Page 65 of Hot Knot Summer
I’m backing out of the station parking lot when I spot Claire hustling toward me, clipboard in hand. Great. What did I forget this time?
Claire volunteers at the station three days a week, helping with administrative tasks. She’s attractive in an obvious way, sleek brown hair, careful makeup, and expensive clothes that show just enough skin to be distracting without crossing into unprofessional territory. She’s also had a transparent crush on all three of us since she started six months ago.
Under normal circumstances, I’d have no issue with the attention. She’s pretty, available, and enthusiastic, but something about her has always felt... calculated. As if she’s auditioning for a role rather than being genuinely interested in any of us as people.
I roll down my window as she approaches, pasting on my professional smile. “Morning, Claire. What’s up?”
“Hi, River,” she chirps, leaning to rest her arms on my door, giving me a deliberate view down her blouse. “I was wondering how Emma’s doing, seeing she’s moved in with you three? Is she planning to stay in town long?”
The fact that she’s asking about Emma, again, sends a little warning flare up my spine.
“She’s fine,” I say, keeping my tone light but offering nothing more.
“Oh, good,” Claire replies. “It must be nice having a female around your place. Bet she’s making herself right at home, huh?”
There’s something in her tone, a hint of jealousy poorly disguised as casual interest, that makes my protective instincts bristle.
“I should get going,” I say instead of answering. “Police are waiting.”
I start to roll up my window but pause halfway. Something compels me to turn back to her.
“Claire,” I say, all pretense of casualness gone from my voice. “You’re an amazing volunteer here, and you’ve always had our backs, but don’t think that makes it okay to try to scare Emma away from us. Be careful.”
Her carefully constructed facade slips for just a moment before she recovers.
“So, you do like her,” she says softly. “All of you.”
I study her face, seeing the genuine hurt beneath the calculation, and feel a twinge of sympathy. Claireisn’t a bad person, just insecure and overly invested in a fantasy that was never going to materialize.
“Everyone will find their perfect match eventually,” I tell her, gentling my tone. “It just takes time and patience to recognize them when they appear.”
She nods, stepping back from my car with a forced smile. “Thanks for the fortune cookie wisdom, River.”
As I drive away, I catch a final glimpse of her in my rearview mirror, standing alone in the parking lot, looking smaller than before.
“Fuck me, I sounded like damn Atlas,” I mutter to myself, revving the engine as I hit the open road. “What is wrong with me?”
The answer comes immediately—Emma. She’s what’s wrong with me. Or right with me. After just a few days, she’s managed to burrow under my skin in a way no one has in years. The way she laughs without restraint when something genuinely amuses her. How she gets this tiny crease between her eyebrows when she’s concentrating. The steely backbone beneath her softness.
Twenty minutes later, I park down the road from the burned remains of Cabin #3. Yellow police tape surrounds the blackened skeleton of what was once a charming rental. Looking at it in daylight, Emma was lucky to get out alive. The damage is extensive, the structure nearly gutted, yet half the front wall and door remain almost intact, even if slightly charred.
I park and check my watch. The cops are, unsurprisingly, late. Again.
“They better not fucking stand me up,” I grumble, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “Fourth time this month.”
To kill time, I pull out my phone and scroll to Emma’s name in my contacts. We exchanged numbers this morning for emergencies, she insisted, though the way she’d programmed hers into my phone had been adorably telling.
I hesitate only a moment before hitting call. It rings twice before her voice comes through, slightly breathless.
“River? Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I reassure her quickly. “Just checking in. How’s life in the tower?”
“Amazing, actually,” she explains, and I can hear the genuine enthusiasm in her voice. “I haven’t been this productive in months. I’ve written almost three thousand words already this morning.”
“Look at you, being all prolific and talented,” I tease, settling back in my seat. “What’s the secret? Our coffee? The mountain air? My devastating good looks inspiring your romantic hero?”
She snorts, a delightfully undignified sound. “Definitely the coffee. Though the view doesn’t hurt.”
