Page 122 of Knot Like Other Girls

Right now, I need to keep a clear head.

I follow the alphas up the porch steps, drinking in the sight of the cabin. It's beautiful in a rugged, understated way. The logs are weathered to a soft gray, and hanging baskets overflow withvibrant wildflowers. So different from the soulless modernity I've grown used to.

Roman opens the heavy wooden door, revealing an open living area bathed in golden light from the setting sun. A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, flanked by built-in bookshelves crammed with well-worn paperbacks. Overstuffed leather couches and chairs form a cozy semicircle, folded throw blankets draped invitingly over their arms.

"Wow," I breathe, taking it all in. "This is..."

"Not what you expected?" Troy asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"It's perfect."

He gives a low chuckle. "Bedrooms are down that hall," he says, gesturing. "You can have your pick. Except the big one at the end—that's apparently for the pack leader. Although I'm sure he'd be open to sharing."

There’s no mistaking the teasing in Troy’s words and it’s clearly directed at Roman for some past scuffle between them.

Roman shoots him an irritated look. "Don't start." When he turns back to me, he's nothing but warm. "You can have any room."

I grin a little. "Noted."

As we move deeper into the cabin, I try to take in every detail. The wooden beams overhead are massive, crossing the vaulted ceiling like the ribs of some great beast. The floors are wide-plank hardwood, worn smooth by years of use and gleaming with a warm patina that only comes with age and care. Everything here feels substantial, built to last. Nothing like the trendy, disposable furnishings that filled the penthouse.

I step further into the main room, taking it all in. The kitchen opens to the right. Not the sleek, barely-used showpiece of Braxley's penthouse, but a warm, functional space with copper pots hanging from a rack and a massive island topped withbutcher block. Troy immediately makes his way there, opening the refrigerator and cabinets with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where everything is.

"Anyone hungry?" he calls out, already pulling ingredients from the fridge. "I'm thinking comfort food for our first night. Baked mac and cheese with that smoked salmon I froze last time we were here?"

"You had me at mac and cheese," I say, wandering over to lean against the counter.

The windows along the back wall frame an incredible view of the mountains and lake. The sun hangs low now, coloring everything in warm, rich amber hues straight out of a Bob Ross painting. Happy little trees as far as the eye can see.

"Go explore," Troy says, nodding toward the hallway. "Cole can show you around while I get this started. All he does is lurk. Knows all the best spots."

Cole appears silently at my side with my luggage as if he'd been there all along, gesturing for me to follow him. I do, happily. Maybe he'll be less aloof if we get a few minutes alone together.

"All the rooms are similar," Cole says, opening the first door to reveal a cozy bedroom with a queen-sized bed and rustic furnishings. "Take your pick."

I peek into several rooms, each with its own character—different quilts, different views from the windows, but all sharing the same comfortable, lived-in feel. None of the rooms look like hotel suites or like they're just for display. They look like homes.

"This one," I decide when we reach the fourth door. The room faces the lake, with a huge window spanning the entire wall and a small private deck. A handmade quilt in shades of blue and green covers the bed, and a reading nook is tuckedinto the corner with a plush chair and a small bookshelf full of paperbacks.

Cole nods, setting my suitcase just inside the door. His eyes scan the room, assessing. "Good sight lines."

I can't help but smile at his security assessment. "That's why I picked it. Totally. Not because of the view or anything."

The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be the beginning of a smile. "The view's not bad either."

Judging from the way he's looking at me, he doesn't just mean the landscape. My cheeks heat up all over again, watching him as he effortlessly lifts my luggage onto the foot of the bed.

He doesn't leave after that. Instead, he hovers near the door, his gaze still following me like I'm the most interesting thing in the world as I move through the space. I run my fingers over the quilt, the skilled stitches bumpy beneath my fingertips.

"Handmade?" I ask.

Cole nods. "Savva."

I blink in surprise. "Savva made this?"

"Picked up sewing in spec ops. Needed something to do with his hands during downtime." Cole shifts his weight, looking almost uncomfortable sharing this information. "I carve, he sews. Fitting, I guess."

I try to picture elegant, aristocratic Savva hunched over a sewing machine, creating this intricate piece of art, and somehow it makes sense. His perfectionism, his attention to detail… all of it shows in the careful pattern of the quilt.

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