Page 12 of Knotted

He drops his name like I should be impressed, and yeah, in any other setting, I might be fawning over him, begging for a job. But today? Not happening. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Of Mercer Media.” He says it with all the smugness of someone who thinks it’s his birthright. And honestly, it’s impressive. One of the biggest publishing houses in the country, with over two hundred bestsellers and offices in five major cities. Pissing him off would be career suicide.

But I calmly take the check and his card, settling the bill like I’m not mentally crafting the most bulletproof pen name in history.

When I return, he leans in, his voice low and sharp. “Mercer Media.”

I know I should play ball here. Give him the ego stroke Taylor’s perfected—bat my eyes,oohandahwhile I act impressed. But he’s such an ass, I just can’t do it. And before I can rein it in, or help myself, my superpower comes out, full force: the power to be the biggest smartass ever.

I pretend to think. “Still nothing,” I say, deadpan. He signs the check, not bothering to look at me. “Stop fucking around and give me your number, or I’ll have you fired.”

Yup, saw that coming a mile away. Because when an a-hole’s charm doesn’t work, they resort to bullying and threats. God, give me strength.

“First of all, touching your phone would likely require a tetanus shot. And second, if this is how you tip, hard pass.”

He’s about to say something, maybe threatening, maybe to get the last word in, and instead of taking it, I walk away withhis signed tab. I head past the kitchen to the manager’s office. Marty’s on shift tonight.

I pop my head in. “Taking five.”

He nods while on the phone taking what looks to be a VIP request. “Private dining?” he asks, then adds, “Absolutely.”

I chuckle and roll my eyes. They always say yes to a private dining room because what are people going to do? It takes a week to get a reservation, and if they’re splurging on this place, they’re not getting in anywhere of this caliber faster.

They’re stuck, and the managers all know it.

I head out back and sit on the plastic milk crate and take in a breath. The air is crisp and cool as I gaze up at the stars.

It’s clear tonight, and my heart squeezes. It’s the kind of night my sister Angi would’ve waited until I looked away, then smacked my arm with a, “Did you see that? Shooting star? Quick, make a wish.”

I shut my eyes, trying to escape the ache.

But then, out of nowhere, a pair of Bishop-blue eyes slice through my mind, uninvited, tearing through my thoughts with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. My pulse kicks up, and all I want is to know what he looks like now.

Without thinking, my hand dives into my apron pocket, pulling out my phone like it’s the only thing grounding me. My finger hovers over the B on the keyboard, itching with a dangerous need and slowly peeling away my resolve.

When the door swings open, I’m snapped back to reality. Dave and Lisa walk over, sharing a plate of fries like it’s their last meal. Dave’s got his usual rocket fuel in hand—an iced double cappuccino, zero sugar, extra strong. The kind of drink that could jumpstart a dead car battery.

“I don’t know how you drink that stuff,” I say, eyeing the cup like it’s straight-up diesel.

Lisa answers before he can, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Simple. The man’s clearly burned off all his tastebuds and needs more hair on his chest.”

He nudges the plate toward me with a grin. “So, was that guy as big of a dick as he looked?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Bigger.” I hit play on the recording from my phone. His voice is even more cringy on repeat.“Do you know who I am?”We all burst out laughing as the whole ridiculous encounter plays out.

“Damn, that’s gold,” Lisa says, crunching down on another fry, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’ve got the crown tonight.” She waves her phone at me, a wicked smirk curving her lips. “All I’ve got is some woman who reminded me six times she has a gluten allergy, then ripped me a new one for forgetting her bread.”

Dave chuckles, shaking his head. “The best I’ve got is some guy insisting that his steak be medium-rare—no blood, no pink, just...somewhere in between.” He smirks. “Pretty sure he’d have eaten anything, considering he inhaled the entire plate, parsley and all. Speaking of which, what’s the difference between pussy and parsley?”

My face contorts, and I bury it in my hand just as Lisa blurts out, “What?”

Dave’s grin widens. “No one eats parsley. Well, except the guy at table eight, apparently.”

Lisa shakes her head, laughing. “So, where’s Taylor? I heard she’s off being wined and dined by some guy whisking her away to Ibiza.”

Dave, with his mouth half full of fries, chimes in, “I think it’s pronounced‘Ibitha.’”

“Is that really how you say it? Ibitha?” Lisa asks, eyebrows raised.

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