Page 4 of Knotted

“Like the piece about the town’s infamous squirrel whisperer?” he asks, flipping the page.

“Exactly.”

“Riveting.” His voice is flat, disinterested, but the slight raise of his brow tells me he’s intrigued. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t dare look away from his intense gaze. “What else?”

This is my moment. Time to claim a sliver of the credit I’ve been silently earning. “I, um, also ghostwrite.”

That catches his attention. He leans in, his eyes narrowing as they study me with renewed interest. “The author behind the author, huh?” A smirk plays on his lips as he rubs his chin, clearly amused. “And, let me guess, you can’t tell me who for.”

I shrug, feeling the overbearing weight of the contract I’ve signed. “I’m bound by a nondisclosure agreement,” I admit, hating how those words sound.

It’s not about the fame, but damn, just once, I’d love to see my name on something that’s actually mine.

He exhales sharply, as if making a decision. “What’s your handle?”

I blink. “Huh?”

“Instagram. What’s your handle?”

My answer comes out quieter than I intend. “I don’t have one.”

“Facebook? TikTok? Anything?”

“I don’t do social media.”

His eyes narrow as he studies me, a bead of sweat trickling down the back of my neck under his scrutiny. “An aspiring journalist who doesn’t do social media and trapped herself into an iron-clad contract,” he muses, clearly baffled. “Why am I not surprised?”

The opportunity is slipping through my fingers like the last rays of a California sunset. I can’t let it disappear. Not like this. “Please, just one chance. That’s all I’m asking.”

He leans back in his chair, hands steepled, fingers tapping together with the precision of someone already dissecting my every word. “Who’s been the biggest influence in your life and why?”

Heat rushes up my neck like an out-of-control wildfire, scorching everything in its path. I should have an answer, someone inspiring, someone who makes sense. But I don’t. Because the only name that blazes through my mind is the one I keep buried deep in the closet of shame.

My mind teeters on a tightrope, balancing between landing my dream job and tumbling into the abyss of soul-crushing, minimum-wage gigs that threaten to snuff out every last spark of creativity.

I glance around his office, a chaotic mix of relics and memories. A battered copy ofTreasure Islandsprawls across his desk, its pages dog-eared and falling apart, a sight that tugs at something deep inside me. On the wall hangs a signed guitar,probably from someone famous, though the signature is a scrawl I can’t quite place.

It’s obvious that canned answers won’t get me anywhere with this guy. Wyld is after something raw, something real. He’s searching for the fire that sets someone apart from the sea of faceless, would-be journalists.

He needs to see that spark, the drive that fuels me, not the quiet girl who prefers Saturday nights curled up on the sofa with fuzzy socks and a shifter romance.

I take a deep breath, ready to blurt out someone impactful and timeless like Oprah or Christiane Amanpour. But then, the truth cuts through like a streaker, leaving me stammering as a Greek god with a dimpled smirk and glacier-melting eyes hijacks my thoughts.

Out of nowhere, he points at me, almost accusingly. “You’re thinking of them now, aren’t you?”

“I amnotthinking of him,” I lie, feeling flames burn my cheeks.

“Aha! It’s a him!” he exclaims, snapping his fingers like he’s cracked the code. Oh, this guy is good. His unkempt brows do a little dance, waggling like crazy caterpillars “So, who is he?”

God, do not do this to me. He’s the last person I want to talk about. “Nobody.”

Unblinking, he stares, as if he’s perfectly content to wait me out.

“Just a—” I choke down the knot in my throat, “high school crush.” And the bane of my existence.

“Well, Mr. Nobody makes your cheeks rosy, your eyes bright, and your pulse practically leap out of your neck.” Heclasps his hands on the desk. “Does the high school got a name?”

“Nope.”

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