Page 112 of Down Knot Out
I let her slide off my lap and shrug out of my jacket, settling it around her shoulders. Then I take her hand again, and we step off the porch, our hands clasped.
The path behind the Homestead winds past the shed and around a tangle of raspberry stems that still have last summer’s thorns. The grass is spring-wet and spongy underfoot, and I cup Chloe’s elbow when she stumbles a bit on the slope.
The greenhouse isn’t big. Not yet. It’s a patchwork of salvaged glass and plywood, framed by the kind of rough lumber that never makes the architectural photos.
“My grandfather built this,” I explain as I open the door, releasing a puff of humid air that carriesthe scent of damp soil. “I need to tear it down to build a safer, more glamorous one, but I’m sentimental.”
Chloe hesitates at the threshold, her foot skimming the wooden step. “Is it safe?”
I tug her forward. “I wouldn’t bring you here if it wasn’t.”
Sunlight through the panes bathes her in gold, glinting off the pink in her hair. Condensation drips down the glass in streaks, painting wavy lines over the blurred shapes of the forest outside.
I move toward the back left corner, where a cluster of potted starters crowd together. Chloe’s attention gets snagged by the lemon tree, its leaves neon bright and glossy, but I steer her to a pot near the ground.
It’s a lilac sapling, the variety that blooms purple instead of the soft blue that overruns most old yards. The leaves are small and still curled, but they reach upward, the shape unmistakable.
I had ordered it from a botanist, and it came in two days ago.
Chloe crouches to run a fingertip along the edge of a leaf, and the sapling bends under her touch.
“It’s a lilac,” I say.
She stays bent, her hair falling forward, and fora moment, I can’t tell if she’s breathing or holding her breath.
“I thought we could plant it together,” I continue. “When all this is done.”
Chloe doesn’t answer at first. She turns her head, pressing her cheek into the collar of my jacket, and stares at the sapling with an expression somewhere between longing and terror.
“I haven’t had roots in a long time,” she whispers.
I crouch beside her, the humidity clinging to my skin and making the back of my shirt stick. “You don’t have to plant it right away. Or at all.”
A short, startled laugh escapes her, and she wipes a thumb under her eye. “I want to.”
A beetle crawls across the lip of the pot, and Chloe brushes it away, careful not to crush it. The gesture is so tender it hurts.
I tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, letting my hand linger at the curve of her jaw. “When you’re ready.”
She lifts her head, attention shifting from the lilac to my face. Tears shimmer and slip down her cheeks. She wipes them away with the sleeves of my jacket. “Sorry. It’s silly to cry."
“It’s okay.” I draw her back into my arms. “You don’t need a reason.”
She buries her head against my shoulder. “I can’t wait to join your pack. To bond with you. I want these roots, more than you could ever know.”
But Idoknow, because I want them, too, just as much.
Now that I’ve found my true mate, I won’t let the Sinclairs take her from me.
Chapter Thirty-One
Holden
Quinn’s laughter travels up the stairs as I step into the hall to grab a fresh towel from the laundry basket and almost trip over Chloe.
I thought she’d be in her office at this time of the day, but instead, she crouches in front of the living room couch with her face buried in a throw pillow.
Her deep inhale reaches me from where I stand at the linen closet, and it stops me in my tracks.
