Page 41 of Knotting With A Stranger

“Like what?” he asks neutrally, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth that suggests he knows exactly what effect he’s having on me.

“The coffee,” I clarify, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. “Sweet? Bitter?”

“Black,” he says. “I prefer things... unaltered.” His gaze rakes over me slowly, from my tangled curls to my borrowed sweatpants, lingering on the places in-between. “Pure.”

I nearly choke on my own sip of coffee. Is he flirting with me? Or am I reading into things because my hormones have apparently overridden my common sense?

“I, um…” My words tangle. I never stammer. Ever. My quick wit is my superpower—the thing Hannah always says will either make me famous or get me killed someday. Right now, my brain has apparently decided to take a vacation, leaving me with nothing but basic motor functions and an embarrassing awareness of how my nipples are tightening beneath my thin sleep shirt. “It’s hot.”

His eyebrow rises fractionally. “The coffee?”

“Yes. The coffee. What else would I—” I stop myself, feeling like I’m digging my own grave with every word. “Just... hot coffee. Good. Morning. Necessary.”

“Articulate,” he says dryly, but there’s that twitch at his mouth again.

“I’m not awake yet,” I manage, trying to gather the scattered pieces of my dignity. “Half a cup minimum before I form complete sentences.”

“Noted.” He leans back against the counter opposite me, creating a blessed space between us, though his gaze maintains its hold. “You always this jumpy in the mornings?”

“Only when I’m trapped in unfamiliar cabins during blizzards.” I glance down momentarily at my mug. “Not exactly a normal Tuesday for me.”

“Is it Tuesday?” A shadow crosses his face. “I’ve lost track.”

I wonder if that’s a side effect of prison—losing track of days. The thought sobers me.

The toaster dings behind me, making me jump. My coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim of my mug. I spin around, grateful for the distraction, and grab my toast with trembling fingers. My hands are shaking so badly, I nearly drop the plate.

I feel his eyes on my back, a physical weight between my shoulder blades. The kitchen feels too warm, too small, too charged with unspoken things. I move to the refrigerator, desperate for something to do with my hands, with my body that seems determined to betray me at every turn.

Opening the refrigerator door, I welcome the cold air on my flushed face. Get it together. You are in control. Don’t let his presence affect you. He’s just a man. An incredibly attractive, possibly dangerous man who makes your insides liquefy, but still just a man.

I’m so focused on my internal pep talk that, suddenly, he’s behind me, his massive frame blocking the light from the window, heat emanating from him like a furnace. I freeze, one hand on the refrigerator door, the other clutching my plate so hard, my knuckles turn white.

He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t need to. I can feel the solid wall of his chest inches from my back, sense the controlled power in his body. His arm reaches past me into the refrigerator, his sleeve brushing against mine so lightly it might be accidental—but nothing about his movements feels accidental.

“Excuse me,” he says again, voice pitched low, intimate.

My breathing turns shallow, my pulse a staccato rhythm in my throat. I can’t move. I’m pinned in place by nothing but his presence and my own traitorous body.

He takes his time selecting what he wants—butter, I realize, watching his long fingers close around the dish. The moment stretches, elastic with tension. Then he withdraws, taking a step back, and I can breathe again.

I snatch the jam. My hands shake as I arrange my meager breakfast on the counter.

“Maybe if the storm lets up, it’ll be a good time to head out,” I say too brightly, spreading jam on my toast with unsteady hands. “I mean, there’s not much food in the fridge anyway, right?”

I laugh nervously, the sound high and unnatural to my ears.

“Oh, there’s plenty of food,” he says, tone casual but eyes intent. He gestures with his butter knife when I glance at him, the movement somehow graceful despite its mundanity. “Have you not seen the fridge downstairs? It’s filled with game—all kinds of meat. We could live out here for six months without leaving.”

His hands are large but strangely elegant, with prominent veins and a dusting of copper hair across the knuckles. They’re strong hands, capable of violence—or tenderness.

The thought makes my stomach flip.

“Six months?” I gasp before I can stop myself. “Perfect place to kidnap and keep someone trapped.”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to crawl under the floorboards. My cheeks burn as I stare fixedly at my half-buttered toast. Way to go, Lily. Bring up kidnapping to the ex-con. Brilliant conversation starter.

James pauses mid-bite, regarding me with an unreadable expression. Then he laughs, the sound rich and dark like meltedchocolate but with an edge that raises the hair on the back of my neck.

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