Page 2 of Down Knot Out
The open ground level hums with morning chaos as I descend the stairs. Quinn’s high-pitched voice cuts through the background noise of coffee brewing and news playing on Dominic’s tablet.
The little girl balances on one foot while waving a piece of paper at her Uncle Blake. His long brown hair is pulled into a messy bun, and stray strands escape to frame his bearded face as he tries to pour orange juice while appreciating his niece’s latest masterpiece at the same time.
“Look, Uncle Blake! It’s Sprinkles catching butterflies! See his tongue? It’s super long because he’s trying so hard!” Quinn twirls, her long brown hair fanning out around her, the skirt of her purple dress rising with the motion.
Blake lifts the pitcher of juice out of range, histattooed forearm flexing. “That’s amazing, princess. You made his fur so fluffy.”
“And this butterfly has pink wings like Aunt Chloe’s hair!” Quinn spots me and gasps, abandoning Blake to race toward me. “Aunt Chloe! I drew Sprinkles catching butterflies, and this pink one is named after you because it’s pretty like you!”
I bend to examine the drawing, the paper covered in crayon scribbles with a massive black blob that must be Sprinkles based on the red tongue stretching toward a collection of colorful shapes fluttering above. The pink one does indeed stand out.
“That’s the best butterfly I’ve ever seen,” I tell her, breathing in her sweet scent. “You made it extra sparkly.”
“That’s because you’re sparkly inside,” Quinn says with complete confidence, stating an irrefutable fact.
Her statement catches me off guard, and warmth blooms in my chest.
“S-speech therapy. At eight in the morning. On a S-saturday.” Grady’s slurred words drag my attention to one of the small tables next to the fireplace.
My best friend sits hunched over a coffee mug,protecting it like it contains the last drops of caffeine in the world. He wears his golden-blond hair swept to the side in his usual style, but this morning it’s disheveled.
“That’s the only available appointment slot,” Dominic murmurs from where he lounges on the new settee that had appeared after Grady moved into the Homestead.
The small couch and matching chairs now create a cozy sitting area near the fireplace, offering another place to sit and relax.
Grady’s shoulders hunch. “I’d rather go b-back into the coma, thanks.”
I wince at his dark humor. Two weeks ago, Grady was in the hospital, where he’d been lying in a coma for a month following Simon’s attack.
My stomach twists with the memory of his pale face in the hospital bed, and my hands move to my hips. “That’s not funny, Grady Finch!”
“Uh-oh.” Dominic swipes to a new screen. “First and last name. You’re in trouble now.”
“I’m just s-saying it could have waited until an afternoon appointment was available,” Grady grumbles into his coffee. “B-being s-self-employed means getting to s-sleep in.”
Annoyance twists his handsome features. Coming out of a coma had only been the first stepin his recovery. He still slurs and stumbles over his words, which frustrates my fussy friend who has always prided himself on his elocution.
Softening, my arms drop to my sides. “Once you’re established, you can work out a better schedule so you don’t miss your beauty sleep.”
“You’re t-too cheerful in the morning.” He glares over the rim of his mug. “While I s-sound like a deflating s-snake.”
“Aww, someone needs a hug.” I swoop forward to hug him around the shoulders. “Who’s a grumpy pus? Yes, you are.”
“Off, woman.” He bats me away. “I need at leas-st t-two more cups of coffee before I can d-deal with you.”
Laughing, I straighten and rub my nose, trying to dispel the artificial cedarwood and bourbon cologne he wears. I’ll take the itchy nose, though, to have him here and alive.
“Fine, go back to hunching over your coffee like a goblin.” As I turn away, Dominic draws my attention.
He sits with a stiffness to his posture that developed after the attack, and his black hair hangs loose instead of in his usual French braid, falling in waves over his shoulders. He holds the tablet at eye level instead of bending his head,watching the news with a slight furrow between his brows.
As he shifts position, a flash of pain crosses his face before he masks it, and my heart clenches. It’s been almost two weeks since Simon threw him into a tree during the confrontation in the woods. The image of Dominic’s body flying through the air is still vivid. I can still hear the sickening thud as he hit the trunk. See the way he crumpled to the ground. Feel the fear of not knowing if he was alive or dead.
Yet another thing that fills my nightmares.
I drift closer, drawn by concern and the need to confirm he’s still here, still healing.
His gray eyes flick up to meet mine, catching me staring.
