Love Me Love Me Knot Read online

  Table of Contents

  LOVE ME LOVE ME KNOT

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  LOVE ME LOVE ME KNOT

  DEB LEE

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  LOVE ME LOVE ME KNOT

  Copyright©2019

  DEB LEE

  Cover Design by Anna Lena-Spies

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-68291-830-2

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  For my dad,

  who taught me to love recklessly.

  To love people, to love God, and to love art.

  All art.

  And to my sweet daughter, Sydney.

  You may be in heaven,

  but your coos sing forever in my heart.

  Thank you for sharing your short life with me.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing is hard. Like planting a fertile seed in the Sahara Desert without photosynthesis hard. But I hope to have the honor of planting that seed many more times, until my eyes go crossed or my fingers give out—because some days I feel like one or the other will.

  I want to first acknowledge my twinsie, my partner-in-crime, my very wonderful friend, Rachelle DeNecochea. Without her, and her almost otherworldly editing magic, my book would have been burned like the first-draft evil nemeses it was. But I make her laugh, force her to talk to strangers (stranger-danger does not exist in my world), and I buy her all the wine . . . so we’re even. A million thanks for your friendship, your love, and your tolerance of me—I can be #extra!

  I don’t have to words to adequately describe my full measure of gratitude to my wonderful friend (can I call you my friend? Um, my book, my words . . . definitely going to call you my friend) Kristan Higgins. Your generous and incredibly helpful critique was invaluable. RWA New York will always be the most memorable conference ever! You make me feel like I’m more than I am at this little pen & paper gig. I’ll probably fan girl you on some level for life, but there could be worse things in the world. Seriously, a million thanks will never be enough. So, I’ll start by paying it forward and sharing your kindness with others.

  For my sbux girls who write with me, and laugh with me and make me pee a little (six births helped with that too). I want to throw a shout out to you, Kristin Miller and T.J. Kline. Oh My Gawd . . . what would I have done without out you? You make me better!

  To my critique group—Hillari, Marla, Dirk . . . you have traveled many chapters with me and sharpened these pages with the most beautiful shades of blood-ink ever. Thank you for making me a better writer and sharing your time with me.

  Ms. Debby Gilbert—thank you. Thank you for laughing at my stupid jokes, for reading this book too many times, for sharing your wealth of knowledge, and for your faith in helping my story have a place in this written world. I’m grateful to you and Soul Mate Publishing for this opportunity.

  Don, you are my breath. You are my hero. You are my first and last line of defense, and I can’t express my love to you enough. To do any part of life without you would be pointless. Thank you for the support and the love you freely give, even when I can’t remember how to spell ‘the’.

  And to my kids (including my wombmate). You give me great writing material, but we can tone it down a bit now. I’m good for a while. I love you all with a fervor I will never be able to quench. Real love is us. And for your baby sister, who sits on Jesus’s lap until we all group-hug/smother her with kisses together, know that she is the muse that keeps us real.

  Name Cred: Thank you, Amy, for your name so I could develop a character. Your happily ever after is what every woman deserves. A real life love story.

  Thank you, readers, for spending time with this book. We all have stories, and I’m honored you spent a few hours with some characters who, though are not real, you invested in. Thank you.

  Best,

  Deb Lee

  Prologue

  Only two other young journalists have ever accomplished such a feat. Call it viral fever, call it a fluke. But we call it a hole-in-one! And to all the Sophies out there . . . we see you!

  It’s not so much what the dreamy Ryan Pike wrote, but its raw content. In less than 500 words, his real-life personal account captured America’s heart. In a world that only looks at the brawn and beauty, Ryan found the Achilles’ heel of our industry. And he beat us to a pulp with it.

  Taking a neglected subject, and adding some editorial magic, he shot Sports Now, the leader in Over the Top, Inc.’s periodical conglomerate, into a new category. Of course we brought a snippet to share. It’s only fitting that we release Ryan Pike’s new Sports Now app with a sample of the article that sent him right to the top. Congrats, Ryan. All of us here at Sports Now know you are the industry leader.

  ~ ~ ~

  September 28, 2008

  Larger Assets, Lesser Access: How Women in Sports View Themselves

  America’s pastime has taken a lot of hits. And I don’t mean a piece of wood striking a fistful of yarn.

