Page 21 of Knot Your Business

“Trying to decide if it’s you attempting to get back at your mother in some weird, delusional type of way, or if you’re hoping there might be a way to find out what went wrong with Jasper and try to fix it.”

Did I say she was the best friend a woman could have? I may have to change my tune. Because right now I just want to punch her.

She tilts her head and takes another drink from her mug, never looking away from me.

Eventually, I lose the will to try to wait her out. We’ll blame it on the alcohol. I’m typically way more stubborn than her.

“Both, I think.” I push myself back up, resting my elbows on the table so I can prop my chin on my hands. “My mom will be absolutely mortified when she finds out the pack has a Beta. And… well, I really want to fuck Rylan again.” Faedra’s cheeks darken, but she nods in support anyway. “And maybe there’s a small part of me that hopes whatever made Jasper decide I wasn’t enough can be… persuaded now. That I’ve changed enough for him to want me again.”

“You want me there for your call?”

Absolutely. I’ve never been more terrified of a video meeting in my damn life.

I nod, and she sets her cup down. “All right. Now let’s get you home before you punch the girl that has no sense of timing on this song. The added benefit will be that you don’t show up late to your final exam in college.”

Ten

JASPER

“You guys still coming to trivia tomorrow?” Huntley makes it to me in record time, both of her instruments already slung over one shoulder, her bag tossed over the other. Her hair is pulled back today, though a couple of the short brown pieces frame her face.

“Pretty sure, yeah,” I say. She grabs my music binder and follows me into the storage room. Rylan’s already there, setting his string bass against the wall the other two bassists store theirs. We lock eyes across the room, and my blood heats. His lips twist into a knowing smirk before he turns away, his focus stolen by our conductor. They disappear into his office, their heads close together, Rylan pulling out his phone and going through the notes I know he keeps there even though he’s too far away for me to actually see them.

“Gross,” Mason jokes behind me. “How are you still in the honeymoon phase? Hasn’t it been, like, three years?”

Huntley and Liz both laugh, and I roll my eyes.

“Real funny, Mason,” I mutter, grabbing my cello case and propping it open.

He shrugs as he moves around me to his own case. “Not our fault you were blind as a bat. Now we just finally get to joke about it.”

It had taken nearly three years for Rylan and me to realize that we were into each other. Three years of stolen glances, a pipe breaking in my old apartment, a couple dates with Dominic, and one very nasty fist fight after one of our concerts last September.

The din of the philharmonic chatting around me dies away between one heartbeat and the next. Giles—our conductor—leans out of his office. Rylan does the same a moment later. His gaze flicks to me and then away right before the color drains away from his face and neck, the dual snakes twisting up his neck an even more stark black. We twist around to see what’s happened, and my heart lodges in my throat.

A young woman crosses the room, her simple navy pantsuit pressed to within an inch of the fabric’s life, her black hair pulled back and tied against the nape of her neck in some sort of sleek bun. Her eyes are shrewd, the small pin on her lapel signaling her as one of the employees of the Council.

Employee. Not intern.

Fuck. Me.

She makes an impressive line to where Rylan and Giles are still standing in the threshold of the office, her feet never faltering despite several instrument cases and other small items littering the ground from the post-rehearsal rush to get out of here. My lover’s eyes light on me for a heartbeat before she blocks him, the direction in them clear.

I pull out my phone and send a quick text to Dominic.

Council employee is here.

Che palle.

English?

I’ll be there in ten.

There’s no way that’s what he actually said, but I shove my phone into my pocket instead of harping on him for whatever vulgar phrase is his favorite this week.

“Mr. Montegue,” the woman says, holding out her hand.

Huntley gasps. Liz gasps. Mason chuckles.

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