Page 18 of Knot on the Market

"And if I am?"

"Then you'll learn anyway." The words come out rougher than I intended. "Some things are worth the trouble."

The way she looks at me then, like I've said something that matters more than it should, makes the air between us feel charged.

"Two days," I say, stepping back before I do something stupid. "We'll start with the faucet."

She's still standing close enough that I could count her freckles, close enough that her scent wraps around me like a promise I'm not ready to make.

"Two days," I repeat, more to remind myself than her.

Chapter 7

Lila

The morning after my kitchen turned into a small lake, I wake up determined to prove I can venture into town without requiring emergency services. Four days in Honeyridge Falls, and my track record includes flooding, broken doorknobs, and nearly burning the house down.

The temporary door handle Dean installed still holds perfectly when I test it, which feels like a small miracle given my track record with basic homeowner tasks. But today I'm going to show I can actually function like a normal person instead of someone fleeing a very public relationship disaster.

More importantly, I'm going to prove that yesterday's kitchen incident was a fluke, not evidence that I need rescuing every time I attempt basic life skills.

The plan is to buy groceries, replace the casserole dish I destroyed, maybe find a how-to book that will teach me the difference between "character" and "expensive structural damage." Things a competent adult does without requiring alpha intervention.

The walk into town is becoming familiar already, past the silver-haired neighbor who waves from her garden, down thetree-lined street where normal people live normal lives in houses that probably don't require emergency repairs twice a week.

I pass Millie's diner, where she waves through the window with the same warm recognition as yesterday. No curiosity about my personal drama, no invasive questions, just the easy acknowledgment of someone who belongs here now.

River's hardware store is busy with what looks like actual contractors and people who know what they're doing with power tools. I peer through the window at the overwhelming array of mysterious implements and decide that particular adventure can wait until I have backup.

But the bookstore across the street calls to me with its hand-painted sign and windows full of actual books instead of lifestyle merchandise. "Ashpine Books" in elegant script, with window displays that suggest someone who genuinely loves literature.

A bell chimes when I push open the door, and the scent hits me immediately. Paper and ink, old wood, and something that might be cedar. It's the smell of quiet afternoons and stories that matter.

"Levi?" calls a voice from somewhere in the back. "Customer up front."

"Be right there!" comes the distant response, followed by what sounds like boxes being moved around, then a crash and a muffled "Oomph!"

I can't help but smile at the sounds of minor disaster from the back room. While I wait, I examine a display of local history books and notice someone sitting at a small table near the back corner, surrounded by ledgers and accounting paperwork. Dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

He's reading a novel instead of working on the financial documents spread across the table.

He looks up as I approach, and I find myself meeting dark eyes that seem to take in everything while revealing nothing. There's a moment where he goes completely still, like my presence has caught him off guard in a way he wasn't expecting. His gaze travels over me with deliberate slowness before settling on my face.

"Looking for anything specific?" he asks, clearing his throat slightly as he closes the book. His voice is calm, measured, like someone who thinks before he speaks.

"I was hoping to find something about home renovation," I say. "My house has... character."

"The Anderson place." It's not a question. "I heard about your door situation."

Of course he did. In a town this size, my minor domestic disasters are probably front-page news.

"And I burned a casserole the other day," I admit, feeling heat creep up my neck. "Nearly set off every smoke detector in the house."

He studies me for a moment, his gaze steady and unreadable. "Independence looks different for everyone."

There's something in the way he says it that suggests he understands more than most people would.

"Do you work here?" I ask, since he clearly knows the store well but I know he isn't Levi, who made me soup and bread on my first night here.

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