Page 59 of Knotting on Heaven's Door

I hummed to myself all the way home, stopped at the bakery near my building and picked up a slice of guava cheesecake, just because I could. The late afternoon sun hit the windows of my apartment just right, warm and soft like a kiss against the walls. I dropped my keys in the ceramic bowl by the door, kicked off my shoes, and lit my favorite candle—musk, vanilla, and just a hint of sandalwood. My little corner of peace.

Music drifted from the speaker, low and jazzy. I tossed myself onto the massive pillow pile on my couch—green velvet, cream boucle, soft textures I'd spent a ridiculous amount of time arranging just right. My body sank into them, sighing with contentment.

Two seconds later, my phone buzzed.

Sebastian:Friday okay?

I blinked. Then frowned.

Me:For what?

Sebastian:Our date.

Me:It’s not a date.

There was a pause, and then:

Sebastian:Fine. Dinner. With someone you once let ravage you on a kitchen counter. Better?

I rolled my eyes so hard they almost got stuck.

Me:You’re impossible.

Sebastian:And yet… you haven’t blocked me.

Me:I’m considering it.

Sebastian:You say that, but I know you’re laying on your forest-colored pillow throne right now, smiling at your screen.

I bit my lip. Damned alpha was right.

Me:Whatever. Friday works.

Sebastian:Looking forward to it. Should I wear something that screams “unemployed but trying”?

Me:That’s your entire wardrobe, isn’t it?

Sebastian:Ouch. Harsh. I might show up shirtless in protest.

Me:That’s not the threat you think it is.

Sebastian:Knew it. You do miss me.

I didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the screen, that stupid smirk of his practically radiating through the glass.

Then I sent:

Me:Shut up, Laurente. Before I change my mind.

Sebastian:Yes, boss.

The moment the message thread with Sebastian ended, I tossed my phone facedown on the coffee table like it was on fire.

Absolutely not.

No more flirting. No more thinking about that stupid smirk or those stupid ocean-blue eyes or the fact that I had agreed—technically—to go on anot-datewith him. I needed a distraction. Something brainless. Numbing. Anything that didn’t involve a six-foot-something alpha with magic hands and a voice that made my spine melt.

I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, flipping throughchannels until I landed on some ridiculous Mexican soap opera. It had all the right ingredients—melodrama, dramatic stares, fake mustaches, and enough betrayal to put an entire pack war to shame.

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