Page 14 of Knotted

A beautiful disaster I can’t seem to shake.

She continues, her voice brimming with excitement. “I’m whipping up a batch of my prize-winning kimchi for Mrs. D. She’s trying some Asian-fusion concepts, and you know how much she loves it.”

To the untrained palate, kimchi is not to be trifled with. Should it be part of an asian-fusion cuisine? Hell yeah. And my mother’s kimchi is the best. When she says prize-winning, she’s not kidding. It took first at theAnnual New York Kimchi Contestduring Korean Culture Week—a victory that brought her a $500 cash prize and bragging rights for life.

“Angi would be proud of you, too, Juliana.”

Her words linger, stretching the tension between us until it snaps under the weight of a million unsaid words. The pain is sharp, real, like a wave crashing against jagged rocks, only to pull back and leave the emptiness of a hollow ache.

But then her voice shifts, determined and light, sweeping away all the remnants of the moment as if it never happened. “So, what’s your first story going to be?” she asks, charging ahead with a forced brightness.

I open my mouth to respond, but then it hits me, like a lightning bolt cutting through the dark. Wyld Richards’s voice echoes in my mind,A good reporter uses her resources.And really, could there be better resources than the cunning wiles of two formidable mothers?

Oh, I think not.

I mull it over for a split second, the pieces clicking into place. The Donovans and the Bishops—two families intertwined in a history that runs deep, maybe as deep as Bishop Mountain itself. And if anyone knows how Brian Bishop takes his coffee today, it’s Mrs. D.

This is too perfect. “You’re seeing Mrs. D. soon, right?”

“Sunday,” she confirms.

“I might need a little favor.”

“A source? For your story?” Her excitement bubbles up before simmering to a cool, conspiratorial whisper. “Anonymously?”

I stifle a laugh. Could there be a better partner in crime than a die-hard Gillian Flynn fan? “Definitely.”

CHAPTER 5

Jules

There are a few things I hold dear. Family ranks at the top, followed closely by my books and the precious privacy I cling to like a raccoon with a half-eaten taco.

Which is why, on Sundays when I’m not schlepping plates and forcing smiles at patrons of a restaurant, I’m right here—immersed in the comforting chaos of home.

Pots bubbling away, something savory crackling on the stove, and the air thick with the irresistible garlic, soy sauce, and bickering.

And, like clockwork, the scene unfolds. Mom and Halmeoni—my sweet, fiery grandmother—are back in the kitchen, deep in their weekly battle over theperfectrecipe.

This time, it’s bulgogi. A savory symphony of thinly sliced beef, marinated and grilled to perfection until it’s melt-in-your-mouth tender and bursting with flavor. But the debate could just as easily be about something as extravagant as shrimp scampi or as humble as homemade mac and cheese.

Their motto might as well be: Have stovetop, will squabble.

And as much as we cherish our deep Korean roots, our father’s American heritage runs just as deep. We kids straddle both worlds effortlessly—tteokguk, the traditional rice cake soup that promises good luck and a fresh start, is a non-negotiable on New Year’s.

Frankly, if Angi, Colby, and I get our way, we’re firing up the grill for a good old-fashioned burger burn with bacon, cheese, and thick-cut fries. Both worlds colliding into a spectacular display of fireworks—who we are, right on our plates.

Dad, ever the diplomat and the smartest man I know, wisely steers clear of the kitchen. I find him comfortably hiding in the den, the Yankees game on low enough not to draw attention, eyes darting between theTimescrossword puzzle and the screen.

I lean over his shoulder, instantly spotting the mostly blank spaces for twelve across.

Gradual build-up of romantic tension, often found in contemporary novels (8 letters).

“Need some help with that one, Dad?”

“Hey, kiddo.” He wraps an arm around my waist for a side hug. “I knew your reading habits would pay dividends in the future.” He looks up at me, blinking in that way he does when he’s trying to piece something together. “It’s something about romance. Starts with S-L.”

I crash onto the cushion next to him. “Slow burn,” I say deliciously.

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