Page 22 of Knot the Last Chapter

Corwyn whistles low. “If she’s on the water...”

“She probably just doesn’t have service,” I say, more to myself than to them. “I know that. But I—”

“You’re worried,” Rhys finishes.

I nod.

Corwyn studies me for a moment, some of the humor softening into something more serious. “I’ve seen you withwomen before, Ty. Plenty of them.” He waves a hand vaguely. “But I’ve never seen you… like this.”

“Like what?”

“Invested.” His voice drops, quiet and even. “You don’t get distracted. You don’t pace. And you definitely don’t care this much about someone you’ve never even seen face-to-face.”

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. The storm’s scent presses in—wet earth, charged air, sharp and alive. The wind shifts again, sending a scatter of petals across the porch.

“I feel like I know her,” I say softly. “I know her laugh, I know how her mind works, I know how she hides her fear behind her sarcasm. And I want—” I stop, swallowing hard. “I want to see her. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Neither of them says anything right away.

Rhys finally nods. “You care. That’s not a bad thing.”

Corwyn’s smile turns warm, losing its edge. “You’ve always been the steady one, Ty. Nothing ever got under your skin like this. But maybe that’s the point.”

I lean on the railing, watching the dark clouds roll over the far ridge. The rain’s closer now. The kind that hits in sheets, blinding.

“She’s going to text when she gets back,” I say quietly, like a prayer.

“She will,” Rhys agrees.

I nod, heart tight.

The rain starts, fast and heavy, drumming against the roof like a warning bell.

I wipe my hands clean and finally set the roller down.

For now, all I can do is wait.

Chapter thirteen

Rhys

The storm hits harder than expected.

I know this island like I know my own hands—where the ridges dip, where the trees bow, where the wind carves its fastest path—but this front came faster than any forecast predicted. The rain drives in sideways, heavy and sharp, with that tight, charged edge that makes your teeth hum.

The four-wheeler groans beneath me as I circle the property for one last pass. The fences are intact. The orchard lost a few weak branches, but nothing serious. The main house stands firm, just like always. She was built right. Solid stone, heavy timber, the kind of craftsmanship that knows how to hold its ground.

I shift my weight and scan the tree line again, making sure nothing's loose that could come crashing down. The wind sharpens, rattling branches overhead. I’ve lived my whole life here, and storms like this make you respect the land. You learn to watch it carefully.

Then I see it.

A flash of white along the cove.

I cut the engine fast and jog toward the shoreline. There, caught on the rocks near the mouth of the inlet, is what’s left of a boat—small, personal, the kind you take out for a short trip across the lake. The bow’s cracked, the hull split near the base. It was lucky to even reach the cove.

Lucky—but not empty.

There’s movement on the shoreline. A figure scrambling up out of the water, half-soaked, fighting the wind.

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