Page 39 of Knot on the Market

"You're not bothering me," I say, the words coming out more honest than I intended.

Lila pauses halfway to standing, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, dress arranged around her legs in a way that's both modest and quietly appealing. For a moment we just look at each other, her poised between staying and leaving, me sitting with an empty water glass and the lingering taste of food made with care.

"I know," she says softly. "That's... new for me."

The admission hangs between us, vulnerable in its simplicity. How long has it been since she felt like her presence was welcome without condition? How many times has she been made to feel like an interruption instead of a gift?

"Well," I say, setting the glass down and reaching for my measuring tape, "you know where to find me if you want to not-bother me again later."

Her laugh is surprised and genuine, transforming her whole face in a way that makes my chest warm. "I'll keep that in mind."

She heads back into the house, and I watch her go longer than I should, noting the confident way she moves, how the dress flows around her legs, the fact that she glances back once before disappearing inside.

The measuring goes faster after that, partly because I've already done most of the complex calculations, but mostly because I'm aware of every sound from inside the house. The soft pad of bare feet on hardwood floors. Water running in the kitchen. The occasional creak of old wood settling under careful footsteps.

Normal household sounds that feel different when you know who's making them. When she just made you food and sat with you like it mattered.

I finish loading my tools, each piece returned to its designated place in the truck's toolbox. Everything organized for efficiency, ready for the weekend project that will turn a compromised structure into something solid enough to last decades.

Whatever she's been working on up there has made that room completely hers. The knowledge makes something in my chest tighten. She's choosing to build something here, to put down roots in a place where broken things get fixed instead of replaced.

Where people like me notice when the foundation needs work and show up with tools and the patience to do things properly.

I could knock on the door. Thank her again for the sandwich, confirm Sunday's schedule, maybe offer to pick up any additional supplies she might need. All reasonable excuses for thirty seconds of conversation.

Instead, I tap softly on the front door—just loud enough for her to hear if she's listening, quiet enough that she can ignore it if she's busy with whatever project has filled the house with that rich, personal scent.

I don't wait for her to answer. Don't need thanks or anything else. Just want her to know I'm done for the day, that everything's secure.

The drive back to the shop takes me through downtown Honeyridge Falls, past the familiar storefronts and the comfortable rhythm of a Friday afternoon in a place where people know each other's names and stories. But my mind stays fixed on green apple and white musk, on the careful way she wrapped a sandwich, on the quiet understanding that passed between us when she asked about keeping what's worth saving.

The thought should worry me. Should make me stick to business like I usually do. I haven't been with anyone in years. Dated a beta for a few months once, but that didn't work out. Figured I was better off alone. Easier that way.

But something about her changes things. That scent, the way she brings me food like it matters. Makes me think maybe I'm not as content with solitude as I thought.

The shop is quiet when I arrive. This is my sanctuary, the place where everything makes sense, where problems have solutions and broken things can be made beautiful again with the right tools and sufficient skill.

But as I organize Saturday's work orders, I find myself thinking about a different kind of sanctuary. I don't know what Lila is building upstairs, but I recognize the signs of someone choosing to invest in a place, to put down roots deep enough to weather whatever storms might come.

The same choice I made when I decided Honeyridge Falls was worth staying in.

The same choice I might be ready to make again, if she decides there's room in whatever she's creating for an alpha who knows how to fix things properly, who understands the difference between rebuilding and just patching over damage.

Who's willing to take the time to do it right.

Sunday can't come soon enough.

Chapter 13

Lila

Dean's truck smells exactly like the opposite of my careful plans to stay unattached.

I settle into the passenger seat and breathe in his scent that wraps around me like a warm embrace. The cab feels smaller than it should, intimate in a way that makes my skin feel too warm. It's masculine and comforting and entirely too appealing for someone who swore off alphas barely a week ago.

"Seatbelt," Dean says with a grin, starting the engine. His voice is rougher this morning, like he hasn't been awake long, and the sound does things to my pulse that seatbelt safety really shouldn't.

"Can't have you flying around the cab if I have to brake for deer."

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