Knot that into you (Honeyridge Falls #3)

Chapter 1

Bea

I've been home for seven days, and I'm already losing my mind.

Not because Honeyridge Falls has changed—it hasn't.

The first snow has already dusted the Montana peaks, bare branches scratch against gray November skies, and the same nosy neighbors still peer through their curtains when I walk to the general store.

Everything's the same as when I left four years ago.

The problem is me. I'm not that same eighteen-year-old anymore.

The one who couldn't wait to escape, who had big plans and bigger dreams. I'm twenty-two now, with a business degree and ambitions of starting my own marketing consultancy, and somehow I've ended up right back in my childhood bedroom like some kind of homing pigeon who forgot how to migrate.

"Bea, honey, you've been staring at that cereal box for ten minutes."

I blink and focus on my omega mother, who's watching me with careful concern. Behind her, both my alpha fathers hover near the kitchen counter, their worry thick enough to taste.

"I'm fine, Mom." I grab the first box my hand touches—Lucky Charms, because apparently my life has devolved to that level. "Just tired."

"You've been tired for a week." Ben appears in the doorway, and I don't need to turn around to know he's wearing that expression that makes him look like Dad when he's in full protective mode.

My older brother—six-foot-four of mechanic-built muscle and overprotective energy—leans against the frame with grease still visible under his fingernails despite obvious scrubbing. "Maybe you should…"

"Maybe I should what?" I spin around, cereal box clutched to my chest like a shield. "Go for a run? Take up yoga? Join a convent?"

"Do convents accept omegas?" Papa asks thoughtfully.

"Asking for a friend?" Dad adds with a smirk.

"You two are not helping," Mom says, but she's fighting a smile.

"Sorry." I set the cereal on the counter harder than necessary. "I don't mean to be a brat."

"You're not a brat, honey. You're processing." Mom's voice is gentle. "But Ben's right—you do smell like a coffee shop went through a divorce."

"Marie!" both fathers gasp in mock horror.

"What? I'm just being honest." She turns to me with those knowing omega eyes. "And that sweater is eating you alive. Is that Ben's?"

"It's comfortable."

"It's a trash bag with sleeves," Ben says helpfully.

I flip him off behind the cereal box.

"Right." Ben leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "That's why you've been wearing the same sweatpants for three days and smell like sadness and stale coffee."

Heat creeps up my neck. Omega scents don't lie. My usual cinnamon-apple warmth has definitely turned more cinnamon-sadness lately.

Coming home feels like admitting defeat, even though logically I know it's just temporary while I figure out my next move.

The breakup with Terrance was amicable enough—we wanted completely different futures.

He wanted the whole traditional package—immediate bonding, a stay-at-home omega focused on making babies and keeping house.

I wanted my career, my independence, my own path.

Neither of us was wrong. We just weren't right for each other.

"The Thanksgiving Festival is today," Mom says, too casually. Nothing my parents do is ever casual. She's building up to something. "The whole town will be there."

"Which is why I should stay home."

"You can't hide forever, Bea."

There it is. The gentle alpha command voice that Dad uses when he thinks I'm being unreasonable. It's not a real command—omega-alpha relationships don't work that way in our family—but it carries weight anyway.

"I'm not hiding." Even I don't believe it this time.

I've left the house three times since I got back—once to pick up my old job at the general store, once to buy groceries, and once to escape Ben's increasingly creative attempts to "cheer me up."

The last one involved a karaoke machine. At seven in the morning. We don't talk about it.

Mom clears her throat delicately. "The Thanksgiving Festival really would be good for you, honey. Fresh air, friendly faces..."

"People asking why I'm back and what went wrong with Terrance and when I'm planning to find a nice pack and settle down."

"No one's going to—"

"Mom. This is Honeyridge Falls. Mrs. Peterson asked me about my 'romantic situation' when I was getting the mail from the mailbox yesterday. I've only been home a week."

Silence falls over the kitchen. Outside, I can hear the distant sound of someone chopping firewood and the honk of geese that didn't make it south in time. Normal, small-town sounds that used to comfort me and now feel like a trap closing around my ankles.

"People care about you, sweetheart," Papa says gently. "This town watched you grow up. Of course they're curious about how you're doing."

