Page 92 of Knot on the Market

I watch him from my reading chair, where I'm pretending to focus on one of the novels he brought me weeks ago, but really I'm watching the way tension radiates from every line of his body. He's been hunched over his laptop at my kitchen table for the past three hours, surrounded by printed articles, handwritten notes, and what appears to be a color-coded spreadsheet that's grown to truly impressive proportions.

"The average red carpet interview lasts between forty-five seconds and two minutes," he announces to the room, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. "But A-list celebrities can expect longer segments, especially if there's a compelling personal angle. Which there will be, since you're arriving with an unconventional pack dynamic."

I set down my book and really look at him. Dark hair disheveled from running his hands through it, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms that I've been thinking about entirely too much lately, jaw clenched with the kind ofdetermination that suggests he's trying to solve world hunger through pure research.

"Julian," I say gently, "you know you don't have to memorize the entire history of award show protocol, right?"

"I'm being thorough," he says without looking up from his screen. "Did you know that the optimal positioning for group photographs is a slight triangular formation? The omega in front, alphas arranged to create visual balance while maintaining protective positioning. I've calculated the ideal spacing based on height differentials and?—"

"Julian."

"—and I've cross-referenced the most commonly asked questions from the past five years of Cinema Excellence coverage. The statistical probability of receiving questions about pack formation is sixty-seven percent, relationship timeline is forty-three percent, and future career plans is?—"

"Julian."

He finally looks up, blinking like he's surfacing from deep water. When our eyes meet, I see something that makes my chest ache. Fear, carefully hidden beneath all that methodical preparation, but unmistakably there.

"I need to understand how this works," he says quietly, his voice losing that clinical tone. "I need to know what I'm walking into, what they'll expect from us, what could go wrong. If I can map the variables, identify the potential pitfalls?—"

"Then you can control it," I finish, understanding flooding through me. "You can make sure nothing goes wrong."

He nods, some of the tension leaving his shoulders at being seen so accurately. "I won't be the reason you get negative coverage. I won't be the one who doesn't know how to stand or what to say or which direction to look when they?—"

"Hey," I interrupt, rising from my chair and moving toward him. "You're spiraling."

"I'm preparing."

"You're overthinking yourself into a panic attack," I correct, noting the slightly rapid breathing, the white-knuckled grip on his pen. "When's the last time you took a break? Ate something? Thought about anything other than camera angles and interview protocols?"

Julian glances at his phone, confusion flickering across his face. "What time is it?"

"Almost six. You've been at this since lunch."

The admission seems to surprise him, like he's lost time in his research spiral. This is what happens when Julian gets overwhelmed—he disappears into analysis, trying to think his way through problems that can't be solved with data.

"But I haven't finished calculating the optimal response timing for controversial questions, and I still need to research the biographies of major entertainment reporters so I can anticipate their individual interview styles?—"

"Julian," I say, settling onto the chair beside him and gently closing his laptop. "Stop."

He reaches for the computer automatically, then catches himself when our hands brush during the movement. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm, and I watch his pupils dilate slightly as he registers the touch.

"I can't stop," he admits, his voice rougher than before. "If I stop thinking about this, I'll start thinking about other things. Like how I have no idea what I'm doing with you. With any of this."

The vulnerability in his admission hits me square in the chest. Julian, who analyzes everything, who finds patterns and solutions and ways to make sense of chaos, is completely out of his depth with feelings he can't quantify.

And beneath that, I hear echoes of what he's told me about his past pack. The ones who called him "too much," who madehim feel like his particular brand of careful attention was a burden instead of a gift.

"What if I gave you something else to think about?" I ask, my voice dropping to something softer, more intimate.

His breath catches. "Lila..."

"Your brain is going a million miles an hour," I continue, shifting my chair closer until our knees are almost touching. "What if I helped you turn it off for a while?"

The careful control he's been maintaining starts to crack, and I can see want warring with uncertainty in his dark eyes. "I don't think that's—we shouldn't?—"

"Why not?" I reach out to trace my fingers along his forearm, watching goosebumps rise in the wake of my touch. "Don't you want me, Julian?"

"God, yes," he breathes, the admission torn from him like a confession. "I want you so much it's making me crazy. But what if this complicates things? What if we're moving too fast? What if?—"

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