Page 84 of Knotted

Or maybe, just maybe, without the hat, dark glasses, and red lipstick, he took one look at jeans-and-T-shirt, plain old ordinary me, and bolted faster than a New Yorker avoiding a subway rat.

Ugh.

That’s it. I’ve had enough.

I move to stand, ready to bail. And then I hear it.

That deep, gravelly voice—the one that makes my knees weak and roots my feet to the floor. “Jules.”

Slowly, I turn, and there he is. But this isn’t just Brian standing in front of me. No, this is Mr. Take-Names-and-Kick-Ass Bishop. And damn, does he look good.

Too good.

It’s the kind of good that hurts in all the wrong ways.

His dark suit is perfectly tailored, clinging to every hard edge of his body. The light blue shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, no tie—just the right amount of a casual tease.

His jawline is tense, sharp as cut glass, and those blue eyes...

So much colder than usual, with only the faintest flicker of warmth trying to break through. But in all his sex god glory, what hits me hardest is the wall—ten miles high, impenetrable.

Not that I blame him. My wall’s so high it makes his look like a picket fence.

He leans in just close enough for his aftershave to cloud my judgment. “I thought I might see you here.” His voice is too smooth, too calm, as he pulls out the chair for me.

That’s Brian. Manners in spades. Or maybe it’s just the control freak in him making sure I don’t bolt.

I sit, crossing my arms. “Is that why you’re twenty minutes late?” I mutter, not bothering to hide the annoyance simmering beneath the surface.

He settles into the chair, completely unruffled. “No. I emailed Sydney Sun to let her know. Sorry if she didn’t get the word to you, but I was unavoidably detained.”

Oh. Right. He sent her an email. Which would be perfectly reasonable, except all access to that account has been cut off. My heart stutters, but I force my voice to stay steady. “She no longer works at the Herald,” I blurt out, the words tumbling over each other.

“She doesn’t?” He looks genuinely surprised.

“She was probably too embarrassed to mention it, but she’s been busy”—licking my wounds?—“figuring out her next move.”

His gaze drops to my hand, lingering on my bare ring finger just long enough. I quickly tuck my hand under the table, feeling suddenly self-conscious and exposed.

“How have you been?” he asks, his voice low.

Before I can answer, the barista rushes over, practically glowing, eyes wide as if she’s just spotted a unicorn. Or a Hemsworth.

“I added the dash of cinnamon just the way you like it, Mr. Bishop,” she gushes, batting her eyelashes. “On the house. Anything else I can get you?”

Great. A fan. I roll my eyes.

His eyes shift to me, unreadable. “Would you like a top-off?”

“No,” I reply flatly.

“Thanks,” he replies, his tone stiff and distant. Polite, but nothing more. Then he adds, “My wife and I could use a little privacy.”

“Oh.” Her eyes go wide as saucers. “Yes, of course.”

She hurries away, and what follows is an awkward silence so thick, it’s suffocating.

He finally takes a sip of his drink, easing back into his chair like he’s decided to settle in. “How are Taylor’s shoes?”

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