Page 48 of Hot Knot Summer
EMMA
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re completely booked through the next three weeks.”
“Nothing?” I press my phone harder against my ear, as if that might somehow change the answer. “Not even a janitor’s closet with a cot?” I joke.
The woman on the other end of the line clears her throat. “We have a waiting list I could add you to, but I should warn you there are already twenty-seven names ahead of yours.”
“Right. Of course, there are.” I blow a strand of hair from my face, squinting against the morning sun. “Thanks, anyway.”
I hang up and add Pine Valley Inn to my mental graveyard of lodging options. That makes six motels, three B&Bs, and two hotels that have slammed their metaphorical doors in my face. Each conversation follows the same depressing script—complete disbelief that I’d dare to seek accommodation without a reservation during Whispering Grove’s peak season.
An involuntary shudder ripples through me as fragments of last night’s dream claws its way into my thoughts. I was back in the rental cabin, but the windows had disappeared, replaced by solid walls of crackling timber. The smoke had a voice, whispering, taunting, as it curled around my throat. I’d woken gasping, sheets damp with sweat, convinced for five terrifying seconds that I could smell burning wood. Even now, in broad daylight, the memory makes my pulse skip erratically. I shake my head, forcing the images back into whatever dark corner of my mind spawned them. I can’t afford to fall apart now. Compartmentalize. That’s what I’m good at. File the trauma away like an overdue bill—something to deal with later or, preferably, never.
I peer at my watch, 8:37 a.m. Atlas should be here in about twenty minutes to pick me up, as he had a morning call. My backpack sits loyally at my feet, stuffed with my laptop and the few pitiful items I managed to rescue from the cabin blaze. The morning breeze carries the scent of coffee from somewhere nearby, taunting me with its promises of caffeine and normalcy.
My phone buzzes against my palm. Jess’s face, tongue out, eyes crossed from our college graduation, fills the screen. I smile despite myself and answer.
“Please tell me you have a spare bedroom I can teleport into,” I say by way of greeting.
“Hello to you, too, sunshine.” Jess laughs. “That bad, huh?”
“I’ve called almost every establishment with a roof in this town. Unless I want to pitch a tent in someone’s backyard or sleep in a rental car, which, by the way, would also require a miracle to obtain, I’m officially homeless.”
“What about Mr. Hot Firefighter? The one from the photo you sent?”
I feel heat rush to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the morning sun. “Atlas.”
“Ooh, yes. Mm-hmm. And his biceps just happened to be in that selfie, and I can’t unsee them.”
“Anyway, that’s actually why I called. I, um, might be staying with him and the two guys in his pack. Temporarily.”
The silence on the other end lasts precisely three seconds before Jess’s screech nearly ruptures my eardrum.
“EMMA COLLINS! You’ve been in Whispering Grove for LESS THAN A WEEK!”
“It’s not like that,” I hiss, feeling my face flame hotter. “He offered his guest room. And they have this cabin in the woods?—”
“Three Alphas, hey!”
“They’re firefighters,” I insist. “They rescued me. Atlas drove me to the hospital. They’re good guys.”
“Okay, okay.” Jess’s voice softens. “Text me their full names and address. And maybe set up one of those ‘if I don’t check in, call the police’ apps.”
“You’ve been watching too many true crime documentaries.”
“And you’re an Omega moving in with three strange Alphas in the middle of nowhere. One of us is being sensible, and it’s not you.”
I sigh, knowing she’s not entirely wrong. “I’ll send you their details, but honestly, Jess, they’ve been nothing but respectful.”
“Mmm, that doesn’t make you sound smitten at all.”
“I’m not?—”
“Em, Boo.” Her interruption is gentle. “I know you’re not over Chad yet, but?—”
“I am so over Chad,” I interject, perhaps too forcefully.
“Really?”
