Page 178 of Knot By Design
Mayor Brighton stands off to the side, hands tucked into his coat, looking like a man who never expected his evening to go this way but handled it anyway.
Jude moves first. “Where’s Maisie?”
Amber wipes her cheeks. “In the car. Rufus is with her. They’re both asleep.”
Jude collapses into his sister, hugging her carefully, broken nose and all. She clings back, shaking.
“I know I fucked up,” she says into his shoulder. “I know. But I’m trying. I really am.”
“I know,” Jude murmurs. “I know.”
Norah steps toward us, eyes wide. “Are you okay?”
Dorian nods. “We will be.”
I step closer too, my good hand finding her waist, soothing myself with the fact that she’s here. Safe.
Mayor Brighton clears his throat. “I hired these men to build a community hall,” he says mildly. “Not to end up bailing them out of jail.”
The cop snorts. “You’re free to go,” he repeats.
Dorian turns. “Where the hell is he?”
The cop sighs. “Luke was the one who called us. At the time, we didn’t know there was a restraining order in place. Once that came up, it changed things. He’ll be booked in the morning. Fined.”
Good.
Stella is talking quietly with the mayor, explaining something, gesturing with calm authority. I catch the words “restraining order,” and “safety,” and “plan.” It turns out she convinced Amber to file for one as soon as she arrived at her house, not buying my sister’s excuses for him.
She not only inadvertently saved her friend’s life, but she’s also the reason we’re not spending the night in a police station.
I pull Norah closer, my wrapped hand awkward but determined on her back. Dorian’s arm mirrors mine on her other side. She fits there like she always has.
“Let’s go home,” I say.
She nods, leaning into us without hesitation.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Norah
A FEW WEEKS LATER
The kitchen smellslike roasted garlic and butter, delectable enough to make my shoulders drop the second I pull the oven door open.
Heat spills out, fogging the air as I tug the pan of baked pasta free, the cheese bubbling and browned just right, edges crisped where the sauce kissed the ceramic.
I set it on the stovetop and reach for the towel without thinking, already imagining plates and forks and the simple comfort of everyone eating together.
Ryker comes up behind me.
I feel him before I hear him, his body a familiar presence at my back, heat and solid weight and that quiet confidence that always seems to settle me.
He dips his head and nuzzles the side of my neck, beard rough in a way that makes my breath catch before I can stop it.
“Ryker,” I warn, laughing despite myself. “Stop it.”
He doesn’t stop it.
