Page 90 of Knotted

“I do not hum.”

She raises a brow. “Oh, you definitely do.Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You, Dancing in the Moonlight.And what’s up with this disturbing attachment to ABBA songs?Take a Chance on Mehas been on repeat all day.”

I shrug, trying to play it off. “Want me to switch it up? My mom was a huge ABBA fan.” I crack my knuckles with a smirk. “Their whole catalog’s locked and loaded. I take requests. How about a littleGimme Gimme Gimme?”

She snorts. “A man after midnight? Okay, who are you, and what have you done with Grumps McGrumps? You’re floating around here with that goofy grin, and Mark says it’s really creeping him out.”

Satisfied, I smile. “Mission accomplished.” A chuckle escapes as I make a mental note to call him when he’s knee-deep in meetings, just to leave obnoxious voicemails.

I think I’ll start withDancing Queen.Hell, I could turn it into a series—a different ABBA hit every time he ignores my call.

Imani heads out, and I turn back to my desk, ready to dive back into the last bit of work. One email in particular catches my attention. I read it, twirling the ring on my finger.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Media Excellence Gala Invitation

I pause, my fingers hovering over the mouse before clicking it open.Sydney Sun.Didn’t Jules say she left theHerald?

Mr. Bishop,

I’m inviting you to the Media Excellence Gala. It’s the talk of New York this year, with true red carpet treatment for the rich and elite.

Journalists from all over the wurld will be there, and I’llbe presenting an award for the Herald’s 50th anniversary.

RSVP required.

In a tux or out of a tux,

I need you.

xoxo

I smile at the words,Mr. Bishop.So formal.Ms. Sun.

I reread it. Again. And again. I don’t even know why. But my heart does this weird, fluttery flip, like it’s been waiting for her to reach out to me like this.

Sydney Sun.

She always has this effect on me. And every time, I’ve brushed it aside. But this time...I can’t.

She found my watch, and I can’t keep sweeping this connection under the rug. It’s there, whether I want to admit it or not.

Still, as I glance over her message, something doesn’t quite sit right in my gut. I’m not the type who’s into froufrou events. I’m more of a whiskey and warm fire kind of guy.

And yeah,wurldis misspelled, but we’ve all fat-fingered a text or ten. Guilty as charged.

But that’s not what’s gnawing at me. It’s that last part—I can’t shake it.I need you.

Those words tug at me in a way I can’t explain. I have to go.

I type out a response, my finger hovering over theSendbutton, but I freeze. I just sit there, thumb up my ass, tapping my fingers on the desk, staring at the email likean idiot.

Why am I hesitating?

My eyes drift to the watch on my wrist.

That’s why.

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