Page 83 of Knot By Design
My watch glows in the dim light of the shop. It’s late. Calling Wren or any of her friends would take forever, and the thought of her arriving tipsy and upset isn’t something I want to deal with right now.
I look around, spotting her keys by the counter. That’s step one. I pull my jacket off and drape it over her shoulders, letting the scent of leather and warmth mingle with her faint perfume.
She looks so small, so vulnerable, asleep in the middle of her flower shop, and it hits me like a punch. This girl I’ve got a stupid little crush on, completely in love with someone else, is all soft and unguarded in front of me.
Her freckles peek through her skin, sprinkled across her cheeks and nose, and it’s hard not to stare.
She shifts slightly, groaning in her sleep, and I curse under my breath.
Eventually, I have her in my arms, careful not to squeeze too hard, careful not to wake her. Her legs are light, almost weightless against me, but every inch of her is fire under my skin.
I buckle her into the passenger seat of my car, making sure she’s tucked in safely.
I close up the flower shop, the door clicking behind me. My stomach growls, reminding me how hungry I am. Steak at B&B will have to wait.
I think about calling Dorian, but immediately cross it off the list. No. This is her mess, not his, and besides, I don’t need that complication right now.
I’ll just drop her off at home. Good thing I remember where she lives.
I drive carefully through the snow, the streets slick and empty, and pull up to what I think is her house. I head to the door and slide the key inside. It jams, and I twist harder. A flurry of movement catches my eye just as the door finally pops open.
The neighbor, an older woman in a nightie, is running toward me, pan in hand, hair wild.
“I thought it was a criminal!” she shouts. Then she looks at the girl in my arms before saying. “You’re one of the construction guys.”
Ah, shit! I glance down at Norah, fast asleep in my arms. “It’s—uh, yes. That’s me. I’m Ryker, ma’am.”
She squints at me. “Is that Norah? She’s?—”
“I misremembered the house number. I was just bringing her home and thought this was her house,” I admit quickly. “Sorry.”
She huffs, tucking the pan under one arm. “It’s two doors down, young man. Be careful next time. And what are you doing carrying her like that?”
“Thanks,” I mutter, ignoring the second part of her question.
Great. Just fucking great. Tomorrow, everyone will be talking about me carrying a drunk girl in my arms.
And how the hell was I supposed to carry her? Piggyback?
I stride to the correct door, jam the key in, twist it, and finally manage to get it open. The snow is already settling on my jacket, soaking through my gloves. I push the door fully, scanning the interior.
The first thing that hits me is the green couch in the living room, bright and soft, surrounded by flowers in every corner.
I carry her inside, careful to avoid bumping her head. I lay her on the couch, and she murmurs something I can’t make out.
Kneeling, I start removing her boots. Her legs shift slightly, thighs exposed in the dim light, and the heat of her skin makes me swallow hard.
She’s so damn beautiful.
“Ryker,” she grumbles, sitting up a little, hair falling across her face.
“Yeah,” I say, letting my hand rest near her elbow, steadying her as she adjusts.
“Where are we?” she asks, voice thick, still drunk.
“I brought you home,” I tell her. She blinks, taking in the room, the couch, the flowers, like it’s all suddenly confusing.
“How’re you feeling?” I ask, voice low.
