Page 61 of Knot Her Beta

“Everything you’ve told me about this woman…” She gestures vaguely toward me. “None of it was about what she could give you.”

I frown.

“It was about how you feel when you’re with her,” Caroline expands with infinite patience.

I blink.

“You didn’t tell me she’s beautiful.”

I didn’t.

“You didn’t tell me she’s successful.”

I hadn’t, though Emily is.

“You didn’t tell me she’s an Alpha until I asked.” Her expression softens. “You told me she’s a caregiver, and that with her, you feel wanted.”

The wind catches a loose strand of Caroline’s hair. “I don’t think someone who leaves you feeling that way is looking for a servant to handle things when their instincts take control.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “No.”

“But,” Caroline says, adjusting the portfolio beneath her arm, “if you’re hesitant because you think this is a fleeting emotion on either of your sides, you’d be a fool to give up the position being offered to you here.”

“We don’t love each other.”

“As I said, I value respect and partnership over love. I am fond of you, and I believe you are fond of me.” She reaches out to touch my arm. “It could grow to be more, given the time. And you would never question where you stand with me.”

No, but Emily would never leave me questioning where I stand with her, either. The uncertainty is all on my side, which is why it’s so hard to move past.

She squeezes my arm and stops at the junction where the path splits, one fork leading back toward the house, the other continuing back along the property’s edge.

“You don’t have to decide today,” she says.

“You say that, but everyone else is pushing for a commitment this second.”

“Take the materials. Read them over. The offer will remain open until the end of May.”

She extends her hand, and I shake it. Her grip is firm, dry, exactly what it should be. Then she turns and walks back toward the house, her posture straight, her pace unhurried, while I remain standing at the fork.

Chapter Sixteen

Emily

“Sprinkles, no! Not the cushion!” I snatch a crocheted throw pillow from between the Newfoundland’s teeth as Blake drags the dog away from the couch by his collar. “It will hurt your stomach if you eat it.”

Quinn pops up from behind the armchair, a juice stain darkening the front of her striped sweater. “Mr. Leif said I could build a fort with the cushions.”

Blake groans. “Of course he did.”

“I said she could ask permission,” Leif corrects from where he kneels on the floor beside the dismantled board game.

As he sorts pieces back into the box, the mauve strands of his hair fall over his forehead, and he shoves them aside with the back of his wrist.

The entire Wright Pack had shown up for our Saturday gathering this week, and it was nice to have a full house, though my cottage is a little cramped without the backyard space to flow into. A heavy rain the night before had turned the garden to mud.

Holden appears in the kitchen doorway, an empty coffee mug in hand. “Who wants to be in charge of the world’s loudest seven-year-old on the drive home?”

“I’m not loud,” Quinn protests.