Page 33 of Knot on the Market

"I'll look forward to it," she says, and the genuine warmth in her voice almost makes up for the fact that I'm walking away from her again.

Almost.

I make it to my truck before I allow myself to look back. Lila waves from the doorway, her smile bright and uncomplicated, completely unaware that she just cracked something open in me that I'm not sure how to put back together.

The drive back to the station passes in a blur of stop signs and familiar streets, but my mind is still in Lila's living room, watching the easy way she and Callum worked together. The way she lit up when she successfully hammered that nail. The way she turned to him when he spoke, like his opinion mattered.

I want that. I want to be someone whose opinion matters to her.

I park behind the station and sit in my truck for a moment, trying to figure out what just happened. I went there to deliver Maeve's stew, maybe get a few minutes to talk with Lila. Instead, I walked into a situation that made me realize Callum and I want the same thing.

And maybe that's okay. Maybe the best thing I can do is just... keep showing up. Keep being the kind of person she can count on. Let her figure out what she wants without me trying to push the outcome.

My phone buzzes with a text message, and for a moment my heart jumps with the irrational hope that it's from Lila. Instead, it's Mitchell.

Captain wants to know where you are. You're late back from dinner break.

Great. I head into the station, already composing explanations for my tardiness that don't involve admitting I've been sitting in my truck brooding about a woman I've known for less than a week.

"There you are," Williams calls from his office. "Everything okay? You look like someone stole your lunch money."

"Just tired," I lie, because the alternative is explaining that I might be developing feelings that are already more complicated than they should be.

"Well, wake up. We've got evening equipment checks, and I need you sharp."

I spend the rest of the evening going through routine tasks while my mind churns through the afternoon's events. By the time my shift ends the next morning, I've almost convinced myself that the tight feeling in my chest is just normal disappointment, that wanting to be more helpful to Lila doesn't mean anything complicated.

But as I drive past Lila's street on my way home the next morning, I catch myself slowing down, wondering if Callum might be back already. Wondering if they'll finish working on those floorboards today, whether she's looking forward to continuing their project together.

I force myself to keep driving, but the restless energy that's been building all day doesn't fade. If anything, it gets stronger.

By the time I'm home, showered, and standing in my kitchen staring at my fridge without really seeing what's in it, I've reached an uncomfortable conclusion. I don't just want to helpLila with her house projects and furniture shopping. I don't just want to be her friend and neighbor.

The house is quiet. Levi's at the bookstore and Elijah's probably in his workshop out back. We've been sharing this place since I came back from college and decided I wanted my own space instead of moving back in with Aunt Maeve. The three of us have been friends since we were kids getting into trouble together, so when Levi mentioned needing roommates, it seemed like a no-brainer.

Usually, I appreciate having them around. Right now, though, I'm glad for the privacy. I don't have to explain why I'm standing here looking like someone stole my lunch money.

I want to be the person she turns to. The one she trusts with her problems and her laughter and whatever other pieces of herself she's willing to share. I want to be more than just one of several people who happened to show up when she needed help.

The realization should probably worry me. We barely know each other. She's clearly still figuring out her life after whatever brought her to Honeyridge Falls. Getting involved with someone who's recovering from a bad breakup is messy under the best circumstances.

But I can't shake the memory of how right it felt to cook dinner in her kitchen last night, or the way her scent changed when we were close together. I can't forget the moment when I reached for the olive oil and we were suddenly inches apart, the way her breath caught and her pupils dilated, like she felt it too.

I can't ignore the fact that thinking about Callum teaching her to use a hammer makes me wish I'd been there first. Makes me want to find my own way to be useful to her.

My phone rings, interrupting my spiral into feelings I don't know what to do with. Maeve's name appears on the screen, and I answer with a wary "Hello?"

"How did she like the stew?" Maeve asks without preamble.

"She seemed grateful," I say carefully, because I know Maeve well enough to recognize a fishing expedition when I hear one.

"And how was Callum?"

"Fine. Helpful. They were working on floorboards."

"Mmm." There's a world of meaning in that single sound, none of it particularly comforting. "You know, Dean, sometimes when a person finds something worth wanting, they have to be willing to actually pursue it."

"I'm not sure what you're getting at." I know exactly what she’s getting at but I don’t want to talk about it.

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