Page 11 of Knot on the Market

The casual way she says it, like burning dinner is normal instead of evidence of personal failure, makes some of the tension leave my shoulders.

The chicken pot pie is exactly what I needed. Hot, savory, and made by someone who clearly knows what they're doing. I eat slowly, completely relaxed for the first time all day, in a warm place where no one expects anything from me except basic politeness.

I'm halfway through dinner when I catch a scent that makes me pause. Faint but distinct—green apple and white musk. It takes me a moment to realize it's me. My own scent, settling into my clothes like I'm marking this place as mine.

I haven't smelled myself this clearly in years. The scent blockers I've been taking since I started acting suppress most omega scent production, but in the chaos of leaving LA, I've forgotten about the little white pills that used to be routine.

For the first time in years, I smell like myself. Like I'm actually present in my own life instead of chemically hidden from it.

Maybe that's not such a bad thing.

I finish dinner and walk home through quiet streets as the sun sets behind the mountains. My house sits peacefully on its small lot, the windows dark but welcoming. The front door opens easily with Dean's temporary repair.

Inside, the smell of burned casserole has faded, replaced by clean air and fresh possibilities.

I survived day two. Fixed something with my own hands, found food I didn't destroy, and discovered I can handle being alone without falling apart completely.

Well, mostly without falling apart.

And for the first time in weeks, I'm not thinking about Dustin, Theo and Jace and whatever perfect life they're building with someone else. I'm thinking about tomorrow, about what other projects the house might need, about whether Dean will really come back to show me how to fix the door properly.

I'm thinking about building something new instead of mourning something that was probably broken long before I was ready to admit it.

As I get ready for bed, I catch my scent again. Green apple and white musk and the faintest hint of something that might be contentment.

Maybe learning to be alone doesn't have to mean learning to be lonely.

Maybe it just means learning to be myself.

And maybe, occasionally, letting someone help me figure out how to do that.

Chapter 5

Lila

Day three in Honeyridge Falls, and I'm waking up without checking my phone for damage control messages from my publicist. The quiet mornings are taking some getting used to after years of LA's relentless pace, but there's something deeply satisfying about starting the day without crisis management.

More importantly, there's something satisfying about waking up in a house where I handled yesterday's problems myself. Well, mostly myself. With some neighborly guidance that I'm choosing to see as educational rather than rescue.

I dress in yesterday's jeans and the cleanest sweater I can find, a soft gray cashmere that's probably too nice for hardware shopping but is the most casual thing I packed. The walk into town will do me good, and I need to start figuring out where to buy the basics of small-town life.

Today's goal is to prove I can venture into public without requiring emergency services.

The Honey Crumb is exactly what I expected from Maeve. Warm yellow walls, mismatched furniture that somehow works perfectly together, and the kind of smell that makes your mouthwater before you've even seen the menu. There are already a few customers scattered around the small tables, nursing coffee and reading newspapers like they have all the time in the world.

Maeve is behind the counter, wearing another floral apron and the kind of smile that suggests she's been expecting me.

"Well, look what the morning dragged in," she says, not unkindly. "You look like you wrestled with that house and lost."

"The house won this round," I admit, approaching the counter. "But I'm planning a comeback."

"Coffee first," she says decisively, already reaching for a large mug. "Then we'll talk strategy."

The coffee is perfect. Strong enough to wake the dead but smooth enough that I don't feel like I'm drinking motor oil. I order a blueberry muffin and settle at a small table by the window where I can watch the town wake up.

I'm halfway through my first cup when the bell above the door chimes and a woman in her sixties bustles in, wearing a purple cardigan and the kind of smile that suggests she knows everyone's business.

"Maeve, darling," she calls out, then spots me and makes a beeline for my table. "And you must be our new resident! I'm Margie Winslow, head of the Honeyridge Events Committee and unofficial welcome wagon."

---