Page 33 of Hot Knot Summer
“Found the shower, I see.”
“Hope that’s okay,” she says. “Atlas said to make myself at home, and I really needed to get the smoke smell off me.”
“Of course,” I assure her, tearing my gaze away from the way the damp shirt clings to certain parts of her body. “This one works best,” I say, patting the middle washer. “The one on the left eats socks, and the one on the right makes this concerning grinding noise that Levi keeps promising to investigate.”
I watch as Emma dumps the few clothes she’d been wearing during the fire into the washing machine. She’s frowning slightly, probably thinking about everything she lost.
“So, have you heard about the festival happening this weekend?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood as I grab the detergent from the metal supply cabinet.
Her expression shifts, curiosity replacing the momentary melancholy. “Oh, yeah, the cab driver told me.”
“Founder’s Festival,” I correct, unscrewing the cap with a flourish. “Big event in our little slice of nowhere. Three days of small-town chaos that you absolutely have to experience.”
“What’s it like?” she asks, leaning against the dryer while I take over the washing duties.
I start pouring detergent directly into the machine. “Picture this, an entire town collectively losing its mind in the name of tradition. There’s a parade with the world’s most underwhelming floats, but everyone acts like they’re watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving spectacle.”
She laughs, the sound hitting something warm in my chest. “Sounds charming, actually.”
“Oh, it gets better,” I continue. “The food stands are run by the same five families who’ve been having the same argument about whose corn dog recipe is superior since 1952. The rides are all probably older than we are, but somehow, they pass inspection every year.”
“Now I’m definitely intrigued,” she says.
“Last year was epic,” I tell her. “Atlas got roped into judging the pie contest because Mrs. Henderson, the mayor’s wife, has had a crush on him since he carried her cat out of a tree three years ago.”
“No!” Emma’s covering her mouth, but I can see the smile behind her hand.
“Oh, yeah. There he was, Mr. Serious Fire Chief, having to taste twenty-seven different pies while Mrs. Henderson keptaccidentallytouching his biceps.” I demonstrate, making an exaggerated swooning motion that has Emma laughing outright now.
“What about Levi? He seems quiet,” she mentions, clearly enjoying this peek into our world.
“Levi is the farthest thing from quiet,” I sigh dramatically. “At the last festival, he made the mistake of mentioning once—ONCE—that he understood thephysics behind the dunk tank. Next thing you know, he’s sitting on the platform in shorts, explaining to anyone who would listen about the optimal trajectory needed to hit the target while some eight-year-old with freakishly good aim kept sending him into the water.”
“And you?” she challenges, eyebrow raised. “What disaster were you causing?”
“Me? I was the model of decorum and restraint,” I declare with mock offense.
She just looks at me, disbelief written all over her face.
“Fine,” I concede, turning to the washing machine to select a cycle. “I might have gotten carried away at the charity auction. Bid way too much on a quilt because Mrs. Finch made it, and she’s this sweet little grandmother who’s been stitching quilts for the auction for forty years. Nobody was bidding high enough, and her face just fell, and I couldn’t?—”
“That’s actually really sweet,” Emma interrupts, looking at me with something new in her expression.
I feel my neck heat up. “Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation as an irredeemable troublemaker to maintain.” I hit the start button on the washer with more force than necessary. “Anyway, you should check it out. They’ve got these caramel apples that’ll change your life.”
“Another reason to check out this festival,” she says.
When she catches me staring, I don’t look away. Let her see. Let her know exactly what’s running through my mind.
“Kitchen’s just down the hall,” I say. “How about some hot chocolate? I make the best in town.”
“Lead the way,” she says, and there’s a huskiness to her voice that wasn’t there before.
As we walk down the corridor, I’m hyperaware of her presence beside me, the way she keeps a careful distance, not quite close enough to touch. Smart Omega. But it doesn’t matter how careful she is. I can still catch the edges of her scent, still feel the heat of her body like a phantom caress against my skin.
In the kitchen, I throw myself into making the hot chocolate, needing the distraction. I use the good stuff—whole milk, real chocolate that I melt slowly, and a touch of cinnamon and nutmeg. From the back of the pantry, I unearth Levi’s hidden stash of mini marshmallows. He’ll be pissed, but right now, I don’t care.
Emma perches on a stool at the counter, one bare foot tucked under her, the other swinging slightly. Her hair has mostly dried now, falling in soft waves around her face. She’s absently twirling one strand around her finger as she watches me work.