I want to argue, but the fight goes out of me as suddenly as it flared.

He's not wrong. Honeyridge Falls isn't malicious in its curiosity—just invested.

When your neighbor's kid gets sick, you bring soup.

When someone loses a job, you find them work.

When the local omega comes home unexpectedly from college, you ask questions because you care.

That doesn't make it any less exhausting. Or scary. Everyone expecting me to have answers when I barely have questions figured out yet.

"Fine." Three faces immediately brighten. "I'll go to the stupid festival. But if one person asks me about finding an alpha, I'm coming straight home."

"Deal." Ben's quick response tells me he's afraid I'll change my mind. He wipes his hands on his jeans—an old habit from the garage. "And I'll run interference if anyone gets too nosy."

"You'll try to set me up with every unmated alpha under thirty."

"Only the good-looking ones with stable jobs."

"Says the guy who still lives at home," I shoot back, but there's no heat in it. "Maybe I should be setting you up instead."

"I own a business, thank you very much. Living at home is called being financially smart." He grins. "Besides, someone has to keep an eye on our parents."

"You bought Mack's garage with money you saved by mooching off Mom and Dad."

"Strategic resource allocation," he corrects primly.

"That's a fancy way of saying 'I don't pay rent.'"

"At least I didn't come crawling back after—" He stops himself, grimacing. "Sorry. Low blow."

"It's fine." And surprisingly, it is. This is normal sibling banter, not pity. "But seriously, Ben. You're twenty-six. When are you going to fly the nest?"

"When you stop needing your big brother to rescue you from karaoke machines."

"That was one time!"

"At seven in the morning," Papa adds helpfully.

Ben ignores him, those dimples appearing again. "Besides, you're one to talk. You literally just moved back into your childhood bedroom."

"Temporarily!"

"Uh-huh. And I'm staying here temporarily too. Been temporary for twenty-six years now."

"Kids," Mom says mildly, but she's smiling. This is familiar territory—safe territory. Ben and I can fight about anything except the things that actually matter.

"Anyway," Ben continues, clearly eager to change the subject. "You do have a thing for competent guys."

I narrow my eyes at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just that you circled Tom Kerr's photo in your yearbook."

"I was seventeen and he was cute!"

"You drew hearts around it," Dad adds helpfully from across the kitchen. "In gel pen."

"PURPLE gel pen," Papa clarifies.

"I hate this family," I tell the ceiling.

"And he's married now, so that's completely irrelevant!" I add desperately.

"The purple gel pen is very relevant," Papa insists.

"It shows commitment to the aesthetic," Dad agrees seriously.

"Maybe I should dig out that yearbook," Ben muses. "Bring it to the festival. I'm sure people would love to see all the circles and hearts—"

"Benjamin Wilson, I swear to—"

"Language," both fathers chorus automatically, now clearly enjoying themselves.

"You're all the worst." But I'm smiling despite myself, and I can feel my scent shifting—less bitter sadness, more embarrassed affection. At least it's an improvement.

The teasing winds down as everyone disperses. Dad heading to check something in the garage, Papa refilling his coffee, Mom starting on dishes. Ben lingers in the doorway, watching me with that protective big brother look that makes me want to hug him and punch him in equal measure.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah." And surprisingly, I mean it. "Thanks for... you know."

"Making you laugh?"

"Being annoying enough to distract me from my existential crisis."

"That's what big brothers are for." He grins. "Now go shower. You smell like sad coffee and the universe will implode if we're late because you're doing that thing where you try on seventeen outfits."

"I do not—"

"You absolutely do. I'll be in the truck."

I let my forehead fall against the cool granite countertop after he leaves. My family means well. They love me, they want me to be happy, and they can't understand why I'm not bouncing back from my "college phase" like some kind of resilient rubber ball.

The truth is, I'm terrified. Terrified that everyone will see my return as failure instead of an intentional retreat. Terrified that I'll never figure out how to build the independent life I want. Terrified that maybe I've disappointed everyone by not fitting into the mold they expected.

But I can't hide forever. Even I know that.

I push off the counter and head upstairs. Time to face the wardrobe explosion that's about to happen.

