Page 42 of Knot in Bloom
Friday morning, nine-fifteen. I park outside Sadie’s shop thinking about Tuesday’s pickup—how her pupils dilated when I stood close, how her scent sweetened when I mentioned wanting deeper connections. Three days since I made my interest clear. Hell, six days since I didn’t even know her name, and now I’m rearranging my entire life around coffee runs and flower arrangements.
The bell chimes as I step inside, expecting her usual warm greeting and familiar honeysuckle sweetness.
Instead, her scent hits me like a punch to the gut.
Not her familiar honeysuckle and vanilla. This is layered, complex, saturated with recent arousal so potent my cock hardens before my brain processes what I’m smelling. But underneath—sandalwood. Rich, masculine, possessive. Someone else has been here. Recently. Intimately.
My carefully maintained control shatters completely.
“Good morning, Reid.”
Sadie emerges from the back room carrying autumn arrangements, and I have to grip the doorframe. She’s glowing with that satisfied exhaustion that comes after being thoroughlypleasured. Her scent tells a story that makes my chest tight—she’s been pleasured, and it wasn’t by me.
“Morning.” My voice comes out rougher than intended, and I see her notice the change. See her breathing quicken in response.
She sets flowers on the counter, hands trembling slightly. Whatever satisfaction she’s carrying is mixed with stress now, sharp worry cutting through the afterglow.
“I wasn’t expecting you today, but I should mention. Things are about to get complicated.” She glances at the clock. “Caleb’s out getting supplies we discussed yesterday, but even with his help, this festival expansion is overwhelming.”
I force myself to focus while she explains the festival expansion, magazine shoot, tourism board evaluation. Whatever’s happening with her personal life, she needs practical support right now, and I can provide that.
“The photo shoot is tomorrow,” she says, worrying her lip between her teeth. I want to soothe that gesture with my thumb, want to replace her anxiety with satisfaction. “Less than twenty-four hours to create magazine-quality pieces.”
Her distress cuts through everything else, triggering the same instincts that make me want to leave corporate consulting to find something that actually mattered. She’s drowning, and I have exactly what she needs.
“That’s aggressive timing.” I step closer, my bergamot and leather mixing with the lingering sandalwood in the air. “But completely manageable with proper coordination.”
She brightens, and her scent shifts. Still carrying traces of sandalwood, but warming with hope now. My bergamot seems to comfort her, and I watch her shoulders relax slightly at my familiar scent.
“You think it’s possible?”
“I know it is.” Another step brings me close enough to see her pulse jumping at her throat. Close enough that my scent wraps around her and I catch the subtle flare of her nostrils. “This is what I do—solve impossible problems under pressure.”
“Reid, I couldn’t ask you to?—”
“You’re not asking.” My decision crystallizes as her scent sweetens further, honeysuckle blooming with interest despite the lingering evidence of someone else’s claim. “I’m offering what I have.”
Her breath catches at the intensity in my voice. “What would that look like?”
“Resources, contacts, complete project coordination.” I lean against her counter, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “But I want to be hands-on. Help you with this.”
She processes this, and I can see her weighing possibilities.
“That would mean long hours,” she says quietly, and I can smell arousal beginning to bloom beneath her stress. “Working late into the night.”
“I’m counting on it.” My voice drops to the rough tone that made her pupils dilate on Tuesday. “Do you want that kind of intensive partnership?”
She shivers at the loaded word, and her scent spikes with want that mingles sweetly with my bergamot. Even carrying another alpha’s scent, her body responds to me with an honesty that makes blood rush south and something protective warm my chest.
“I need more help,” she whispers, and the admission costs her. “I need you.”
My chest tightens with satisfaction. She’s asking for help—real help—not just tolerating my transparent excuses to see her once a week. All those fictional business meetings, and now I get to actually solve problems that matter to her.
For the next hour, we work together—me on the phone with vendors while she handles existing arrangements. I watch her move between flowers with practiced grace, and each problem I solve makes her scent sweeten with growing appreciation.
“Taylor Floral will deliver premium stock whenever you need,” I tell her, watching how she bites her lip when I move closer to show her my notes. “Triple your usual volume, no delivery charges.”
“How did you manage that?”
