Page 8 of Hot Knot Summer
I wait until most passengers have deplaned beforestanding. As I make my way toward the exit, one of the flight attendants, the blond from earlier, gives me a knowing smile.
“Lucky you,” she says with a sigh. “If an Alpha like that sat next to me, I would have been all over him.”
I open my mouth to say something but decide it’s not worth the effort. Instead, I offer a noncommittal smile and continue into the terminal.
Whispering Grove awaits and with it, two weeks of solitude, healing, and, hopefully, inspiration. I’ve survived a heartbreak, a betrayal, and a flight seated next to the most distractingly attractive Alpha I’ve ever encountered.
Whatever this small mountain town throws at me next, I can handle it.
2
EMMA
Mistcrest Rural Airport is smaller than my apartment back home. The entire arrivals area consists of one sad baggage carousel, a rental car desk with precisely zero people staffing it, and a coffee kiosk that looks like it might serve motor oil instead of caffeine.
Welcome to my two-week exile.
I grab my black duffle bag on wheels and head toward the exit. The terminal is surprisingly crowded for such a tiny airport, a testament to the region’s popularity as a summer escape. Families juggle luggage and excited children, couples lean into each other with vacation anticipation, and I’m suddenly, painfully aware of my solo status.
My phone pings with a notification from my rideshare app. Twelve minutes until my driver arrives. Good timing especially by the storm building in the sky over the mountains.
I make my way to the coffee kiosk, where a bored-looking teenager is scrolling through his phone. He looks up when I approach.
“What can I get you?” he asks, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“Largest coffee you have, black as my soul.”
His mouth quirks. “Rough flight?”
“Rough week,” I correct, sliding my card across the counter.
“One soul-black coffee coming up.”
While he prepares my drink, I scan the crowd, a writer’s habit. I love people-watching. My gaze snags on a familiar broad-shouldered silhouette near the exit. Atlas stands with a small group of people, all wearing similar practical clothing. Co-workers, maybe? I duck my head when he glances in my direction, pretending to be fascinated by the napkin dispenser.
“Here you go,” the barista says, sliding a cup toward me. “Hope your week improves.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing the coffee and my luggage and making a beeline for the exit, carefully avoiding Atlas’s general vicinity.
Stepping outside, the wave of humidity that hits me is like walking into a steam room. June in Whispering Grove means temperatures in the high eighties with humidity to match. My thin cotton sundress suddenly feels like too much fabric, and I regret ordering hot coffee despite my emotional need for bitterness.
My phone pings again. My driver has arrived, a blue sedan pulling up to the curb. I wave to catch his attention and roll my bag toward him.
“Emma Collins?” the driver confirms as he pops the trunk.
“That’s me.”
“I’m Bob, your driver. So, is this your first time in Whispering Grove?” he asks as we drive away from the airport.
“Is it that obvious?”
He chuckles. “Nah, just making conversation. Here for the summer festival?”
“There’s a festival?”
“Starts this weekend. Biggest event of the year for crafts, food, music. Whole town gets involved. Hotels book up months in advance.”
“Great,” I mutter and sip at my coffee. Not only am I nursing a broken heart in a strange town, but I’ll be doing it surrounded by festival-goers having the time of their lives. Perfect.
