Page 28 of Knot By Design
He’s thoughtful when he works. When he measures space, he doesn’t just look at lines and numbers; he sees how people will move through it, how it will feel.
It’s something we share. That understanding of how design shapes emotion.
By the time he’s ready to leave, the snow outside has thickened into a slow, steady fall. He pauses at the door, pulling on his gloves.
“You sure you’re okay here? Roads are getting slick.”
“I’ll close up early,” I say. “Go home, light the fireplace, maybe read.”
He tilts his head, like he’s not entirely convinced. “You need anything, you call. I mean it.”
I nod. “Thanks, Jude.”
He smiles once more, that quiet kind of smile that lingers long after he’s gone, and then he steps into the cold.
The bell chimes as the door shuts behind him, and just like that, the shop feels too still. I exhale slowly, leaning back against the counter.
There’s a warmth under my skin that has nothing to do with the heater.
Jude brings calm. He’s nothing like Dorian, whose presence feels like weather—unpredictable and consuming. Jude’s the quiet after the storm.
I turn off the front lights, leaving only the glow from the workbench lamp. The petals of the poinsettias catch the light, deep red against the frost that’s begun to creep along the windows.
My hands move on instinct, trimming stems, wiping surfaces, checking tomorrow’s delivery list. The rhythm soothes me.
But when I stop moving, the thoughts creep back in. The conversation with Wren. This whole thing with Dorian. How badly I messed up with Margaret.
I just need a night to clear my head for real.
Maybe my best friend wasn’t wrong when she recommended I rejoin the dating apps. Sex will definitely help me recenter myself.
By the time I finish cleaning up, it’s early evening. The streets outside are dusted white, and the glow from the lampposts makes everything look softer.
I stand by the window for a while, watching a couple walk past holding hands, bundled in scarves. It hits me then how long it’s been since I’ve touched someone just to feel connected.
Maybe that’s what I need tonight. Not to think. Not to feel so careful all the time.
So I change in the back room: dark jeans, a knit sweater, boots. I text Wren a quick note that I’m going out for a bit. Then, I grab my coat from the rack, lock up, and step into the cold.
CHAPTER SIX
Norah
The roads areslick with new snow when I drive out to The Drunken Fish, a cozy pub near the edge of town. It used to be a quiet bar, but lately it’s turned into a haven for locals wanting a little music, a little whiskey, and maybe a little trouble.
Warm air and laughter spill out the moment I step inside. The place glows with amber light—string bulbs over the dance floor, brass fixtures shining above the bar. There’s a small band in the corner playing a bluesy cover, couples swaying near the hearth.
“Norah Knightly,” the bartender says when I slide onto a stool. “Haven’t seen you in forever.”
“Hey, Tom.” I grin. “Still making the best old-fashioned in town?”
“Only for you.” He winks and starts mixing.
I glance around. The crowd’s lively but familiar. I catch snippets of gossip, see a few faces from the farmer’s market. For once, I’m not Norah-the-florist or Norah-who-used-to-date-Dorian. I’m just Norah.
Tom slides the drink my way. “To surviving another Fox Hollow winter.”
I clink his glass and take a sip. The bourbon’s warm, smoky, sweet with a hint of orange peel. It seeps through me like slow fire.
