Page 3 of Knotted

Mark’s chuckle turns into a full-on laugh. “Or how about,When she asks for a commitment and his brain short-circuits, with Homer Simpson disappearing into the bushes.”

Zac, barely holding back his laughter, raises his hand. “And how about Leonardo DiCaprio fromThe Wolf of Wall Streetstumbling out of his car with the caption:When he thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but tequila has other plans. Can someone say mug shot?”

Mark doubles over, struggling to catch his breath between laughs. “For indecent exposure.”

“Twice,” Zac gasps, wiping tears from his eyes.

I roll my eyes, but the grin tugging at my lips gives me away. “You guys should really consider stand-up. You’re killing me.”

Mark claps me on the shoulder, his smirk widening. “Just looking out for you, buddy. You’ve got to be careful out there.”

Zac nods, still chuckling. “Yeah, man. The internet never forgets.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “Noted.”

“Trust me, your image will be everywhere.” Zac rubs his beard. “There’s a reason I’m incognito. You can’t be the face of The Centurion Group and stay behind the scenes. Keep things low-key. Practice discretion now.”

I point at Zac. “You focus on growing that thing to Paul Bunyan levels.”

“More like Jason Momoa,” he says, stroking the shag with a smirk.

“And you”—I jab a finger at Mark—“focus on wining and dining my baby sis. If the media wants my rugged good looks plastered out there like I’m the next Calvin Klein guy, be my guest.”

Zac shakes his head with a sigh. “I don’t think you understand what you’re in for.”

I step closer, planting my foot on a chair, drawing attention to my newest prosthetic—sleek and damn near bionic. “I’ve been on the front lines, stared down war, and walked away with this little trophy.” I flash them a cocky grin. “Trust me, I think I can handle one little date.”

“This isn’t a date,” Mark bites out, eyes narrowing. “Call it that, and Roxie Voss will expect the world. Any rejection and she’ll go nuclear. The last thing any of us need is to see your name headlining that disaster. This is professional. A meeting. Do not flirt with her. Do not charm her. And for god’s sake, don’t fuck her.”

“As if I need a warning. I’ve had my share of stage-five clingers, so believe me, I know the drill.”

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I’ll be dodging round-the-clock texts and surprise late-night visits for months. Thanks, but no thanks. If I wanted a life of perpetual covert ops, I would’ve stayed in the military.

“I said I’ve got this,” I repeat confidently.

Mark rolls his eyes, exasperation etched in every line of his face. “Famous last words.”

CHAPTER 2

Jules

“Juliana Spenser?” the woman calls out.

The lobby is packed with thirty or so wannabe writers. Some clutching sleek MacBooks and attachés, others more classically grungy with spiral notebooks and a faraway look like they’re conjuring their bestselling novel while they wait.

I hop to my feet, the electricity of wanting this job so badly I can taste it springing me to action. “Jules,” I say, flashing a smile.

She returns a kind smile and leads me down the hall to a cramped office at the end. “Jules Spenser,” she announces, handing my résumé to a man halfway through a sandwich.

Honestly, I’m hungry enough to ask if he’s going to finish that.

The interviewer adjusts his thick glasses and straightens his slightly askew bow tie, scrutinizing my application with the intensity of a detective piecing together a crime scene.

Casually, he motions for me to have a seat. I do.

A nameplate on his desk reads Mr. Winston “Wyld”Richards, but it’s the blown-up photo of him at a wax museum withquote-unquote“Prince”that catches my eye. Mostly because right behind them is Marilyn Monroe and a yeti.

My nerves turn me into a babbling mess. “I’ve been crafting community stories and local news content for years. Mostly from behind the scenes”—by choice—“and my best work is with heartwarming pieces.”

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