Page 18 of Knotted

Be in my office. 9:00 a.m. Sharp.

Huh?

I blink away the last traces of sleep, my vision clearing as I read the email. Mr. Wyld Richards, in all his demanding glory, wants me in his office in a few hours.

Of course, I’m already awake because I’m the daughter of a former Marine who cursed me with being an early riser.

Yawning, I read the email again. Mr. Richards must’ve fired off this message just after I sent him my Instagram handle and the details of how Brian takes his coffee just before I passed out.

I have Eomma to thank for that, and Mrs. D.

I glance at the time. If I skip breakfast or a shower, I have just enough time to hop on public transportation, but it’ll be close. Hmm. Shower? Breakfast? My brain does a quick calculation.

Before fully committing, I crack open my bedroom door, and the scent of bacon and freshly brewed coffee hits me like awave. My smile is wide. Dad’s on breakfast duty, which settles it, hands down.

I throw on some clothes, drag a brush through my hair, and barely glance at the mirror before rushing downstairs.

Sure enough, there’s bacon, and not just that—an entire box of pastries from the local bakery. Usually, this spread would signal a special occasion, but I’m not complaining. And it’s not just the usual half dozen, but a full dozen of those soft, melt-in-your-mouth bites, which means I can snag a few for the road.

As I reach for a random K-cup from the assortment, Dad steps in and hands me a steaming mug. “Try this,” he says with enough of a smile, I can’t say no, though I eye the cup warily. His coffee skills typically result in motor oil in a cup.

But this time, the caramel color and enticing aroma are too tempting to resist. I take a sip, and it’s a revelation. “Mmm. Did you get a part-time gig at Starbucks? Because if so, keep it up.”

“I thought you’d like it.” Dad chuckles, clearly pleased. “In a hurry?”

“My new editor wants me in his office in a few hours.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Well, you can’t take the train and subway and make it on time. So sit back and relax. I found you a driver.”

I narrow my eyes. There’s no way I’m letting my dad trudge through that insane drive, especially since he insists on driving like we’re permanently stuck behind a school bus.

And, wait a minute. “I’m sorry, did we change our last name to Gates? Since when do we have a driver?” I ask, stuffing a bite of peach fritter into my mouth.

“Since now,” a voice booms from behind.

I turn, and there he is—a dark mop of hair, dimples in fulleffect. That’s when it hits me why Dad picked up so many donuts. Colby’s back.

Without thinking, I throw my arms around him, hugging him tight. I didn’t realize just how much I’ve missed him, or how fiercely I’m squeezing until he gasps, “Must. Have. Air.”

“You can suck it up for one more minute,” I insist, before finally letting go. “That’s what you get for being gone so long.”

“Not exactly a choice. A little thing called military commitment.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I give him a playful nudge, but my fingers find that spot on his side where he’s ticklish. He jerks away, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Seriously, how do you live in Germany, surrounded by beer and bratwurst, and still manage to keep that 1 percent body fat? If it were me, they’d need a forklift to roll me out of there.”

Colby smirks, throwing in a flex like he’s in a damn fitness commercial. “When my sister finally lands her dream job, my ass is back stateside, ASAP.”

“Wait, what? How long are we talking?”

His smile falters, uncertainty shadowing his eyes. “I’m not sure yet.”

A cold knot tightens, sliding from my chest to the center of my gut. Young, healthy men don’t just come home on a whim. I narrow my eyes, trying to read him. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine.” His tone is too quick, too smooth.

“He’s fine,” Dad cuts in, his voice calm as he finishes preparing a second mug of coffee. “He’s just at a crossroads, is all.” Dad grabs both mugs and heads out of the kitchen. “Let me wake your mother and earn some brownie points with yourcoffee recipe.” He pauses, pointing at us both like he’s delivering a command. “Don’t eat all the donuts.”

“No promises,” I mumble around the last bite of my fritter, washing it down with a sip of coffee.

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