Page 11 of Knotted

“What’s next month?” I ask, confused. I know it’s not her birthday—which she celebrates with more fanfare than the Fourth of July—or mine, which I quietly take in with homemade snickerdoodles and a pint of caramel ripple fudge.

Her smile stretches wider, practically glowing. “The Media Excellence Gala. It’s the talk of New York. Journalists from everywhere are descending on our backyard. Awards, connections, the whole nine yards. And we arenotmissing it.”

“And you’re in the know because...?” I arch an eyebrow, half-expecting some wild tale.

A triumphant grin spreads across her face as she tilts her phone toward me, revealing an elegant invitation. “Because I knew you’d nail the job, and I got us on the list.” She taps the screen. “Plus, I’ve been keeping tabs on that hunky Jimmy Denton from the local news.”

“Already ditched your emergency of a future husband?” I tease as she nudges me toward the door.

She shrugs, her grin turning playful. “A girl’s gotta have options.”

CHAPTER 4

Jules

“Excuse me?” a man’s voice hollers, laced with just enough arrogance to grate on my nerves. Then he snaps his fingers like I’m some kind of servant. Or a dog.

I glance up, already knowing this guy is going to be a nightmare. Mr. Drunk and Belligerent is in a suit that probably costs more than my college tuition, and his smirk is the kind that makes you want to take a shower after just looking at it.

“Yes?” I ask, trying to keep theI hate youout of my voice.

“I’ll take a blow job,” he says, like he’s delivering the punchline to a joke only he and his douchey friends find amusing.

“Of course.”

I’m about to walk away, when he adds, “Could you repeat my order? I’m not sure you’ll remember it.”

What are we, at a bar? Or in eighth grade? I blink at him, fighting the urge to throw the nearest bottle at his head. He’s seriously expecting me to say,“One blow job, coming up?”As if.

I smile sweetly. “I’ve got it.”

“I want to be sure,baby.”

And now he’s calling me baby.

Rather than stroke his ego, which is exactly what Taylor would do, I decide that whatever tip he’s hoarding over my head isn’t worth it and go with my inner snark. “Your order. I don’t exactly recall the name, but I know it’s made of amaretto and Irish cream, extra whip on top, and is about the size of a shot glass.” I pinch my fingers together. “Like, this big. Right?”

I skip away. He says nothing. His friends say nothing. And I feel the very real possibility I might get fired. But when I return with the drink, all his friends are suddenly gone.

He barely glances at it before sliding his phone across the table, and I already know where this is going. Discretely, I tap my phone but keep it in my pocket.

“Ready for the check?” I ask.

“Give me your number,” he insists.

“I’m afraid I can’t. It’s against policy,” I say with a smile so tight it could snap. Translation:Go fuck yourself.

He jerks my hand, hard enough to bruise. “Be nice, and maybe I’ll let you lick this drink off my dick,” he growls, low enough so no one else can hear.

I yank my hand free and take a step back, keeping my composure despite my erratic pulse. No scene, no drama. I just place the check in front of him, forcing a smile. “If you could just sign, sir.”

He stares at it, almost confused, before finally slipping his credit card into the sleeve. “Do you know who I am?”

God, those six words—nothing screams entitlement louder. It’s right up there withI’ll have your jobandMy daddy owns this place.

I blink, feigning innocence. “No.”

“Trent Mercer.”

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