Page 4 of Knot on the Market

Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm heading for the front door and opening it.

A woman in her sixties stands on my broken porch, holding a plate covered with a checkered cloth. She's got silver hair pulled back in a neat bun, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and an apron that suggests she actually uses her kitchen for more than storing takeout containers.

"You must be Lila," she says, like we're old friends. "I'm Maeve Bennett. I own the bakery downtown."

"How did you?—"

"Small town," she says with a shrug. "Word travels. Plus, Gladys saw you drive up, and she called her sister Marie, who told her daughter Jessica, who mentioned it to my neighbor Carol when she came in for her daily muffin."

I blink at her. "That's... efficient."

"Terrifying is more like it," Maeve laughs. "But mostly harmless. May I come in? These cookies are getting cold."

I should probably say no. Should explain that I'm trying to figure things out myself, that I don't need help, that I'm perfectly capable of handling my first night alone. Instead, I step aside, because what else am I going to do? She seems genuinely nice, and turning away the first person to show me kindness feels unnecessarily rude.

She bustles past me into the living room, taking in the empty space with the practiced eye of someone who's seen her share of fixer-uppers.

"Good bones," she pronounces, setting the plate on the built-in bookshelf. "This place just needs some love. And probably a new water heater. The old one was making awful noises before the Andersons moved out."

"The Andersons?"

"Previous owners. Lovely couple, but they moved to Arizona for his arthritis. Broke their hearts to sell this place, it's been in his family for sixty years." She uncovers the plate, revealing what look like the most perfect chocolate chip cookies I've ever seen. "They'll be glad to know it went to someone who'll appreciate it."

The smell hits me then. Warm butter, vanilla, chocolate and my stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. I realize I haven't eaten since... when? This morning? Yesterday?

Maeve grins. "When's the last time you had a real meal, honey?"

"Define real.'"

"Something that wasn't purchased at a gas station or delivered by a teenager on a bike."

I consider this. "Thursday?"

"That was four days ago." She shakes her head and calls out the front door, "Boys! Bring the rest of it!"

Wait."Rest of what?"

Two younger men appear as if by magic, carrying bags and containers that smell like heaven. One is tall and lean with dark hair and paint-stained clothes, the other an inch shorter but broader through the shoulders, with sandy-blond hair and the kind of smile that could power a small city.

My pulse does a little skip before I can stop it. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. Attractive alphas showing up to rescue me before I've even had a chance to try rescuing myself.

"This is my nephew Dean," Maeve says, indicating the smiling one. He steps forward with easy confidence that makes my omega instincts sit up and take notice despite my best efforts to remain immune.

"Hi," he says, then pauses, his eyes widening slightly. "You're..." He shakes his head like he can't quite believe it, then recovers with a smile. "I mean—welcome to Honeyridge! We brought dinner. Well, lots of dinner. I might have gone overboard."

Even flustered, there's something undeniably appealing about him. The way he fills out his flannel shirt, the confident set of his shoulders that suggests he's used to handling emergencies, the kind of solid presence that my body recognizes as safe before my brain can object.

"Enough to feed half the town," the tall, lean one says, shooting Dean an amused look. "And this is apparently what happens when Dean meets pretty omegas. His brain shorts out."

Dean's cheeks flush slightly, but his smile doesn't waver. "This is Levi, heusedto be my friend." Levi just chuckles and shakes his head.

"Dean's a firefighter," Maeve continues, "and Levi owns the bookstore. They volunteered to help with the delivery."

A firefighter. That explains the broad shoulders and the way he carries himself. Confident but not cocky, like someone used to running toward danger instead of away from it.

"Volunteered," Dean says with a grin, "is a strong word. More like got voluntold."

"I brought soup," Levi adds quietly, setting a large container on the counter. "And bread."

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