Page 140 of Knot in the Wedding Cards

He lifts my hand again and presses another kiss to my knuckles, softer than the first.

When he looks up at me over it, the low red sun catches his eyes, and there is nothing in them but the truth.

"Let me prove to you," he whispers, "that I'll never shatter your heart again."

In the warm, gold-red hush —my hand cradled in his, his promise hanging sweet and heavy in the air between us— something in me that has been clenched shut for five long years finally, quietly, begins to give.

I dare let my heart quiver at the tempting promise.

CHAPTER 26

The Final Blossom

~AUGUST~

There's a particular kind of tired that only comes from spending an entire day arranging other people's happiness.

My hands smell like cut stems and floral preservative.

There's a smudge of pollen under my thumbnail I'll never fully get out. Twelve hours on my feet at Bellamy Blooms, coaxing three hundred blooms into something a bride will one day weep over, and all I want now is my own quiet house and a shower hot enough to hurt.

The road out of town runs long and gold at this hour, the sun sinking behind the marsh grass, everything washed in that honeyed light that makes even the potholes look intentional. I'm halfway home, half-asleep behind the wheel, when I see the truck pulled onto the shoulder up ahead.

I'd know that truck anywhere.

Vintage. Cream-and-rust in a shade no factory ever mixed on purpose.

Sawyer's.

Sawyer himself is standing in front of it, shirtless, scowling down into the open hood like the engine has personally insulted his grandmother.

I could keep driving...

The thought arrives unbidden, a little ugly, and I sit with it exactly as long as it takes to feel ashamed of it. Because that man is, by every reasonable measure, my competition — the Alpha currently winning the woman I spent five years failing.

He's probably stranded on this shoulder on his way to her right now…daring to look like a damn snack too…

Ugh…

I pull over anyway.

I flick on my hazards and roll to a stop behind him, because whatever else Sawyer Devereaux is, he's stuck out here, and I wasn't raised to drive past a stranded man. Even this one.

Especially,some tired, honest part of me murmurs,this one.

"Car trouble?" I call, climbing out.

Sawyer glances back, and something in his face actually eases when he sees it's me — which is its own small surprise.

"August." He wipes his hands down the front of his jeans, leaving grease streaks across the denim. "Welp. She's giving me trouble again. That's the diplomatic word for it."

"Have you considered," I say, crossing to peer into the engine bay beside him, "the radical modern innovation of a vehicle that runs?"

"Don't you start with me." He points a wrench in my direction. "I could buy new. I've got the means to buy new. But a new truck's got no soul. This one's got character."

"This one's got a character flaw," I say. "There's a difference."

That earns me a surprised bark of a laugh, and I feel absurdly, disproportionately pleased with myself for having caused it.