his body might as well be a physical caress. I can feel it dancing along my bare arms, making the fine hairs rise.

My breath locks in my throat. I step sideways, trying to maintain some distance, but my hip bumps against the counter. There’s nowhere to go. He reaches for a cabinet above my head, his arm creating a momentary cage. I catch a whiff of his scent—cedar and something darker, richer, with an undercurrent of raw masculinity that makes my toes curl inside my socks. My knees actually wobble.

He pulls down a mug, deliberately slow, his bicep flexing inches from my face. When he lowers his arm, his knuckles brush against my shoulder. The touch is so brief, I might have imagined it, but the trail of fire it leaves on my skin is unmistakable.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs in a low rumble that I feel more than hear. He’s close enough that his breath stirs the curls by my ear.

I nod jerkily and slide farther along the counter, putting precious inches between us. My heart pounds like I’ve just sprinted uphill.

He pours his coffee. The quiet domesticity of the action feels somehow obscene, given the electricity crackling in the air between us. He doesn’t add cream or sugar, just lifts themug to his lips and takes a sip, eyes closing briefly in apparent satisfaction.

“How do you like it?” I blurt out, then immediately want to sink through the floor when his eyes snap open, darkening with something that looks suspiciously like desire.

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