Page 49 of Knotting With A Stranger

I move in my seat toward her, closing some of the distance between us. “And what kind of guy does a baker from Whispering Grove usually encounter?”

She mimics my sitting posture, bringing our faces closer together. “The kind who thinkThe Great Gatsbyis a cocktail and poetry is what happens when song lyrics rhyme.”

That startles another laugh from me. “The dating pool’s that shallow, huh?”

“Calling it a pool is generous. It’s more of a puddle.” Her gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second. “A very small, very disappointing puddle.”

“And yet here you are, stranded in a cabin with three strange men in the middle of nowhere. Most would consider that a horror movie setup.”

“Maybe I’ve read too many gothic novels. The isolated manor, the mysterious host, the forbidden secrets...” Her lips curve in a half-smile. “Though I’m still waiting on the ghost.”

“No ghosts,” I assure her. “Just legends of buried treasure and a dog who’s apparently fallen in love with you.”

On cue, Thor whines from where he settles at her feet, his massive head resting on her sneakers.

“My father would love this place,” she says, looking around the book-lined walls. “He’s always fiddling with things in our backyard. Solar-powered gadgets, irrigation systems for his garden. Last year, he built this rainwater collection system that’s actually pretty clever.”

The abrupt change of subject feels deliberate, as if she’s steering us toward safer waters. I allow it, curious where she’s taking this.

“Sounds like a handy guy to have around,” I say. “Self-sufficient.”

“He had to be after Mom died.” Her tone lowers, turning to face me completely in her seat. “Single dad with two girls. He learned to braid hair from YouTube tutorials.”

The vulnerability in her admission tugs at something inside me.

“I built a solar-powered reading lamp when I was young,” I offer, surprising myself.

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

“My mom was sick for a week. Too weak to get up from bed. I wanted her to be able to read at night without straining herself.”

Lily’s hand finds my forearm, her touch warm through the fabric of my shirt. “Where is she now?”

“Six feet under in a cemetery outside Seattle.” The bluntness of my response surprises even me, but Lily doesn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry,” she says simply. “Mine’s in Whispering Grove Memorial Gardens. Plot 33B. I leave daisies every Sunday.”

No platitudes, no awkward sympathy. Just understanding, clean and sharp as a knife’s edge.

“Hunter’s grandfather stepped in after my mother passed,” I continue, the words coming easier than they should. “Became the father figure I needed. The old man had a way of collecting strays.”

“I get it,” she says quietly. “No matter how much time passes, they’re always there, aren’t they?”

The understanding in her eyes embraces me. I lean forward, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from her face. My fingertips graze her cheek, and she doesn’t pull away.

“Exactly,” I murmur.

Her hand slides from my arm to my chest, palm flat against my heart. Her fingers splay over the muscle there, and I wonder if she can feel how it thunders beneath her touch. We’re close now, too close for strangers, but we don’t feel like strangers. Her eyes drop to my mouth, and I lean closer, drawn by something I can’t—and don’t want to—resist.

I lower my attention to those pretty lips, and everything in me tightens with savage hunger. With a desperation to lean in and claim her. My hand slides to cup her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip. The skin there is soft, pliant. I’m salivating to taste her.

The door bangs open with the subtlety of a gunshot.

She jerks apart from me as Hunter strides in, carrying a tray with steaming mugs. His eyes flick between us, taking in our flushed faces and close proximity. A knowing smirk spreads across his face.

“Brought hot chocolate,” he announces, setting the tray down on the desk. “Saw you enter the study and figured you’d want some warming up.”

“Thanks,” Lily says. She stands and pulls back, but her eyes keep darting back to me with a heat that promises this isn’t over.

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