Page 31 of Knotted

We need to talk.

How can four little words flip everything upside down? Brian Bishop emailing me is bad. Really, really bad.

Those words shouldn’t have this much power, but they do. Because Brian isn’t just anyone. He’s the guy who ripped through my life like a hurricane, leaving my world in shambles.

Brian was the rebel—the one who thrived on breaking rules. And the only person who could keep up with him? My sister, Angi. The two of them lived on the edge where the sky was the limit and there was no room for anyone else.

It’s wild when you think about it. Angi and I are only eleven months apart. Close enough to share the same grade, but polar opposites in every way.

Where I’d pause, she’d plunge headfirst. I was cautious; she was reckless. I’d map out every detail, and she’d blow through life like a storm.

Slow to trust, always overthinking—you might as well carve that on my gravestone. Angi? Living, breathing chaos, pullingeveryone into her vortex and leaving you scrambling just to keep up.

And then Brian came along, and suddenly, I was the awkward third wheel, watching from the sidelines as she spun out of control while he chased her like wildfire.

Seeing his name pop up after ten years sends a sticky cocktail of anxiety and anticipation through my veins. It’s like my body can’t decide whether to panic or get excited, and honestly, that terrifies me most of all.

How close was my article to the Adonis I remember? I’d kill to find out he’s gone bald and flabby, maybe with a side of halitosis and a hairy back. The universe finally serving up the ass-kicking he so richly deserves.

But what if he’s still...him? All lean muscle, sun-kissed skin, and those ridiculous dimples that could disarm you with a single smile?

And then there are those eyes. Bishop Blue, as everyone used to call them. Deep, oceanic blue that could look right through you, stripping away all your defenses until you’re left feeling exposed, vulnerable.

God, I hope he’s changed. But what if he hasn’t?

What if he’s still the same guy who could tear my world apart with just a look? Would he still call me that stupid pet name?

The thought sends a wave of anxiety crashing over me, which I try to control with a few slow, meditative breaths. My fingers drum impatiently on the desk, but it’s no use.

Finally, I’ve had enough. “I’m going home,” I mutter to no one in particular, because, fuck it. I grab my laptop and purse, and without another word, I’m out the door.

By early afternoon, I’m sprawled on the couch, wrapped in sweats and leggings, my butt perfectly molded into the well-worn groove that practically has my name on it.

Right now, it’s just me and my two favorite men—Ben and Jerry. They’re busy seducing me with thick Caramel Sutra while I scroll through Netflix, hunting for the perfect distraction.

Then my phone pings with a text. I glance down.

TatorTot

9-1-1 already.

I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at my lips. I type back quickly.

Me

You really need to reserve 9-1-1 for no-kidding emergencies.

What is it now, drama queen?

Her response is almost instant.

TatorTot

More like runway queen, and this IS an emergency.

I’m pretty sure my BFF has taken every inch of the lumpy couch hostage and hogged the two most important men in my life.

My phone rings, and it’s a FaceTime from Taylor. I answer, narrowing my eyes. “Is there a nanny cam installed that I don’t know about?”

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