Page 5 of Hot Knot Summer
The memory of Chad’s betrayal is like a bucket of cold water, dousing the warmth that had begun to build. I turn away, pulling out my notebook again.
“Sorry,” I say, not looking at him. “I should really use this time to work.”
I sense his slight surprise at my abrupt shift, but he simply nods. “Of course.”
The turbulence gradually subsides as I pretend to write, pen hovering over paper without producing anything coherent. It’s how I brainstorm ideas… old school pen and paper, but right now, I can’t concentrate. My mind keeps circling back to the Alpha beside me, to the ease with which he’d calmed me, to the way his scent seems to bypass all my defenses.
A week after discovering my boyfriend of a year had been cheating on me with my friend, I’m sitting next to an Alpha who embodies everything I’ve ever written into my fictional heroes. It’s not fair that his scent makes me want to lean closer while my brain screams to keep my distance. It’s not fair that men like Chad exist in the world, pretending to be decent until they get what they want, while men like Atlas probably do the exact same thing but are just better at disguising it.
“Would you like something to drink?”
I jolt back to awareness, realizing the flight attendant, a different one, thankfully, is looking at me expectantly.
“Um, water, please,” I manage, and she gives me a small bottle.
“And for you, sir?” She’s practically batting her eyelashes at Atlas.
“Coffee, black. Thank you.”
Once the attendant leaves, I check the time. We’ve been in the air for nearly an hour, which means we’re almost halfway through this ordeal.
“So, what do you do for a job?” Atlas asks, catching me off guard.
“Oh.” I tap my pen against the page. “I write fantasy books. Nothing you’d have heard of.”
“Try me.” There’s a challenge in his tone.
I sigh, relenting, deciding to select my young adult series as I find men react strangely when I say I write romance books. “The Moonlight Chronicles? It’s about a young Omega who discovers a hidden magical world and—” I stop as recognition flares in his expression. “Wait, you know it?”
“Emma Collins,” he says, his expression shifting. “You’re that Emma Collins?”
I blink, startled. “You’ve heard of my books?”
“My goddaughter is obsessed with them. She made me read the first one so I could understand her world,” he admits, and a reluctant smile tugs at my lips despite myself. “I ended up reading all four. They’re good. Really good.”
A warm flush of pleasure courses through me at the unexpected compliment. Having a guy like Atlas admit to reading and enjoying my books is... disarming.
“Thanks,” I mumble, suddenly shy, my cheeks burning up. “The fifth one is giving me trouble.”
“Writer’s block?”
“Something like that.” I don’t mention that my creativity has been strangled by Chad’s constant subtle undermining of my career, his dismissal of my books as cute little stories despite their commercial success.
Atlas studies me with those perceptive eyes. “Your protagonist, Brienne, she reminds me of you.”
“How would you know?” I challenge. “You’ve known me for all of an hour.”
His mouth quirks up at one corner. “Strong-willed. Brave. Protective of others, despite her own vulnerability. Am I close?”
I stare at him, unsettled by how accurately he’s described not just my character but the parts of myself I try to channel when writing her. “Lucky guess,” I mutter.
He shrugs those impressive shoulders. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re easier to read than you think.”
Before I can formulate a response that doesn’t involve telling him exactly where he can put his insights, the plane drops again, harder this time. My water sloshes dangerously in its cup, and Atlas’s coffee nearly spills before he steadies it.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing some moderate turbulence,” the captain announces. “Please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened.”
My heart rate immediately spikes, and I grip one armrest again, knuckles white, while setting the waterbottle on the open tray in front of me. I know turbulence is normal, but my fight-or-flight instincts don’t care about statistics.
