Page 105 of Knot on the Market

"I already have," I say, accepting her handshake. "Thank you for everything, Rebecca. Really."

The goodbye carries weight beyond professional courtesy. Rebecca helped build my career, protected my image through scandal, guided me through the worst period of my public life.

Saying goodbye to her feels like closing a book I'll never read again.

Chapter 33

Lila

The plane touches down in the small regional airport forty minutes from Honeyridge Falls, and I feel something in my chest unclench for the first time in three days. The cramped commercial flight feels like freedom after the suffocating luxury of LA's first-class everything.

"Home," Dean says quietly, his hand finding mine as we taxi toward the gate.

"Home," I agree, meaning it completely.

A wave of nausea rolls through me as we come to a stop, and I press my hand to my stomach automatically. Probably just the airplane food, the rubbery chicken they served an hour ago is making its displeasure known. Or maybe it's relief mixing with exhaustion. Either way, it passes quickly, leaving me eager to get back to solid ground and familiar spaces.

Even as relief floods through me, there's a nervous energy building in my chest. Something I realized in LA, something I need to tell them but haven't found the courage to voice yet. The weight of unspoken words sits heavy on my tongue as we gather our bags and make our way through the tiny terminal.

The drive back to town passes in comfortable quiet, all of us processing what we've left behind. The mountain air through the open windows smells like pine and possibility, so different from LA's perpetual haze of ambition and exhaust. I watch familiar landmarks appear through the windshield—the old barn with its faded advertising painted on the side, the creek that runs alongside the highway, the first glimpse of mountains that cradle our valley like protective arms.

Each mile that passes makes me feel more like myself again. Not Lila James, former movie star, but just Lila. The woman who chose three incredible men and a life built on substance rather than spectacle.

When Callum's truck turns onto my street—our street—I catch sight of the little white house and feel tears start without warning. Not sad tears, but the overwhelming relief of someone who's been holding their breath finally allowed to exhale.

The house looks exactly the same but somehow different, maybe because I'm seeing it through eyes that know this is forever now. The porch Callum rebuilt, the mailbox Julian fixed, the door handle Dean repaired. Evidence of three men who saw something worth saving and invested their time and skill in making it beautiful.

"You okay?" Julian asks softly, his gaze taking in my expression with that careful attention he brings to everything.

"I'm perfect," I say, wiping my eyes. "I just... I love this place. I love our life here. I never want to leave again."

"Then don't," Callum says simply, parking in what's become his usual spot. "Stay. With us."

Dean twists in the passenger seat to look at me directly. "Lila, these past few days in LA just confirmed what I already knew. You belong here. With us. This is your home now."

"Our home," Julian corrects gently, his precise way of speaking carrying extra weight. "All four of us together."

"If you want it to be," Callum adds, though there's something vulnerable in his gruff voice that suggests this matters more to him than he's comfortable admitting.

Inside the house, everything smells like home. Like us. The scent of our combined presence has settled into the walls and furniture, creating something that belongs entirely to the four of us. It's stronger now than when we left, as if the house itself has been holding our essence, waiting for us to return.

I move through the rooms slowly, reacquainting myself with the space that's become ours. The kitchen where Dean makes pancakes on Sunday mornings. The living room where Julian reads while Callum fixes whatever needs attention. The reading chair by the window where I've spent countless afternoons with books Julian brings me.

Another gentle wave of queasiness hits as I pass through the kitchen, and I pause, one hand on the counter. Definitely something from the plane. Maybe I should stick to crackers for dinner instead of whatever elaborate welcome home meal Dean's probably already planning in his head.

Upstairs, the bedroom we've all been sharing feels like a sanctuary. The bed is perfectly made—probably Julian's doing before we left—but I can still smell traces of all of us in the fabric. The nest room sits empty but waiting, ready for whenever I might need that particular kind of comfort again.

"I need to tell you something," I say suddenly, standing in the living room where this all began. "Something I realized in LA but couldn't say there."

They arrange themselves around me with unconscious ease. Dean settling onto the couch where he can watch my face, Callum leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed but his expression open, Julian taking the reading chair that's become his favorite spot. Their positioning creates a circle ofattention and support that makes me feel completely safe to be vulnerable.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I gather the courage for what I need to say. These words will change everything between us, make this real in ways that go beyond domestic partnership or convenient arrangement.

"I love you," I say, my voice stronger than I expected. "All of you. Not grateful love or convenient love or heat-driven love. Real, bone-deep, forever love."

The silence that follows feels endless, stretching between us like a held breath. I watch their faces carefully, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation or the polite retreat that would break my heart.

Instead, Dean's face breaks into the most beautiful smile I've ever seen, like sunrise after the longest night. "I love you too," he says, rising to cross to me with that easy stride I've come to adore. "Have for weeks. Maybe since that first day when you burned dinner and looked at me like I'd hung the moon."

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