Page 68 of Knotted

@MountainBoyNYC:I’m more in the mood for coffee. How aboutThe Grind House? Ten minutes.

My pulse quickens as my eyes flick up, and there it is—the sign ofThe Grind Housestaring back at me.

How did he know I was here?

As if reading my thoughts, another message buzzes in.

@MountainBoyNYC:While you’ve been chatting with me, I’ve been homing in on your location.

@MountainBoyNYC:You really should turn that off. Security risk and all.

@MountainBoyNYC:See you in 10 minutes, and I’ll take a—oh, wait, you already know exactly how I take my coffee. Make it that. On ice.

@MountainBoyNYC:PS: Don’t even think of leaving. I will chase you down like a kid after an ice cream truck. And eat you alive.

Instantly, a million filthy images of him flood my mind—his face buried between my thighs, devouring me like I’m a melting creamsicle on a hot summer day.

God, I’m so screwed.

CHAPTER 28

Jules

I rush through my backpack, using everything at my disposal to look as least like myself as possible.

Dark glasses?

Check.

Hair in a high ponytail and baseball cap pulled low?

Check.

Dark red lipstick that Taylor keeps slipping into my purse?

Yeah, okay, fine.Check.

I find a new seat in the darkest back corner, the one farthest from the entrance, and try to steady my nerves.

With five minutes to go, my fingers drum on the table as I debate whether or not to order his drink. I mean, it’s pretty presumptuous of him to have me order a drink for him. Arrogance personified.

But this is Brian, and the man acts like food is optional. I know he needs to eat. He knows he needs to eat. Screw it. I order it anyway, throwing in some extra protein for goodmeasure and a turkey gouda croissan’wich because, damn it, the man needs looking after.

The door chimes, and in he walks—the living, breathing definition of suit porn.

His tailored jacket is loose and unbuttoned, the crisp white shirt beneath hints at the rippling muscles I know all too well. The silk tie he asked me to select this morning is perfectly knotted at his throat and somehow manages to deepen the sharp blue of his eyes that scan the room before locking onto me.

He’s lethal in every way, owning every step, every move.

He spots me, and a slow, devastating grin spreads across his face. The closer he steps, the harder my heart slams against my ribcage.

His gaze sweeps over me from head to toe, analyzing me. Like any second now, he’ll zero in on who’s hiding beneath the disguise. Then, with deliberate slowness, he sits and straightens his tie.

“You got me lunch?” He sounds confused.

“I thought it was the least I could do.”

I open my mouth to speak, to apologize, to explain this whole mess. Hell, maybe even tell the truth. But before I can get a word out, he raises a hand, gently cutting me off.

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