Page 37 of Knot on the Market

But the damage is done. My scent has thoroughly claimed this space now, turning it from a neutral collection of comfort items into something unmistakably mine. The green apple and white musk sweetness clings to the fabric, and when I settle back against the pillows, arranging the blankets around me, I find myself sinking into a cocoon of softness.

My body relaxes in ways I haven't felt in years. The tension I've been carrying in my shoulders melts away. My breathing slows and deepens.

For the first time since I arrived in Honeyridge Falls, I feel completely, utterly safe.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. This is what I've been missing. Not romance, not pack dynamics, not the complicated politics of alpha attention, just safety. The bone-deep security that comes from having a space that's entirely yours, scented with your presence and arranged according to your instincts.

No cameras, no paparazzi lurking around corners, no need to be "on" every moment. No autograph requests or forced smiles or carefully calculated responses. Just me, just Lila, allowed to exist without performance or expectation.

I curl up against the pillows and let myself feel it fully. The peace, the contentment, the sense of being exactly where I belong.

I didn't come here to find a pack. I didn't come here to fall in love. I definitely didn't come here to create a nest in my spare bedroom while getting flustered over shirtless joggers.

But between Dean's dinner invitation, Julian's literary care packages, and Callum's promise to teach me actual home repair, independence in Honeyridge Falls is going to be significantly more complicated than I planned.

That's when I hear a truck pull up outside.

My heart does a little skip—Dean, maybe, back from his run? But when I peek out the front window, I see Callum's familiar pickup loaded with lumber and supplies, Callum himself already unloading wooden beams with methodical efficiency.

Right. The porch repairs. We talked about this.

Time to pretend I wasn't just creating a nest while fantasizing about a certain shirtless firefighter.

Chapter 12

Callum

The porch foundation is worse than I thought.

I've been measuring support points for twenty minutes, and what looked like simple settling from the street reveals itself as genuine structural compromise once I get underneath. The main beam has separated from its post by nearly three inches, and the floor joists are sagging under weight they were never meant to carry alone.

It's fixable. Everything's fixable if you're willing to do the work properly. But this isn't the weekend project I'd initially estimated. This is going to take time, patience, and a complete rebuild of the support structure.

I make notes in my weathered notebook, sketching the current state and what needs replacing. The morning air carries the scent of wood smoke from someone's early barbecue and the sweet fragrance of summer flowers from Lila's neighbor's garden. Normal summer smells for a normal Friday in Honeyridge Falls.

Except nothing about this feels normal.

Lila's scent still clings to the air around her front door. Green apple and white musk, but different from yesterday. Stronger.Sweeter. I don't know enough about these things to understand what it means, but something has changed.

I shouldn't notice. Should mind my own business and focus on the work I came here to do. But twenty minutes of measuring and calculating haven't been enough to stop my alpha instincts from cataloging every shift in the air, every subtle change that suggests something significant happened in that house this morning.

She answered the door flustered, still pink around the edges, with her scent warm and slightly scattered like she'd been caught doing something she wasn't sure she wanted to explain. Her pupils had been dilated, her breathing quick and shallow, and when she spoke her voice carried that breathless quality that comes after surprise or excitement.

Or arousal.

The thought shouldn't matter. Shouldn't be any of my business what Lila does in her own house, what makes her scent spike with interest, what leaves her standing in doorways looking like she's been thoroughly affected by something.

But my hands still on the measuring tape as I catch another drift of that scent from the open windows above. Stronger up there. Like she's been spending time in that room, doing... something that's made it smell like her in a way it didn't before.

Five days in this town and I'm measuring crooked because of green apples and white musk.

I force myself back to the measurements, to the familiar rhythm of assessing what's broken and figuring out how to make it right. This is what I'm good at, understanding structures, seeing what needs support, knowing which pieces can be salvaged and which need complete replacement.

The irony isn't lost on me that I'm better at fixing houses than I am at understanding the woman who lives in this one.

The front door opens behind me, and I don't need to look up to know it's Lila. Her scent reaches me first, makes something tighten in my chest that I don't want to think about. Makes my hands want to do things that aren't about measuring wood.

"How's it looking?" she asks, her voice steadier than it was an hour ago but still carrying a note of uncertainty.

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