Page 9 of Knotted

“Herald.”

“The Herald!” Taylor practically squeals. “Juliana Spenser, kickass journalist forThe Herald.”

“Yup. In a few short weeks, I’ll be writing as myself. Well, sort of.”

Her brow furrows as she looks at me through the mirror. “What do you mean, sort of?”

“Writing for myself was always the dream,” I admit, feeling the words stick in my throat. The idea of it—the exposure, the scrutiny—it’s all a bit too much. “But the thought of having my name and possibly my face out there for the world to dissect is so...”

I trail off, suddenly hyperaware of how dry my mouth is. “I’ll be writing under a pen name.”

“Like Dr. Seuss?” Taylor teases, raising an eyebrow as she continues to fuss with my hair.

“Hey, don’t knock it,” I shoot back. “He’s in every bookshop around the world. The man’s a global icon of children’s lit.”

She smirks, clearly enjoying herself. “Total respect to the ultimate brand ambassador of cats in hats and...foxes in...Sockes?” She stumbles over the last word, laughing.

“I believe the plural is socks,” I correct, giggling.

“All I know,” she says, pausing to twirl a section of my hair through the curling iron, “is that if I had that kind of reach, I’d be running the Milan fashion show instead of just styling models and vlogging about it.”

I watch her in the mirror, her fingers moving with practiced ease, and an idea starts to take shape. “How many followers do you have on social media?” I ask.

She shrugs, not missing a beat as she curls another strand of my hair. “I don’t know, a few hundred thousand, I guess?”

My eyes widen. “A few hundred thousand?”

Taylor just shrugs, like she hasn’t just casually dropped a number people would trade their left kidney for. “A couple of well-timed TikToks and Reels, and it basically builds itself.”

I try to play it cool. “You know I hate social media.”

“Like a werewolf hates silver,” she says, completely matter-of-fact.

I sigh. “Okay, how about this—I’ll cover all those dreadful shifts while you’re off gallivanting in Malta?—”

“Milan,” she corrects with asmirk.

“And in return, you help me get my social media off the ground?”

Unfazed, she adds another coat of mascara, though the glint in her eyes gives her away. “Be your social media fairy godmother for the next PoshBody award winner?”

“I think you mean Peabody,” I correct with a smirk.

“Then the answer is yes!” she agrees, a grin spreading across her face. “And I’m taking every ounce of credit. Styled by @TheRunwayByTay. Starting with your official photo shoot.”

The blood drains from my face. “What photo shoot?”

“Oh, honey, you can’t have just an average picture if you’re going to be front-page news. You need to be ultra-glam.”

“I’d rather be incognito. Maybe a cute cat image with heart-shaped glasses on.”

“Crazy cat lady? I think not.” She grabs my chin, holding me steady as she paints cherry-red lipstick on my lips with precision. “What’s your handle going to be?” she asks, tousling my hair with a playful glint in her eyes.

“What do you suggest?” I ask, my voice wavering slightly.

She pauses, a thoughtful look crossing her face before she grabs a dark pair of sunglasses and shoves them up the bridge of my nose. “We’ll figure that out later,” she says with a wink, sending a ripple of apprehension through me, a tingle of pinpricks along my arms and neck.

She picks up a scarf and a wide-brimmed black hat, weighing them in her hands, then slaps the hat on my head and tilts it slightly to one side. With the finesse of a fairy godmother—if Cinderella’s fairy godmother was the creative director of Moulin Rouge—she transforms me. My lips are full and pouty, my hair styled into wild, untamed waves.

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