Almost an hour later, I'm standing in front of my bedroom mirror surrounded by what looks like a clothing store explosion. I've changed four times, and my floor has become a disaster zone of rejected outfits.

"Too desperate." I toss aside a dress that definitely says "I'm trying too hard."

"Too casual." The sweatpants sail across the room.

"Too... why do I own this?" A crop top from my freshman year joins the pile.

My phone buzzes: You've been up there for 47 minutes. Should I call the fire department?

I text back: I hate you.

You love me. Also you look great in the burgundy sweater. Trust me.

I peer out my window. Sure enough, Ben's leaning against his truck in the driveway, grinning up at me like the smug jerk he is.

The burgundy sweater it is, then. With dark jeans that actually fit and boots that say "I'm put together but not trying to impress anyone" even though we both know that's a lie. I add a cream scarf because November in Montana is no joke, and I'd rather not freeze my ass off trying to look cute.

The face staring back at me looks older than I remember. More serious. Like someone who's made hard decisions and lived with the consequences.

My hair falls in loose waves past my shoulders. I've managed to straighten it into submission, which feels like a small victory. Mascara without stabbing myself in the eye—another win. I look... human. Maybe even pretty, if I squint.

My phone buzzes again: Stop squinting. You're beautiful. Now get down here before Dad starts the truck without you.

"I'm surrounded by psychics." But I'm smiling as I grab my jacket.

I grab my heavy winter coat and purse, take one last look in the mirror, and head downstairs. My parents are waiting in the living room, and their faces light up when I appear.

"You look lovely, honey." Mom's genuine smile makes some of the tension in my chest ease.

"Thanks. Can we go before I lose my nerve?"

"Absolutely." Papa drops a kiss on top of my head. "And remember, if you want to leave early, just find one of us."

"Or text me," Ben adds from the doorway. "I'll create a diversion."

"What kind of diversion?"

"The kind that involves me accidentally falling into the duck pond."

Despite everything, I laugh. Ben's been threatening to fall into the duck pond at every town event since we were kids. He's never actually done it. It's become a running joke in our family.

"You've been saying that for fifteen years."

"Which is why everyone will believe it's finally happening. The long game, Bea."

"You're an idiot."

"An idiot who loves you." He reaches over and musses my hair, and I swat his hand away.

"I just fixed that!"

"Consider it authentically windswept."

"I will consider pushing you into the duck pond myself."

"That's the spirit!" Papa calls from the back seat.

We pile into Ben's truck—me in the passenger seat, parents claiming the back—and pull out of the driveway.

The Thanksgiving Festival is set up in the main square and surrounding streets, with food booths and craft vendors and the kind of wholesome small-town entertainment that makes city people think we're all living in a Hallmark movie.

They're not entirely wrong about that either.

As we get closer, I can see the crowds milling around, the bright colors of booth awnings, the smoke rising from the barbecue pit and turkey fryers. Kids run between the stalls with painted faces and sticky hands. Couples stroll arm in arm, sharing hot cider and looking disgustingly happy.

My stomach twists with something complicated—homesickness and dread tangled together until I can't tell which is which.

"You okay?" Ben asks quietly. I realize I've been gripping the door handle hard enough to leave marks.

"Yeah. Just getting my game face on."

"Remember, you don't owe anyone explanations. If someone asks a question you don't want to answer, change the subject."

"To what?"

"The weather. Annie Winslow's prize-winning chrysanthemums. How great the apple cider donuts are. Literally anything."

I nod, but my throat feels tight. In about five minutes, I'm going to walk into a crowd of people who knew me before I knew myself. People who watched me grow up and leave and now want to know why I'm back. People who mean well but don't understand that coming home feels like giving up.

Ben parks the truck, and I can already see familiar faces turning our way.

Mrs. Peterson waving enthusiastically from near the craft booths.

The Parker family from down the street, their three kids running circles around their legs.

Margie Winslow setting up what looks suspiciously like a kissing booth near the bandstand.

"Ready?" Ben asks.

I take a breath. "No. But let's do this anyway."

I open the truck door and step out into the crisp late-November air, into my past, praying it won't swallow my future whole.