Page 47 of Knotted

“I had to give him the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, becausewhat could I say? I can only make a square peg fit in a round hole for so long.”

I laugh so hard, I nearly shoot a mouthful of expensive French wine out my nose. “No one should jam a square peg in anyone’s round hole ever.”

She clinks her glass against mine. “Amen, sister.” We sit in companionable silence for a moment before she suddenly tosses a peanut at my face. “All right, miss ‘drunk after half a glass,’ spill it. What got you fired? Drunk and disorderly?”

I take another swig and slump back against the cool brick, the warmth of the booze crawling up my chest. “Butthead Brian happened,” I mutter, letting out a sigh that feels like it’s been lodged in my throat for days.

“Oh, my God,” she says, chomping on a pretzel. “Did you get caught making out with him in the bathroom?”

I blink. What on earth? “No.” I shudder at the thought. “And why would I? That bathroom might look clean, but I know the guys who mop it—they’re mostly just smearing the urine sprinkles around.”

“Ewww,” she snorts, cringing and laughing as she scrunches up her nose.

I stare at her, genuinely wondering where she comes up with this stuff. Who is this person?

I continue and steer the conversation back on track. “Brian Bishop is the reason I’m fired. Apparently, he’s not just good-looking—he’s obscenely rich, has three kids, and hangs out at places like Salvatore’s. Drinks thousand-dollar champagne, barks orders, kills careers, and drools over beautiful women like Roxana Voss.”

Her eyes go wide, and that goofy smile spreads across her face. “Someone sounds jealous.”

I gasp. “Jealous?”

“You have nothing to be jealous about. You’re way prettier,” she says, topping off our drinks like it’s no big deal.

I snap, narrowing my eyes. “I am not jealous.” Am I?

“You did say he was hot. And rich,” she reminds me playfully.

“It’s Brian. He’s also arrogant, immature, tackles womanizing like an extreme sport, and is a colossal capital D. As far as I’m concerned, he can suck it. Even if he came crawling back on all fours, begging for forgiveness for every last dish of crap he’s ever served me, it’ll be a sub-zero day in hell before that happens.”

“Is that so?” a deep, gravelly voice calls up from the street below, “What if I fed you lobster Thermidor and a chocolate soufflé?”

Taylor and I look down, and there he is—Brian Gabriel Bishop himself. He’s leaning against a shiny black Mercedes, wearing a smile a mile wide, jeans that fit too well, and a T-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and biceps in a way that should be illegal.

In his hand, he’s holding a large picnic basket. Standing next to him is a man who gives us a casual salute. Must be his driver. Because, of course, Brian and his kind would have a driver.

“Hello, Jules,” he says, his voice smooth as velvet.

“Ms. Spenser,” I correct instantly, tossing another nut into my mouth. “And I hate prissy food.”

“That’s right. You do,” he says, tossing aside a red-and-white-checkered handkerchief. “Then perhaps something more along the lines of barbecue chicken, green beans, mac and cheese, and cornbread.”

Mrs. D’s barbecue dinner. My favorite.

But he doesn’t stop there. “I don’t have three-layer chocolate cake, but a friend made dark chocolate cherry brownies.”

God, he’s playing dirty. Brownies are my kryptonite, and throw in berries? I’m completely defenseless.

I stiffen my posture. “I’m not hungry,” I lie, though my stomach betrays me with a growl loud enough to wake the dead—like a bullfrog strapped to a megaphone, of course, at the worst possible time.

Then, clear as day, I hear him say, “I just want to fuck.”

“What?” I snap out of my expensive booze fog, heart racing.

“I said I just want to talk, Ms. Spenser. Just. Talk.”

And the way he says “Ms. Spenser” sends a phantom finger trailing down my spine, making my pulse stutter and my knees go weak. Suddenly, dinner is the last thing on my mind. I’m picturing him wrapping a fist in my hair, bending me over a desk, and demanding to know if I’ve been naughty.

I eye the fancy wine. The good stuff really should come with a disclaimer:May impair hearing and trigger X-rated fantasies.

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