novelxo Chapter Her Knotty List: Prologue
one year ago
You know that phrase, too stupid to live?
Well, I knew it applied to me, but I didn’t realize it was literal.
“Ope!”
My heel slips as I skirt around the edge of my big brother’s swimming pool. The lanai isn’t even slippery—and these heels aren’t even that high. I’m just… a little spin-y and a lot clumsy.
There was plenty of champagne in the house. There were also three of the happiest packs I’ve ever seen. And plenty of “Poor Single Emma” looks.
It would probably be more annoying and less gut-wrenching if my beloved big brother wasn’t one of them.
Theo has always been a romantic. But ever since his pack found their mate, Meg, a couple of years ago, he’s turned into an absolute pile of mush. I swear his pupils turn into little hearts the second she walks into the room.
Which just makes all the pity in his eyes when he looks at me even worse.
Like, I get it. I’m twenty-five and single, and I’ve had a dozen heats in clinics. I’m not sexy or graceful the way omegas are supposed to be. I’m not super smart like my best friend, Bridget. Or talented with home-making like Meg’s best friend Remi. I don’t even look as pretty as my own dang sister.
When Remi’s twin Serena joined our group, I thought maybe she’d be more “normal”; but, no, of course, she’s every bit as stunning as Remi—and so sharp, I usually get the sense her mind works several frames ahead of any of ours.
Maybe I need some less impressive friends.
No! That’s a terrible thought. C’mon, Emma! You’re better than this!
Am I? I think so…?
Good Lord, how much champagne have I had?
I’m definitely going to end up sleeping on Theo’s couch, aren’t I?
I cringe as I narrowly avoid the raised corner of the swimming pool. Passed out drunk on my big brother’s sofa. Not the most auspicious way to ring in the New Year. But you know what? That’s okay. That’s good, actually, because… um…
Before I can come up with an explanation to comfort myself, my gold heel catches on the edge of another shiny black paver. This time I flail back, squawking, “Oh holy night!”
Until two muscled arms hook around my waist, and a solid, warm body appears behind mine.
Chuckling.
A deep, darkly amused voice asks, “Did you just say, ‘oh holy night’?”
I gulp in some of the cool, humid air hanging around us and whip my head around, sending bouncy blonde curls over my bare shoulder.
Huh. This dress has no sleeves. Shouldn’t I be cold? Maybe I am cold, but I can’t feel it because of the champagne and the—
Man.
The manly alpha man behind me. Being manly. And warm.
And gorgeous.
Oh holy n—nnnevermind.
I blink, trying to absorb the perfect symmetry of his slashing features. Two thick brows, darker than the sandy brown of his shaggy, artfully mussed hair. A straight nose, a jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Thundercloud-gray eyes. Not to mention his sculpted mouth and perfect teeth.
The corded muscles of his arms flex under the rolled-up sleeves of his blue button-down. I watch them shift beneath his tanned skin, and then, like magic, I’m upright.
His brawny hands linger on my middle, pivoting me toward him—and the famous smirk on his beautiful face. Recognition finally pings through my laggy brain.
Oh. My. God.
“Y-you’re Gunnar Sinclair,” I squeak.
And, guys, I swear, it feels like a movie meet-cute. The two of us, alone on the dark lanai with the sounds of revelry ringing inside the house. A chilly breeze that has me hovering closer to his broad, hot body. Those strong hands spanning my waist to hold me steady while we stare right at each other.
Flecks of gold shimmer in his irises—little bursts of lightning streaked through the storm. His chest—so muscular and so close to my face—expands a deep breath, his own scent swelling under whatever neutralizers he has on.
They work too well, masking the core of his essence completely. I only get the salty-sweet edge of something toasted, but I lean closer anyway, sniffing him.
Visibly.
Because I’m too stupid to live.
But, for a moment, even that feels like part of our fairy tale. Instead of looking at me like I’m a lunatic, Gunnar’s lips twitch wider as his eyes trace my chagrinned expression.
And it’s all perfect.
Until he replies, “Yeah, squirt. You’re Theo’s little sister, right? Lucy?”
He thinks I’m my sister.
And he just called me squirt.
A totally unnecessary whine sticks in my throat. I swallow it down, not wanting him to feel bad.
It isn’t his fault everyone always mistakes me for my little sister. She is the prettier, more extroverted, more interesting of the two of us, anyway.
I should probably start taking people mixing us up as a compliment, really, because—
“Lucy?”
Oh, right. He asked me a question.
Or, really, he asked my sister a question.
Too bad for him; she’s with her sorority sisters in Cabo for winter break.
A sudden wave of dizziness flurries over me. I try to step back and give him his space, but my body doesn’t want to cooperate. It tilts to the side and he rights me again, frowning.
“Or are you Theo’s other sister?”
Ugh.
I wish that was a new moniker, but I’ve been Theo Matthews’ “other sister” for as long as I can remember. Theo was always wildly popular, even before becoming a pro football player. Everyone knew him… And then, when Lucy finally got to high school, two years after me, she practically ran the place.
So Theo was Theo Matthews. Lucy was his even-more-popular, even-better-looking little sister.
And I was “the other one.”
Or, I guess, I am “the other one.” Still.
Sheesh. A minor humiliation has no business being this painful. I’m going to have to unpack this in therapy later.
Would anyone calling me “Theo’s other sister” trigger me? Or am I feeling especially nauseous because it’s Gunnar Sinclair?
He’s almost as famous as Theo. The “hot-shot” forward for the Orlando Timberwolves hockey team has his gorgeous face all over social media and sports networks. They all boast his scoring record and ability to avoid penalties. After just two seasons with the team, he’s become their star player.
“With a smile as wicked as his slap-shot,” the tabloids say.
Can confirm, my brain pings uselessly as I stare at his face, trying to come up with a not-pathetic way to correct him.
Turns out, there really isn’t a not-pathetic way to tell someone they mixed up your name with your all-around-better little sister’s.
Maybe I just… won’t?
Cheese and crackers. This is going to be so humiliating when I have to explain it to Meg—and, worse, Remi.
Two of Remi’s alphas play with Gunnar on the Timberwolves. According to her, Gunnar needs to settle down and quit “hopping around with puck bunnies.”
Not really sure I want to know what that means.
But pretty sure I’m about to find out.
Gunnar’s gray eyes suddenly spark as he looks me over. Almost as if he’s just now realized that I’m a woman. Who is wearing the ridiculous black body-con dress Meg shoved at me.
My sister-in-law and I are mostly the same size, except for my stomach. And thighs. And my butt. Which may or may not be hanging out the back of this thing.
Thank God Gunnar is so tall, he’ll never be able to tell. My forehead only comes up to the base of his throat. Which suddenly smells…
So good.
Whatever he’s seeing must be enough to push his alpha pheromones up several notches. Scent spills over the chemical edge of the neutralizers covering his neck.
It’s sweet and salty and rich, too. I lean a bit closer, inhaling deeper. Delicious nuttiness rolls down my throat and shimmers in my lungs. I tremble as my back snaps straight and a thick gush of wetness seeps into the tiny black panties wedged between my thighs.
When I gasp, he rears back, eyes flying down to the sliver of space between our bodies. His nostrils flare, storm-tossed irises flashing as he—
Lets go of me.
Gunnar lets go of my waist and wipes his palms against his slacks as mortification curdles my middle.
I guess I didn’t realize how much of my weight he was holding. Because when he steps back like he can’t get away from me fast enough, the whole lanai tilts sharply to the left.
Oh. Nope.
The pool deck isn’t tilting. That’s just me.
Falling into the pool.