Page 56 of Knot So Social

“Okay.” She slides past me to open the door, walking through first.

When I step into the nest, the vague unease about the sterile house vanishes. She’s set up a canopy indoors and draped it with sheers curtains and fairy lights. The round floor bed under the tent bursts with cushions in a rainbow array of vivid colors. Makes me wonder if she rented the house for her heat.

“Bathroom’s just around that wall,” she says, pointing to a wood paneled curved wall. “And . . .” her eyes widen. “Oh, damn. I didn’t order a separate bed for you.”

Willow runs a hand over her ear, flicking that luscious hair back over her shoulder. “Um.” She turns, scanning the room. “I didn’t think that far ahead. The guest rooms will be dusty, so you can just sleep in my bed if you need to take a break during . . . well, after it starts.”

Her distress kills me. I drop my bags and take her hand. “Ma’am, please don’t worry. I won’t sleep away from your side once we get started. Plus, this spot looks super cozy.”

I turn and point to her round bed, shaped like an inflatable pool.

She snorts. “Your feet will probably hang over the edge.”

I toss her a wink. “Like I said, cozy.”

She throws up one hand and a chuckles. “All right, but if you need to, my room’s back the way we came, beyond the living area. And none of this ma’am business. Just Willow. I’m just Willow, and you’re just Jeremy.”

I nod. She’s normalizing this situation for herself, to pretend that she hasn’t paid for me to be here.

Mr Shares trots into the room, sniffing at my bags.

“Stop that,” Willow orders, toeing him aside. She glances up. “Um, are you hungry?” She fidgets with her dress’s breezy overlay.

Bless her for trying so hard to put us both at ease.

“I’m starving, ma’—Willow.” Shit, the way that came out sounded like ‘my Willow’, and I fucking love how that rolls off my tongue.

She chuckles and turns away. When she followed behind me earlier, I didn’t see her walk. Now her limp’s obvious as she shuffles through the house, often bracing one hand on the walls or furniture as she goes. Her dog’s nails click as he follows us.

Willow catches me staring in the glassy surface of a framed photo.

“This is a lovely house,” I blurt out.

Her expression softens. “Thanks.” She looks around, as if seeing it all for the first time. “Sometimes a bit drafty, perhaps.”

We round the corner and enter a large open-plan space with a kitchen overlooking a living area and patio. The big glass expanse looks like it might fold back to connect the indoor and outdoor spaces. I can picture summer night parties, with a grill running in the patio, string lights outside, and people laughing as they gather.

Willow throws open the fridge. “What do you feel like? I bought a lot.”

I peer over her shoulder. Foodstuff crams every available surface, a bag of carrots teetering dangerously on the edge of the lowest shelf.

“Would you like me to cook for you?” I ask.

She whirls, surprised to find me standing so close behind her. Her nostrils flare as she takes in my scent, and her eyelids slide closed. We stand there frozen for a long moment. My fingers itch to tuck loose strands of her hair behind her ears.

“Um, yes?” She jolts alert and angles her body away. “I mean, is that part of your training, or the package?”

“No. But maybe it should be?” I chuckle. “Truth is, I just want to help.”

She steps aside and I gently guide her toward the far end of the bench before turning back to the fridge and pulling out the at-risk carrots, plus cucumber, sauces, mayonnaise, and sausages. “Anything you don’t eat?” I ask.

Willow shakes her head. “If it’s in the house I eat it. You?”

I pause, arms full of food. “No, can’t think of anything I don’t eat. Except maybe caviar and snails and that kind of shit.”

Her lips press together. “Caviar’s in the top tray.”

Well, fuck. Not even twenty minutes and I’ve put my foot in it.