  We’re talking about an epic play. Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two strikes—everything on the line. The home team is down by one. Yankee stadium is so quiet you can hear the pitcher’s
knees quivering. You’ve replayed this moment in your mind so many times that you know failure is not an option. Unless you want to let the entire world down. You laser focus on five ounces of a nine-inch sphere. The pitcher winds up and throws a curve ball.

  Whoosh!

  Your momentum spins you a complete one-eighty. Yet, you only hit air.

  The crowd gasps, having expected—no, anticipated—a homerun. But when the catcher’s glove echoes the hollow sound from a mile’s worth of yarn slamming into it, that’s when you know you missed the mark.

  And once again, Sports Industry, you have done just that. Missed. The. Mark. Pressure within the industry for a woman to look a certain way is leaps and bounds different than what it looks like for men.

  A right fielder with a .350 batting average will have several major sponsors lined up to sign him.

  But a female with the same level of sports proficiency must first check the hourglass figure box before possibly landing a temporary sponsor for female sports deodorant.

  Which begs the question, are we being fair in our approach to sign female heavy-hitters who may lean a little heavier on the universal scale of success?

  A girl can handle a fastball. But we want to know if she can she handle fast food?

  She will surf after a shark attack, but will her picture on the cover of a national magazine also attract web surfers?

  These are questions we have to ask ourselves. It’s second nature for a male athlete to eat a greasy hamburger and wash it down with a beer. He’ll sweat it off on the court or field. But for a woman athlete to do the same, the stigma is that she’s fat. She may even believe it herself. It’s a lie. But don’t tell her that. Or she’ll say you think she’s fat. Have we created the same shaming in sports as we have in Hollywood?

  Take my ex-girlfriend, Sophie. Beautiful. Filled with potential. Wicked smart. But she thought her pretty face was hampered by her size. Put some fries and a Coke in front of her, and she binges. Then she turns into a reclusive hermit crab, scampering to find a larger shell in which to hide. She becomes more insecure and more insincere in a never-ending cycle of self-hatred. Bigger can mean beautiful. But it can also mean bitter. We need to teach our young female athletes we are better than this. Or they will continue to find bigger shells.—Ryan Pike

  Chapter 1

  About ten years later—give or take a few months.

  A man who drinks peach schnapps has secrets.

  Of this, Sophie Iris Dougherty was certain. Sometimes it meant he bat for the other team, sometimes it meant he couldn’t handle hard liquor, and sometimes it meant he was a low-down, no-good, scum-of-the-earth boyfriend. In this instance, it was the latter. An all-too-familiar case of a new office romance gone awry.

  Sophie picked up a dart and nailed the bull’s-eye just as the crowd cheered. Sure, game three of the National League championship series was showing on all six of the pub’s TVs, and the Giants had just hit another two-run grounder deep in left field, but she’d hit the bull’s-eye. Same thing.

  Sophie rewarded herself with a bite of Sergio’s finest Italian cuisine by the Bay—or so it said on the box, all melted in mozzarella and enough calories to last a week. She checked the time on her phone. 8:57 p.m. Exactly forty-eight hours since she and Asher had split.

  Sophie scanned the room in hopes her BFF had come in. When she checked the bar, she caught more than she bargained for. The pizzeria’s lighting cast Ash-face and his new play toy, Trixie-Way-Too-Frisky Bell, in a sickening yellow glow. They sat at the bar just a half dozen tables over. Trixie’s skirt was almost long enough to cover her thigh. Except it wasn’t, which was probably why Asher’s hand was covering it as he nibbled on, or more likely drooled in, Trixie’s ear.

  Sophie gagged, her pizza threatening to make an encore appearance. She grabbed her sangria and chugged three-quarters, enjoying the I don’t give a damn essence it provided.

  When a bleated yelp escaped Trixie’s mouth, Sophie cringed and wondered if somewhere far off in the San Leandro hills an innocent doe died from a burst eardrum. She grabbed another dart and flung it at the board.

  The arrow struck right under the bull’s-eye. Close enough considering the wine and all.

  Sophie leaned back in her seat, grateful for the faithful fans crowding the pub and providing the perfect camouflage. Then she dropped her eyes to the daunting stack of grant applications she’d printed before coming. She was determined to get them finished. Sophie sipped her wine, and then, as if by some magnetic pull, she chanced one more glance at her ex and sighed.

