Page 26 of Knotted By my Pack
I let her go before I do something we can’t take back. Step away, just enough to cool the fire.
“I need another drink,” I ground out.
She watches me walk to the bar, eyes dark and unreadable. My hands shake as I lift the next drink to my mouth. My body is strung so tight I could snap in half.
One more song, I tell myself. One more dance. And then maybe I’ll have the strength to get her home without giving in. Maybe.
8
ELIAS
It’s almost nine.
She’s never late.
Her car’s parked where I left it after the repairs, and I’ve been standing outside the bakery for the better part of an hour, hands tucked into my jacket pockets, leaning against the wall, watching the sky lighten by degrees. My eyes keep flicking to the street. Still no sign of her.
I glance at the time again. 9:02.
Then I see it—a familiar truck pulling up to the curb. She climbs out of the passenger side. Her head is ducked, hair tucked into the collar of what looks like an oversized flannel shirt.
A man steps out next. He doesn’t look at me, just walks around the truck, talking low to her as she adjusts something on her wrist.
I recognize him immediately. Same guy from the bakery the other day. Same quiet, possessive way of standing too close. Everyone says they’re glued at the hip. I didn’t believe it. Not really.
Until now.
She finally lifts her head and sees me. Her eyes go wide for a split second before she hurries over, the tails of the flannel flapping behind her like a too-long curtain.
The thing is massive, swallows her whole. It’s definitely not hers. The collar is stretched wide, hanging off one shoulder. The sleeves cover half her hands.
I don’t even need to ask. The shirt belongs to Noah, I realize as I watch his truck drive off.
“Sorry, Elias. I didn’t mean to be late.” She’s squinting as she approaches.
“You okay?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
She groans softly. “Just a hangover. Nothing dramatic. I’m good.”
That pulls a quiet laugh from me. “Rough night?”
“You could say that.” Her smile is tired. “Is the car okay now?”
I nod. “Running smoothly.”
“What was wrong with it?”
I start explaining, walking her through the problem with the ignition coil and the sensors, but I can see her eyes glazing over halfway through. She’s nodding, trying to follow, but it’s not sticking.
“It’s all fixed now,” I say simply, letting her off the hook.
She hums, then winces. “Sounds expensive.”
She doesn’t know the half of it. Between the parts, labor, and specialty tools I had to borrow from a buddy across town, it cost me close to twenty-five hundred. But I’m never telling her that.
Instead, I lift a brow and say, “How do muffins five times a week for three months sound?”
Her lips twitch. “Deal.” She unlocks the front door and gestures for me to follow. “Come in.”
