Page 41 of Knot the Last Chapter

He adds, “Also excellent cheekbones, but I was trying to be literary.”

I laugh. “You’re trouble.”

“Only the good kind.”

Misty pads in, leaping silently into my lap like she’s been waiting for her cue. I stroke her back, grateful for the anchor.

“How long until the winds die down?” I ask.

He glances at the window, gauging their quality. I imagine him sitting here over the years, learning from storms as effortlessly as he reads books. “An hour, maybe two. We’ve got time.”

He leans over to pluck a book off the side table. “Want to read aloud while we wait? I’ll even let you pick a Poirot.”

I smile and settle deeper into the chair. “You’re on.”

As I read, his gaze drifts from the page to my face, and I feel it. That steady, building warmth. The kind that doesn’t burn you up. It draws you in.

And in the back of my mind, I know the next page of my own story just turned.

Chapter twenty-two

Corwyn

Ishould be able to focus. I’ve read this particular Poirot mystery five times. I know who did it, how they did it, and what seemingly insignificant detail Hercule will smugly pull out of his back pocket to unveil the truth.

But none of that matters.

Because Lila is sitting beside me, in my grandfather’s chair, her legs curled beneath her, one hand resting on the cat in her lap, the other gently turning pages. Her voice is smooth, lightly amused, threaded with subtle tension.

And I can’t remember a damn thing about the plot.

Her scent curls through the room like smoke—not heat-ripe yet, but close. It pulls at something low in my spine. Something I pride myself on keeping tightly leashed. Until now.

The firelight dances across her skin, softening the edges of her features, casting golden shadows along her collarbone and the hollow of her throat. Her hair, still slightly damp from her shower, catches the flickering glow, gleaming like burnished copper. The oversized shirt she's wearing falls off one shoulderin the most distracting way imaginable. Misty’s soft purring is the only sound apart from the fire and her voice.

I glance sideways.

She has the kind of beauty that sneaks up on you. At first, it’s all softness and cleverness, quick wit and sharper glances. But then you start noticing everything. The slope of her neck. The way her lips curl up when she laughs. The way her voice lifts just slightly when she’s passionate about something.

She’s more alive tonight than she was when she first arrived, and I want to believe I had something to do with that.

She pauses, mid-sentence.

“Corwyn,” she says dryly, “you're not even pretending to follow the plot.”

I blink.Caught. “I am.”

She arches a brow. “Then who just walked into the salon with mud on their boots?”

I hesitate.

She grins. “It wasn’t Poirot.”

I chuckle, surrendering. “Fine. You caught me. I’m distracted.”

“By?”

“By you.”

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