Page 98 of Knot By Design
She looks at me then, and I can tell she’s fighting a smile. “Is that so?”
“I’m not that bad. I’m still learning.” I’m carrying on the conversation, but my mind’s still stuck on what she said. Why would she be embarrassed about getting drunk around Ryker?
Did they sleep together?
I realize I’ve tuned out of the conversation when Norah nudges my arm. “What do you think?”
Fuck, fuck! “Um, sorry. I didn’t get that. What did you say?”
Her eyes lock onto mine, like she’s assessing me. “I said, how about I come for movie night and teach you how to maintain her hair?”
My throat goes tight. “You sure?”
She nods, gentle but certain. “It’ll be fun. She’s got curly hair, and that means it needs a regular routine or else it’ll be a beast to tame. And I don’t remember the last time I watched Harry Potter. Plus, Maisie is sweet. I’d like to hang out with her again.”
I can’t think of a single reason to say no.
“Alright,” I say. “Seven.”
She smiles like something just lit up inside her. “See you then.”
Maisie waves so hard she almost drops her flowers. Norah waves back, laughing.
We head out, the bell jingling above us, and Maisie keeps turning around to make sure Norah’s still waving until the door closes.
When she finally settles into her seat, she whispers, “She’s nice.”
I grip the steering wheel, still feeling the echo of Norah’s smile.
“Yeah,” I say quietly as I start the truck. “She really is.”
Now, what the fuck happened between her and Ryker?
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dorian
I pacethe narrow chapel like the floor might crack open beneath me if I stand still too long.
Rows of wooden pews stretch toward a simple altar, all sharp edges and dull varnish, the kind of place meant for comfort but somehow makes my skin itch.
I don’t come here to pray. I came because I needed walls around me to keep myself from unraveling, and the chapel felt like the only place in this entire hospital where no one would try to pat my shoulder or offer some line about hope.
But the moment I stop walking, everything I’ve held back presses in. My mother must have been so scared last night. The thought pulses through my skull in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
I drag in a slow inhale, grounding myself, and pull my phone from my pocket.
Still nothing from Norah.
I swipe through the call log. Four calls last night. Three more early morning. All straight to voicemail.
I can’t tell if she turned her phone off or if she just didn’t want to hear from me, and both options scrape at something raw inside my chest.
The chapel door opens with a metallic scrape. An elderly couple steps inside. Their arms are looped together, their cheeks damp, their clothes rumpled like they left the house in a panic.
The woman presses her face into the man’s shoulder, trying to contain her sobs, and the sight sinks into me with a sharp twist.
This room belongs to them more than it does to me.
