Page 19 of Knot Happening

But attraction without biological compatibility is just frustration with extra steps.

"I'll see you Tuesday," Belle says, walking me to the main entrance. "I'm excited to see what you come up with."

"I think you'll be pleased," I reply, though I'm already thinking less about architectural designs and more about having another excuse to spend time with Belle Hartwell.

As I drive away from the library, my mind is racing with more than just space planning and structural requirements. Belle has sparked something in me that goes beyond simple appreciation of intelligence and beauty.

There's something addictive about her enthusiasm, her curiosity, her genuine care for others. It makes me want to know more about her thoughts and opinions.

Which is exactly the kind of thinking that leads to complications I can't afford.

Marcus, Theo, and I have a plan. We've been searching for our omega for years, investing time and energy and hope in finding the person who can complete our pack bond. Getting distracted by an unavailable beta, no matter how compelling, would be a betrayal of that commitment.

But as I pull into our driveway and see the lights on in our too-large, too-empty house, I can't stop thinking about Belle's question: Don't you get lonely?

The answer is yes. More than I want to admit, more than I let myself acknowledge most of the time.

And spending two hours with Belle Hartwell has only made that loneliness feel more acute.

Tuesday's meeting suddenly feels like both a professional obligation and a personal temptation. Because while I know Belle can't be what I need, I'm starting to suspect she might be exactly what I want.

And that's a complication I'm not sure how to handle.

10

BELLE

My apartment is small like a box, which is why Adam and I spend a lot of time in the library. Especially, because he had two choices in life: get a job that pays well or work with me and books. He chose the latter, besides his family are one of the wealthiest in town, so living with his parents means they built an outhouse in the ten acres that they call their backyard and Adam lives in it. Not quite the same as living in a room with your parents.

He's lucky. My parents didn't have money, so I've always had to do things alone, especially when they both died when I was twenty-three. Mom went first from breast cancer that spread faster than anyone expected, and Dad followed six months later from lung cancer, though he'd never smoked a day in his life. Sometimes I think he just couldn't figure out how to live without her.

My love for cooking allows me to bake in my studio apartment, and that's about it. The kitchen is basically a hot plate, a mini-fridge, and a counter that doubles as my dining table. Even though Adam does question how I can manage to create elaborate desserts in what he refers to as a closet with plumbing.

"You locked all doors?" I ask, as he returns from checking the library's main entrance and staff exit.

"Uh-huh. I have done it before, Belle, you don't need to ask me again," he replies.

The library after hours feels like a completely different place. Without the constant hum of conversation, the shuffle of feet on hardwood floors, and the gentle sounds of pages turning, it becomes something almost sacred. The tall windows let in just enough streetlight to cast everything in soft shadows, making the familiar spaces feel mysterious and intimate.

This is our place, really. More than my cramped studio apartment or Adam's perfectly appointed but still-parental guest house. Here, surrounded by thousands of stories and decades of accumulated knowledge, we can be completely ourselves without worrying about neighbors hearing through thin walls or parents dropping by unannounced.

"Okay," I say, settling into one of the comfortable reading chairs near the poetry section and pulling my legs up under me. "We need to talk about this whole ball situation."

Adam groans, dropping into the chair across from me with the kind of dramatic flair he only shows when we're alone. "Do we have to? Can't we just pretend the invitations were a group hallucination and go back to our normal lives of quiet desperation?"

"Quiet desperation?" I laugh, though there's more truth in his words than either of us wants to acknowledge. "Is that what we're calling our lives now?"

"Well, what would you call it?" Adam challenges, but he's smiling. "Two nearly-thirty librarians who spend their evenings hiding in their workplace, discussing fictional characters' love lives while avoiding their own complete lack of romantic prospects?"

The description stings because it's accurate. We are hiding, in a way. From the constant questions about why we're both still single, from the well-meaning but exhausting attempts at matchmaking, from the growing pressure to settle down and start families like everyone else our age seems to be doing.

"I prefer 'selective social engagement,'" I reply primly, making Adam snort with laughter.

"Is that what we're calling it when Mrs. Henderson cornered you at the grocery store last week and spent twenty minutes explaining why her nephew would be perfect for you?" Adam asks.

"That was different. Her nephew is twenty-two, lives in his mother's basement, and collects vintage comic books."

"Hey, don't knock vintage comic books," Adam protests. "Some of those are worth serious money."

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