Knot in Trouble (Finding Home #2)

Prologue

Rose

“Ma’am…”

“He’ll be here.” I smile at the dark-haired, college-aged server whose patience levels have been decreasing by the minute. “Please, just wait two more minutes.”

He glances at the couples waiting in the lobby of the packed Italian restaurant. If he weren’t so nice, he’d have already kicked me off my table for two, which he only seated me at when I told him Simon was literally just behind me.

That was twenty minutes ago.

He lets out a sigh that I barely hear over the classical music muffling the conversation from the nearby packed tables. “Two minutes. No more.”

As soon as he walks away, I rummage through my purse, take out my phone, and hit redial. Again.

Simon said he’d meet me at the restaurant for our sixth anniversary dinner while my parents watch our son, Ben.

With the accountancy firm he works at in downtown Memphis only a thirty-minute drive from Weldon, the small suburb where I was born and raised, he should have arrived soon after I did.

Instead, I’ve been hogging this table like nobody’s business.

I’m getting ready to end the call and hit redial when the phone stops ringing.

Thank God.

Smiling, I sit up in my seat. “Simon, you better get your ass down here or the server—”

“Ma’am,” an unfamiliar male voice interrupts.

I’ve met most of Simon’s co-workers over the years, but maybe this guy is new?

“Is Simon running late? Tell him the server will only hold the table for—”

“Ma’am,” the man cuts in more firmly. “There’s been an accident. You need to come to Weldon Hospital. Soon as you can.”

I hang up my cell phone in a daze.

Grabbing my black silk clutch that matches my dress, I rush toward the exit. Any words the server says go right past me and hit someone else instead. I have a cloakroom ticket burning a hole in my purse, but I couldn't care less about my coat.

I’ve never snapped at a person the way I snap at the valet attendant when he takes forever with my car.

I’ve never sped before, but I edge so close to the speed limit that only the fear of being pulled over keeps me on the right side of legal.

For fifteen minutes, my sweaty fingers squeeze the steering wheel, and I whisper my new mantra: “Simon is fine. This is just a misunderstanding. Simon is fine.”

There are no parking spots near the hospital entrance, so I find the closest spot in the parking lot, kick off my heels, and scramble out of my car.

Whoa.

My world tips sharply off its axis.

I stagger, going down hard on my hands and skinning my knees. The ground is cold, and my cheeks are wet, but I can’t remember when I started to cry.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

Though my knees shake, I push myself to my feet and lean against my car for a second, closing my eyes as I force my racing heart to slow.

You’re okay. Simon is okay. You’re lightheaded from not eating enough today. That’s all this is. Stop. Panicking.

When I’m sure I won’t fall again, I hurry toward the hospital entrance, a sick churn in my belly and ice in my veins.

With each step, my urgency grows.

The sound of my bare feet slapping on the pavement almost drowns out the thudding of my panicked breathing.

Cold air blasts me in the face, courtesy of the intense AC right above my head. I nearly shove a man walking too slowly ahead of me out of the way, but a space opens on his left in the ER lobby, and I sprint around him toward the front desk.

“My husband,” I pant, dragging a hand through the sweat-dampened dark strands of my hair, struggling to breathe as terror constricts my heart, “there was an accident. Someone answered his phone and said—”

The woman, a calm, blue-eyed nurse in pink scrubs, coolly glances at the screen under the front desk. “Your name?”

I grip the counter with icy fingers. “Rose. Rose Hayes. My husband is Simon Hayes.”

Something subtle in her expression shifts. A shutter goes down over her eyes. “Take a seat in the waiting room, and a doctor will be out to talk to you.”

My heart spikes. “What do you mean? Why can’t I see Simon?” My voice cracks on the last word.

She doesn’t hear me. She’s already up out of her seat, walking to the nurses' station to whisper something to a man in a white coat who's writing on his clipboard.

The doctor, dark-haired and looking to be in his late forties, walks around the front counter toward me. Alpha. Dominance rolls off him in waves. There’s a smile on his lips but not in his eyes. I don’t know why that frightens me, but it just does.

“Rose Hayes?” His gaze drops to the years-old bite on my neck, and his steps slow before he continues walking toward me. His expression is unreadable.

Simon isn’t just my husband; he’s my alpha, and I’m his omega, bonded to him forever by his claiming bite.

I nod, too terrified to let go of the counter with how badly my knees are shaking. “Can I see Simon? Is he okay? What happened?”

“You’re not scent matches?”

Confused by his question, I shake my head. “Bonded and married. Why?”

“I suppose that explains it,” he says vaguely.

Explains what?

“I’m Dr. Humphrey.” He glances at a closed door on his left. “Let’s find somewhere quiet to talk about this.”

He guides me away from the front desk, but I dig in my heels, resistant to this alpha’s dominance in a way I rarely am.

“No. Whatever it is, I need to know now. I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what is wrong with my husband.”

Sharp glances pierce me from the nurses' station and the few people occupying the hard black plastic seats in the waiting area.

He gives me a long, probing look, then nods. “Okay. Paramedics brought him in about twenty minutes ago. There’s no easy way to say this, but Simon was in a vehicle when it flipped, and he died. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

I stare at him.

The back of my eyelids burn, and my brain is too quiet, yet somehow, also too loud. “No.” I shake my head. “No, that’s not right. He was at work. He was going to meet me at the restaurant for dinner. Maybe you have the wrong—”

“The first responders found his wallet in his pocket,” he gently cuts in. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hayes. We did everything we could, but he didn’t make it. We have a chaplain who—”

I wrench my arm from his, stepping back so fast that I stumble. “You’re lying to me. That’s not Simon. You are not talking about my Simon.”

But I remember his comment from before.

“That explains it then.”

Now it’s not vague. It’s crystal clear. He asked if we were scent matches because it was important. If we were fated mates, I would have known he was dead the second it happened. I would have known it because I would not be standing here in this hospital. I would be dead.

I clamp a trembling hand over my mouth to stifle my scream.

As if the space between the doctor and me will wind back time.

As if distance means he didn’t say what I thought he did.

“Simon is fine. I need him. My son needs his dad. He can’t be gone.

You’re wrong. He’s not—” I choke on a sob as tears soak my cheeks.

He steps forward. “Mrs. Hayes, why don’t we—”

“Don’t touch me!” As I back away from him, my knees buckle, and I collapse onto the white, squeaky linoleum floor.

I drown in pain, indifferent to the doctor and the nurse who help me up off the floor, uncaring that I’m making a scene. Nothing matters anymore.

Simon is gone. Forever.

Before I could say goodbye.

Before I could tell him I love him one more time.

Before I could hold his hand, so that he wouldn’t die alone.

A part of me dies with him.