Page 6 of Knotted

Really? I exhale sharply, bracing myself for what’s coming. The name that’s been buried for a decade claws its way to the surface. “Fine. It’s Bishop.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “He’s a bishop? Like a man of the cloth?”

“No!” I snap, frustration bleeding into my voice. “His name. It’s Bishop.” I pause, the weight of it pressing down on me as I force out the words. “Brian Bishop.” His name escapes my lips like a secret I’ve held onto for far too long, barely more than a whisper.

You know how they say that if you speak the name of the devil, he appears? I nearly brace. After a decade and hundreds of miles I’m still trying to untangle myself from the mess he twisted my life into.

“Brian...Bishop?” he asks, and I can’t be certain, but he sounds thoroughly underwhelmed.

I’m not sure what he was expecting, but I feel the need to brush it off. “He’s nobody,” I say, almost apologizing for how painfully ordinary my life is—even my nemesis is nothing to write home about.

He watches me for a long moment, his gaze too sharp for comfort. “When’s the last time you stalked this Brian with anI?” He stretches out the name, milking every bit of smug satisfaction.

“Never.” The word slips out, thick with disbelief and a touch of horror at the very idea.

“Never, huh?” Mr. Richards raises an eyebrow, then abruptly stands, snagging his coat from the back of his chair with a decisive movement and grabbing his cup of coffee. “Well, I’ve got an interview with the mayor uptown.” He’s already halfway to the door when he adds, “You start in three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” The words come out sharper than I intend. “I was really hoping for a job now.” And, let’s be honest, a paycheck.

He pauses at the doorway, flashing me a cheeky grin. “And I was really hoping to be sandwiched between Sofia Vergara and Margot Robbie.”

“But you said I wasinteresting.”

“Not that interesting,” he says with a shrug. “The person you’re replacing still owes me a headliner, and it’s a doozy. A big Manhattan company is playing shuffleboard with its execs. And you know how these things go—first story wins. Besides, this gives you time to set up your accounts.”

“My what?”

“Your social media accounts.” He holds up two fingers. “You won’t cut it as a reporter unless you get in the game. Two accounts, two weeks. Tag yourself in. Oh, and it’ll give you time to get your homework done.”

“Homework?” Just the sound of that makes me nervous.

“First, Sydney is fine. Bryan is out. Figure out the name you want, and make it count. Something that when you see it in print, you’ll hold your head high.”

Okay. Sure, as homework goes, that doesn’t sound so bad.

“Then, attach that name to two social media accounts and start your first investigative task.”

Why does this feel like the Wizard telling Dorothy to fetch the broomstick of the Wicked Witch of the East?

He shakes the coffee cup in his hand, eyes glinting with something between amusement and a dare. “Tell me how Mr. High School likes his coffee.”

“What?” My voice pitches higher. Oh, my God. He wantsme to go full creeper mode, following around some guy I haven’t seen in ten years, while wearing a trench coat and dark, oversized Jackie-O glasses, and sniffing after him to see if the sweetener in the trash is real sugar or some artificial sweetener.

Because the universe would be doing me a solid if he was balding sugar-addict with a beer belly and rotting teeth.

But Lady Luck has the nasty habit of bitch slapping me whenever it comes to the oldest Bishop brother, and sadly, I can totally see the former gym jock going full tilt on the sugar-free lifestyle just to keep those abs chiseled.

Knowing him, those biceps are probably as ripped as ever and just as overinflated as his colossal ego.

Before I can object, or even come up with a decent excuse, my phone buzzes again—Taylor, no doubt.

I fumble to find the right words. “But how?—”

“A reporter is nothing if not resourceful.”

I barely have time to protest because Mr. Richards is already halfway out the door. He glances back, all business. “Take it or leave it, kid.”

I swallow hard, my heart racing. “I’ll take it.”

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