Page 32 of Hot Knot Summer
“My pheromone patterns are slightly atypical,” I explain, surprised that I’m willing to share this so soon. “Not enough to prevent me from being an Alpha, but enough that my perfect, wealthy parents decided I needed to be fixed. Turns out you can’t beat biological quirks out of someone, though they sure as hell tried.”
“That’s terrible,” she says with a gasp, and the genuine outrage in her words is oddly comforting. “I’m so sorry you went through that.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with the direction I’ve taken our conversation. “Ancient history. Made me who I am, right? And now I get to play with fire for a living, so who’s the real winner here?”
She smiles, but it’s softer now, as if she sees through my attempt to lighten the mood. “Still. Parents are supposed to protect you, not hurt you.”
“Speaking from experience?” I ask, catching something in her tone.
She looks down at her coffee. “My parents died when I was sixteen. Boating accident.”
“Shit. I’m sorry,” I say, mentally kicking myself. “Me and my big mouth.”
“It’s fine. It was a long time ago,” she says, but her knuckles have gone white around her mug. “My grandmother raised me after. She was the one who encouraged my writing.”
“She sounds like a smart lady.”
“She was,” Emma says, and the past tense tells me all I need to know. “She passed just as my first book was accepted for publication three years ago.”
The raw hurt in her tone makes something feral stir in my chest, a desire to shelter, to protect, to ensure nothing else hurts her ever again. It’s disturbing in its intensity, far beyond what I should be feeling for someone I’ve just met.
“So,” I say, trying to pull us back to safer ground. “What does a bestselling authordo for fun when she’s not fleeing burning buildings?”
That gets a genuine laugh out of her, and the sound of it eases something tight in my chest.
“Not much, lately. Writing takes up most of my time. I used to love swimming, grew up on the coast. Moonshell Bay has some decent lakes and rivers, though.”
“We’ve got a lake about twenty minutes from here,” I offer. “The water’s clean, and there’s a nice little beach area.”
“Sounds nice,” she says, but there’s a hesitancy in her voice. Is she not planning on sticking around long enough to see it?
She finishes her coffee, and an hour passes before I realize it, her company making time slip by unnoticed. I’m about to tell her about the time Atlas had to rescue a raccoon family from the station’s chimney when she glances at her phone.
“I should probably get settled in,” she says, though she sounds reluctant. “And I’m sure you have actual work to do instead of entertaining me.”
“Entertaining beautiful women is my specialty,” I say with a wink, though in truth, I’ve enjoyed our conversation more than I expected. It’s comfortable, yet exciting at the same time.
“I bet it is,” she says dryly, sliding off the barstool. “Is there somewhere I could wash some clothes?”
“Laundry room’s this way,” I say, taking our empty mugs to the sink. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
I lead her down a hallway to thefacilities room. It’s nothing fancy. Three industrial washers and dryers lined against one wall, shelves of supplies on the other.
“Fancy,” she teases.
“Only the best for Whispering Grove’s finest,” I reply with a grin. “You should see our gym. State-of-the-art equipment from at least 2015.”
That gets a laugh out of her. Something twists in my gut at the sound, a possessive feeling I haven’t experienced in a long, long time.
“Why don’t you get your clothes, and I’ll meet you back here?” I suggest. “I can show you how these temperamental beasts work.”
“Sounds good,” she agrees, heading back toward her room.
I find myself watching her walk away, the sway of her hips in that simple sundress making my mouth go dry. Get it together, I scold myself. She’s under our protection, for fuck’s sake. But my traitorous head is already cataloging the curve of her waist, the smooth skin of her bare shoulders, and the way her hair falls in waves down her back.
She returns about thirty minutes later, now dressed in what looks like our spare station clothes, oversized t-shirt and sweatpants rolled at the waist and ankles. The shirt’s tucked in but still big on her, emphasizing how small she is compared to us. Her arms are holding a small bundle of clothes, and her damp hair is slicked back from her face, emphasizing those high cheekbones and full lips.
No bra, my gaze points out before I can shut that thought down. Focus.
