Page 37 of Knotted

“But you can sit next to it,” I insist despite Roxie’s really obnoxious pout.

“Where?” Ollie asks, eager to get this show on the road. And, of course, the maître d’ has vanished like a fart in a hurricane.

Roxana’s response is instant, her fingers snapping like she’s summoning an army. “More chairs,” she barks, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

My patience instantly severs. I’ve seen the type before: rude and entitled. But that’s not me. Not now, not ever.

I grew up in Donovan’s Restaurant, same as everyone in my family. My first job was scrubbing dishes until my hands were raw, serving tables while biting back every retort, and bartending when I was finally old enough to mix a drink. That place was a crucible, forging work ethic and respect into every damn one of us.

Before the waitress or anyone else can go out of their way, I cut in. “We’ve got this,” I say.

Without missing a beat, the boys and I each grab a chair from a nearby table. I motion for Snook to take the waiting seat, and she hops up with that angelic smile of hers.

Connor and Ollie move in sync, just like we planned—Connor flanks Roxie on one side, and Ollie takes the other, boxing her in.

But, of course, that doesn’t dissuade her. Roxie clasps her hands, elbows sliding to the table like she owns the place, literally elbowing the boys aside. “So, Brian,” she purrs, eyes narrowing as if she’s got me all figured out. “When did you get so paternal? I don’t recall you having kids.”

“Babysitting duty,” I reply, keeping it short.

“For an acting CEO? How curious.” She doesn’t miss a beat, pulling out a pad and pen from her purse and scribbling down a note like she’s documenting a crime scene.

Fine. If she’s dead set on keeping this meeting, I’ve got a few questions of my own. “So, you’re still at theManhattan Herald?”

Her answer is clipped, no-nonsense. “Yup.” She scurries along to another topic. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering champagne.”

“Can I try some?” Conner of the living dead asks as Roxana finally notices his ghoulish complexion and scoots to the far edge of her seat.

I blink and give him the same line Mom and Dad gave me when I was his age. “Maybe after you balance your checkbook and pay your taxes, sport.” I take my time helping Snook with her napkin, then steer the conversation where I need it to go. “So, tell me more about Sydney Sun.”

Roxie’s expression shifts, her brow furrowing as if I’ve just thrown her a curveball. “Sydney Sun?” she repeats, drawing out the name, confusion clouding her face.

“You know her, right? From theHerald.”

“Right. What exactly do you want to know?”

God, what don’t I want to know?

I want to know the scent of her and how long it lingers in a room long after she’s gone, haunting and unforgettable.

I want to know how she sounds when she laughs—really laughs—the kind that lights up her whole face and makes everything else fade into the background.

And damn it, I want to know what her lips taste like after she’s had that first sip of coffee in the morning, when the world is still quiet, and it’s just her.

I swallow hard, trying to push those thoughts away, but they linger, stubborn as the day is long.

Sydney Sun is more than just a name to me now. She’s a total stranger who knows me more intimately than any woman alive, and I need to know how...one intoxicating detail at a time.

Before I can even get a word out, Snook tugs at my sleeve, her little face scrunched up in discomfort. “My tummy hurts,” she whispers, voice tinged with uncertainty.

“Pipe down, sweetie,” Roxana snaps, her irritation cutting through the air. “The grown-ups are talking.”

She did not just say that.

I know I promised Mark and Zac I’d handle this. And I’m fully aware Roxie’s got both the vindictiveness and memory of an elephant to make me pay for this in the press for years.

But screw it. This interview is over.

I’m about to unleash on Ms. Roxana Voss when Snook suddenly slumps heavily against my arm. Alarm bells go off in my head as my hand instinctively touches her forehead.

---