Page 49 of Knotted

I play dumb, taking refuge in another sip of my wine, trying to mask any hint that the wackadoo in question is me.

Brian jumps in. “And he only drives when my leg gives me trouble. Usually later in the day.”

A flicker of concern snakes up my throat, spilling out before I can stop it. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

Brian looks at me with an expression I can’t quite pin down—maybe surprise, maybe something deeper.

Then, with a subtle lift of his jeans, he reveals the gleam of metal where muscle used to be. “Me, 2.0,” he says, his voice carrying a challenge, daring me to feel sorry for him.

But I don’t.

So much stirs inside me, but pity isn’t one of them. What’s a day in his life really like? When he’s not being an insufferable ass, that is.

Every person carries a story, and I’m drawn to his like a curious moth to an irresistible flame. It’s like standing before a masterpiece I’ll never paint, yet I’m compelled to understand every brushstroke.

I want to see more of Brian Gabriel Bishop—the man that all the bruised parts of me are desperate to forget but somehow can’t seem to ignore.

Taylor elbows me, breaking the spell.

I clear my throat, trying to shift gears. “Um, we don’t exactly have a big place. The kitchen table’s tiny, but we’ve got some fold-up chairs in the closet.”

Brian steps into the kitchen, and it’s like the air shifts—his presence filling the room, commanding attention, and leaving no space unnoticed.

His eyes lock on to the nearly drained wine bottle. “St.Émilion,” he whistles, clearly impressed. “Nice. But it looks like it’s on its last leg.”

“Sadly, it is,” I say, downing the last drop in my glass.

Brian’s lips curl into a grin. “Funny thing, I brought the exact same bottle.”

The last thing I want is for him to think I’m pretending to be someone I’m not—or worse, that I need expensive things to feel complete. “Mine was stolen.”

“Same here,” he says, flashing that infuriating grin. “I left an IOU with Mrs. D.”

I can’t help but smile. He used to pull that stunt all the time. We all did—grabbing food and leaving her IOUs like they held real value. And if any of us tried to make good on one, Mrs. D. just opened a drawer, shook her head, and insisted it wasn’t there. If it wasn’t there, nothing was owed.

I love imagining Mrs. D. with a secret stash of those IOUs hidden away in a secret warehouse—or better yet, tossing them into the fall bonfire every year, savoring her own fancy glass of wine as they burn to ash, a satisfied smile on her face.

“If I remember correctly,” Brian says, “one leg, one thigh, a quarter plate of green beans, another quarter of mac and cheese, and honey butter on the cornbread.” He hands me the plate, his voice casual but his eyes sharp.

By the time dinner winds down, I’m so stuffed I’m not sure I can even move.

The entire evening has been light and easygoing, full of laughter over memories I haven’t visited in so many years, I forgot they were ever there.

Like the time he taught Mrs. Thompson’s parrot to say “Pluck Off” and “Kiss my Big Beak” so she’d stop bringing it to church.

Or the time he convinced the evil math teacher that all the thermostats were voice-activated. The poor guy spent a week screaming at the thermostat. It wasn’t until he shouted, “Warm up, damn it!” loud enough that the principal heard and finally set him straight.

My stomach aches from laughing so hard, a feeling I haven’t had in what feels like forever. I’ll give the credit to both Brian and my fourth glass of wine.

And then, without thinking, I open my mouth. “Why did you do it, Brian?”

Brian’s expression falters, the bright ocean blue light in his eyes dimming to a stormy sea of gray. But I wasn’t asking about that—about my epic waterslide crash into the nickname Peach Pop. No, that’s a conversation definitely reserved for straight liquor.

I quickly scramble to cover. “I mean, why did you join the military?”

He shakes his head as a faraway look settles in his expression. “It was all I ever wanted to do. My dad and grandpa were both vets. Plus, it helped transform me from the hellraiser I was into something more...” He struggles to find the word. “Manageable?”

Logan cuts in with a grin. “Or into someone who’s only slightly less of a pain in the ass.”

---