Page 42 of Knot on the Market

"This one," he says, settling into a reading chair upholstered in deep blue fabric. "This is the one."

"How can you tell?"

"Perfect reading posture." He demonstrates by leaning back with his hands behind his head, looking entirely too appealing for someone conducting a furniture evaluation. "Good lumbar support, arms at the right height for holding a book, footrest option for maximum relaxation."

"You've given this a lot of thought."

"I believe in doing things right." He stands up and gestures for me to try it. "Go ahead. See if it fits."

I settle into the chair and immediately understand what he means. The proportions are perfect, the cushioning firm but yielding, clearly designed by someone who actually reads.

"Oh," I breathe, sinking deeper into well-designed comfort. "This is perfect."

"Told you." Dean's smile is warm with satisfaction, like my comfort is a personal victory. "You look like you belong there."

The observation hits deeper than it should, carrying implications about belonging that extend beyond furniture placement.

We arrange delivery for Tuesday afternoon, and I pay for the purchases, surprised by the little thrill of independence that comes from making these choices myself. But as we're heading toward the exit, I catch sight of the mattress section.

"Actually," I say, trying to keep my voice casual, "I should probably look at mattresses too. For the guest room."

Dean follows my gaze toward the display area. "Good thinking. Can't have visitors sleeping on the floor."

The sales associate perks up at the mention of another potential sale. "Any particular size or firmness preference?"

"Something comfortable," I say vaguely, walking toward a display that catches my eye. The sign reads "Comfort Dreams Nesting Collection - Designed for Ultimate Relaxation and Support."

Buying a "guest mattress" from the nesting collection. Sure, Lila. Keep telling yourself that.

"This one looks nice," I say, sitting down on the edge and testing the give. It's perfect—soft enough to burrow into, firm enough to provide real support, with a surface that would hold scent beautifully.

Dean sits down beside me, testing the mattress with his usual thoroughness. "Yeah, this is really comfortable. Great choice for guests."

His easy acceptance, the way he treats it as a perfectly normal purchase without any knowing looks, makes something warm settle in my chest.

We add the mattress to my purchases and Dean insists on loading everything into his truck, handling the furniture with careful attention.

"Success," he declares, wiping his hands on his jeans. "One furniture expedition complete."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it more than the simple words can convey. "For all of this. The drive, the testing, the heavy lifting..."

"Hey." Dean's expression turns serious. "This was fun. I like helping people find things they need."

The drive back is quieter, both of us settled into comfortable tiredness. Dean keeps up gentle conversation, but there's an easiness to the silence that speaks to growing familiarity.

We pull into my driveway as the afternoon heat reaches its peak. Dean parks and immediately starts unloading, his movements efficient despite the oppressive temperature. I can see sweat already forming on his forehead.

"It's hot," he says, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt. He glances at me with something that might be mischief in his eyes. "Hope you don't mind if I..."

He pulls the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, and my world narrows to the sight of golden skin and flexing muscle.

Dean shirtless during his morning run was one thing—distant enough to maintain plausible deniability. But Dean shirtless three feet away from me, close enough to see the fine sheen of sweat on his chest, close enough to watch his muscles move as he reaches for boxes...

That's something else entirely.

My mouth goes dry. The broad expanse of his chest, the definition in his shoulders that speaks to functional strength rather than gym vanity, the trail of hair that disappears beneath his jeans. My brain temporarily forgets how to process anything except the visual feast in front of me.

And then his scent hits me properly.

---