Page 8 of Knotted

“Simmer down,” I say, untangling myself from her grip. “I have a lot of work to do before I begin. But back to you. You said this was urgent, and last I checked, getting glam isn’t an emergency.”

“But thisisan emergency,” she insists, her voice tinged with that familiar mix of drama and frenzy.

“Like the time you locked yourself out of the apartment while dog-sitting your boss’s Rottweiler, and he ended up eating your shoes?”

“Those shoes were couture.”

“Couture chew toys. Or the time you mixed up your laundry with our neighbor’s and made me retrieve your bright red lacy lingerie from him?”

“He’s sweet on you,” she counters.

“He’s eighty-three,” I deadpan. “Old Mr. Grange still gives me the stink eye every time I pass him in the hall. He swears I turned his tighty-whities pink.”

“He really needs to let that go.”

“Taylor!”

“All right, all right...” She takes a deep breath as if transitioning to serious business. “I need someone to cover a few of my shifts.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got a gig. In Milan. With my future husband.”

“Another one? What is there, a hot guy vending machine around the corner?”

“Even if there was, you’d miss it because you’re too busyface-planting into the romance book vending machine right next to it.” She points to my ever-growing pile of paperbacks. “They’re not better than the real thing.” She smirks.

No, but they’resafer. I roll my eyes, trying to steer the conversation away.

“Leave my hot military mountain men out of this.” It’s not like my dream job starts anytime soon.

Besides, I like Bernadette. She owns a quaint little mom-and-pop restaurant and lets me have all the food and brownies I want. They’re only open for breakfast and lunch, Monday through Friday, so she and her husband can escape to the mountains on the weekends.

“Fine. I’ll text Bernie and let her know. Which day this week did you need me to cover?”

“Actually, it’s not at Bernie’s.” She waves a black apron with “Salvatore’s” stitched across the front, her eyes wide with faux innocence. “And it’s tonight.”

Here we go again. The last time I covered a shift atSalvatore’s, I endured the hell of a double shift...during a bachelor party. The guys kept calling me “sweetie,” pawing at me every time I walked by. And did I mention...worst tippers ever? I swore, never again.

“No,” I say flatly.

“But you have to.”

“Not happening.”

“Come on,” she pleads, her voice turning syrupy sweet. “You’re my only hope. This guy is a Hemsworth-Cavill-Michael B. Jordan mashup. Don’t make me miss out on having the most beautiful children ever because I had to sling spaghetti. And besides, you owe me.”

I do owe her, but shouldn’t there be an expiration date when someone saves you from stupid high school crap a million years ago? I give her a flat stare. “Salvatore’s is an hour away.”

“More like ninety minutes with how the subway runs,” she says with a helpless shrugs.

“Taylor!” Seriously? Three freaking hours on public transportation?

Before I can saynoorhell no, she’s already slipped the apron over my head and cinched it around my waist. “Look, you said yourself that you don’t start at the paper for three weeks, which means you need the money.” She gives me that stare, and I know she’s right. “Ghostwriting isn’t exactly paying the bills.”

She’s got a point. One I hate. All my efforts barely pay for my morning dose of caffeine, let alone the rent.

She sees my disappointment and shoves me in front of the mirror, diligently adding mascara to my makeup-less face. “You’re so talented, Jules. Soon, you’ll be headlining major articles in the?—”

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