Page 14 of Knot on the Market

This town smells like fresh bread and hardware dust and second chances.

And maybe, just maybe, that's not such a bad thing.

As I head inside, I take the bouquet with me. And when I set it on the kitchen table next to my coffee cup and sketchbook, I can't help but notice how it makes the whole house smell a little bit like home.

Even if I'm not sure I'm ready to admit what that means yet.

I sit with the flowers for a while, turning that anonymous note over in my hands.From someone who's survived heartbreak too.The words feel like a gentle acknowledgment, a reminder that I'm not as alone as I thought.

But I can't sit here all day wondering about mysterious flower senders. I have real problems to solve. Like a porch that's slowly sinking into the ground.

I flip through my sketchbook, looking at the drawings I made when I crawled under the porch with a flashlight. Riverwas right, I need to talk to someone who understands old construction. Someone who can tell me if what I'm looking at is fixable or if I've bought myself a very expensive problem.

Callum at Everwood Supply. River said he was a bit of a grump but knew his stuff.

I grab my car keys and the sketchbook. It's time to find out just how much trouble I'm really in.

The drive to Everwood Supply takes me to the edge of town, where the neat shops give way to more industrial buildings. The lumber yard sits on several acres, with stacks of timber organized in neat rows and the kind of machinery that suggests serious construction work happens here.

I park next to a pickup truck that's seen better days and take a deep breath. Time to see if Callum can help me figure out whether my house is a charming fixer-upper or an expensive mistake.

And time to prove that I can handle getting professional advice without turning it into another rescue situation.

Chapter 6

Callum

My saw screams through cedar, drowning out most sounds, which is exactly how I like it. Wood doesn't lie, doesn't want things from you, doesn't leave you second-guessing every decision. It responds to skill and patience, and if you fuck it up, it's your own fault.

I'm measuring twice on a beam for the Morrison cabin when River Brooks appears at my workbench, wearing the kind of grin that means he's about to complicate my day.

I shut off the saw and pull my safety glasses up. "Workshop's closed."

"Got a problem at the store. Pretty omega asking about porch repair, but she's in over her head. Sent her your way." River leans against my workbench, careful not to disturb the lumber I've got staged. "She bought the Anderson place. Sight unseen. From Hollywood."

That explains the grin. The Anderson place is a money pit disguised as rustic charm. Beautiful bones buried under sixty years of deferred maintenance.

"From Hollywood?"

"Actress. But here's the thing. She showed up with hand-drawn sketches and measurements instead of throwing money at the problem. Asked me what tools she'd need to fix it herself." River's expression turns more serious. "Dean asked me to keep an eye out for her. Says she's had a rough time lately."

Dean's protective streak runs deeper than most people know. If he's specifically asking River to watch out for this one, there's more to her story.

"She asking for charity or help?"

"Hard to tell. But she crawled under the porch with a flashlight to get accurate measurements." River heads toward the door. "Anyone willing to get spider webs in their hair deserves a chance, don't you think?"

The image hits me unexpectedly. Some polished city omega on her hands and knees under a saggy porch, trying to figure out what she's dealing with. Either stupidly brave or desperately determined.

After River leaves, I finish the Morrison cuts and stack them. I'm organizing hardware when I hear a car pull up. Engine too quiet for local standards, probably still has that new-car smell.

City car, city girl, city problems.

She's smaller than I expected, compact and curved in ways that make my alpha instincts sit up and take notice. But there's something else. A carefulness in how she moves, like someone who's learned not to take up too much space.

She's trying to blend in instead of standing out, wearing practical jeans and boots, hair pulled back functionally rather than for style. But when she spots me through the window, she heads toward the office with the determined walk of someone who's talked herself into something that scares her.

I meet her at the door, and the first thing that hits me is her scent. Green apples, white musk, and something floral underneath that settles into my chest like it's been waiting forpermission to breathe. The kind of scent that makes a man forget why he decided to stay alone.

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