Page 4 of Knot Her Beta

“Hey, Em,” Blake says from behind me. “Good morning.”

“Blake.” I straighten and turn. “Morning.”

Leif stands with his hands still in his pockets, close enough to reach out and touch, and about a thousand miles away from where we were last October. His periwinkle eyes find mine and hold for a second before dropping to somewhere near my shoulder.

“Morning,” he murmurs.

“Morning.” The word comes out gruff.

He starts to say something else and stops.

I shift from one foot to the other and don’t fill the silence.

“Mr. Leif.” Quinn reappeared at the railing, using the exact flat authority that Blake had used on her not thirty seconds ago. “Get on the boat. We don’t want to be late.”

Leif blinks, a short, helpless sound escaping him, and my own mouth curves before I can stop it.

“Pardon me,” he says with ridiculous formality, and the small smile on his face is the same as the one he had before Carson stole it from him, and I surrender first, lowering my eyes.

He walks up the gangway, clutching his work satchel to his side as if worried it will slip off his shoulder in the brief moment he’s suspended between dock and boat.

“Don’t forget this monster.” Blake lifts Sprinkles bodily over the rail with both arms, the dog’s back paws pedaling air for a moment before landing on the deck.

Chuckling at his antics, I turn toward the path.

“Em, wait up!” Blake calls after me as I reach the beach.

I slow my pace, and he jogs the last few yards from the dock to fall in beside me. We head up the path side-by-side, my crew yards ahead of us. The packed gravel crunches under our boots, and the firs crowd close on both sides, their branches holding the last of the overnight mist.

We walk for a few paces without saying anything. That’s one of the things I appreciate about Blake. He’s comfortable letting the quiet sit between us.

Then he reaches into the inside pocket of his flannel and produces an envelope covered in pink and gold glitter. It coats the entire front of the envelope in a thick dusting, smeared in places where small fingers pressed too hard.

Quinn’s signature style.

When he tries to pass it to me, I hold my hands up. “Whoa, now, are you trying to give me the glitter plague?”

He taps the envelope against my chest, showering me in sparkles. “Too late. Now you’re infected, so take the damn thing. Quinn was supposed to give that to you at the dock.”

He scratches his beard, spreading the glitter plague. “I reminded her twice, but she still forgot.”

I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger, but nothing can save me from picking up a smear of glitter that won’t come off. Inside is a card, the front a drawing in crayon of a dog, a small person in a yellow dress, and five figures of varying heights.

I open it to find Chloe’s bubbly handwriting with Quinn’s crayon decorations around the border:

You are hereby invited to join us in welcoming the Wright Pack’s newest member:

Leif Hollis

Saturday, 7pm,

The Homestead

Dinner and conversation

Below it, in Quinn’s wobbly print:

PLEES COM