Chapter 31 Knox
Knox
“They moved the deadline.”
I blink, my brain still foggy from sleep and the lingering high of what just happened in her bedroom. Beth is sitting on the living room couch, swimming in Arthur's oversized flannel, her knees pulled tight to her chest, shaking.
“What?” I drag a hand down my face, trying to catch up. “Beth, what's going on?”
“Seventy-two hours.” Her voice is scraped out. Flat.
She turns her phone toward me. I take it.
The email is from Whitmore Capital. Cold, clipped language. Due to recent inquiries from third-party interests... timeline materially accelerated... 72 hours to accept or decline. My blood goes completely still.
Third-party interests. Is that... because of the favor I asked my cousin? The pitch I sent to get Wildflower & Vine in front of Dorian Beaumont?
Fuck, did I do this?
“Knox.” Beth is staring at me. “I can't breathe.”
I set the phone face-down on the carpet.
“I had time,” she continues, her voice cracking.
“I had until the end of the month. I was going to get through Harper’s wedding first. I just wanted to be a good maid of honor, be there for Harper without having to make a massive, life-altering decision about selling my shop. And now I have three days.”
She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes.
“Who even are these third-party interests? Nobody knows about the offer except—”
“Beth,” I say, my voice dropping to a gravelly, guilt-laced rasp. “I might know what's going on.”
She drops her hands. Her eyes are wide, glassy, and she looks so incredibly confused and scared that every instinct I have screams at me to pull her into my lap and promise her I'll fix it.
“I reached out to my cousin. His omega has long known Dorian Beaumont, the CEO of Beaumont Patisserie.” I swallow hard, an icy fist pressing against the bottom of my stomach. “I pitched your shop to them for a partnership with their luxury wedding division.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.
“I didn't commit you to anything,” I plead. “I was just trying to build options.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Her mouth opens, closes, opens again.
“A partnership,” she repeats slowly, trying to process the words. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't know when Dorian Beaumont would even see the pitch, let alone be interested,” I say, the guilt twisting sharp in my gut.
“I thought... that if you landed a massive corporate account like that, you'd quickly wipe out your loan.
That you'd make so much money that maybe you wouldn't feel so trapped here in Lakeview.
That your mind would be clearer to choose if you actually wanted to stay, instead of feeling anchored by your debt.
But I didn't want to get your hopes up for nothing.”
Beth lets out a breath that sounds like a dry sob. She pushes off the floor, and my instinct is to match her, to stay close, but she takes a step back.
“I’m not mad that you tried to help,” she says, her voice trembling. She wraps her arms around herself, gripping the oversized cuffs of the flannel. “But Knox, I wasn't ready to think about this yet, let alone ready to make a decision."
“I’m sorry. God, Beth, I’m so sorry. I didn't think it would escalate like this.”
“I just wanted to get through the wedding,” she whispers to herself, a harsh, panicked edge bleeding into her tone.
“I had a plan. I had a timeline. I could compartmentalize it until the wedding was over, and now I can't—” She breaks off, pressing a fist to her sternum.
“Plus I can't think when you're standing this close to me.”
I step back. It hurts more than I had anticipated.
“Tell me what you need,” I scratch out.
“I don't know.” She drops back onto the couch, pulling her knees up again. She looks so small, and, fuck, I put her in this position.
I sit in the armchair, five feet away. It feels like five miles.
And then, the scent in the room shifts. It’s gradual, dampening in quick stages.
Beth lifts her head. Her eyes are incredibly glassy now.
“It's so hot,” she says, though the thermostat reads sixty-seven and her cheeks are flushed pink. “And I need to—”
She stands abruptly and starts moving.
She pulls the throw blankets off the back of the couch, refolding them with frantic precision. Corners matched. Stacked by size. She grabs one of Arthur’s discarded hoodie on a chair, folding it into a tight square.
“Beth, come sit down.”
“Everything feels wrong,” she mutters. A sharp, dizzying spike of honeysuckle punches through the air, hitting me hard. It scrambles my brain for a split second, but then, just as fast as it flared, it vanishes completely.
What's going on? Her scent was getting muted then spiked, and now just vanished...
She goes to the hall closet. Pulls out two fleece blankets, a quilt, pillows. She carries them back to the couch and starts layering them. Blankets first. Pillows banked on the sides. Arthur's hoodie tucked into the corner like—
Like she's nesting.
Oh, fuck.
Is she going into some kind of odorless, stress-hazed heat?