  Amy Reedy zigzagged her way through the tables and plopped down in the vacant wood chair next to Sophie. She followed Sophie’s gaze to Asher and harrumphed. “Stop staring at him. Unless you’re marking him for a hit. If that’s the case, I’m in.”

  “That’s not such a bad idea.” Sophie agreed. “They’d never find the body.”

  Amy nodded toward the neon exit sign, a hopeful glint in her eye. “I have a shovel and lye out back. Do I hear an impending road trip?” Amy may top out at five-foot two, but add in the two-inch heels she lived in and her bulldog bark, and you get a beautiful partner-in-crime with incredible calves. Amy’s goldilocks hair was frizzier than usual tonight, but so was Sophie’s mood, so they were basically matchy-smatchy.

  “And I wasn’t staring.” Sophie waved off the ridiculous—okay, somewhat truthful—notion. “I was thinking . . . and working, thank you very much.”

  Sophie stuck her pen against her tongue and then pressed it back to the grant application. She wrote Chicks ’n’ Slicks, the name of her community outreach café, where indicated. Beneath her eyelashes, she peeked at Asher again. His hand had moved up Trixie’s thigh. Another gag threatened its way up her throat.

  Sophie swallowed the lump and looked at Amy, whose eyes had followed suit. She raised her brow in question.

  “I’m not pathetic, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Amy raised her hands in defense. “I didn’t say anything.”

  Subject change. Pronto. “What took you so long anyway?”

  Amy yanked the scarf from her neck and shoved it in her purse, then patted her moussed hair in place. “B.A.R.T. is what. And of course you’re not pathetic. Does he know you’re here?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I’m a needle in a haystack thanks to the playoffs.” She checked her phone. “I can’t stop watching the YouTube video of him kissing Trixie right in front of everyone.”

  Amy crossed her arms. “Okay, that’s pathetic.”

  “Sorry if my public humiliation caught on camera and turned viral is a kink in your BFF’s social status.”

  Amy gave Sophie a motherly glare. “How many times have you watched it?”

  “I’m a moth. It’s my flame. But I promise I won’t watch it again.”

  “You said that yesterday.”

  “I said a lot of things yesterday. But this time I mean it.”

  Amy sighed. “Give me your phone.”

  Sophie narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “Just hand it over.”

  Sophie slowly slid the phone across the table.

  Amy snatched it up. “I’m deleting your YouTube app.”

  “Hey!” Sophie grabbed her phone and slipped it in her purse. “Fine. I’ll stop. I just can’t stop replaying the part when I accidentally took Trixie down. The look on her face brings me such joy.” She grinned evilly.

  “As evident by the number of views.”

  “Is it bad I’m not horrified by tripping over my own feet and taking all one hundred and nothing pounds of her to the floor with me?” A moment of silence thanking Mr. Murphy’s Law was still in order.

  “As in going she-bat crazy?” Amy offered a scandalous grin. “Serves her right.”

  “Right,” Sophie
said. “Because it looked like I did it on purpose.” She picked up another dart, aiming carefully. She struck the upper right quadrant. “Eighteen points. Not bad.”

  Amy glared at the dartboard and then Sophie. “It was totally on purpose and you know it.”

  “It was an accident. Otherwise my Catholic guilt would have me Hail Marying ‘til I’m blue in the face.”

  A thunderous cheer earthquaked through the pub. Sophie glanced at the screen. The Giants had scored another two-run hit.

  “Drink your wine and stop obsessing,” Amy yelled over the sound of hoots and hollers.

  Sophie sipped. “I really did trip, but it was Trixie’s fault is all I’m saying.” Or rather the fault of Trixie’s obnoxiously ample—and oh, so fake—rhinestone ring.

  Sophie may have been trying to confront Asher and happened to accidentally push Trixie away when the gawd-awful ring snagged Sophie’s shirt, tripping them both. Trixie went down, plastic boobs first. Ah, fond memories.

  Amy plucked an artichoke from Sophie’s pizza and dangled it over her mouth before dropping it. “Totally Trixie’s fault. And her synthetic boobage.”

  It always warmed Sophie’s heart when Amy said something so inappropriately blunt. “I’m totally friend crushing you right now.”

  “Ditto. So”—Amy nodded at the pile of applications—“where’re we at?”

  “The same place as yesterday. And the day before. Five grand short for the café’s rent by the month end.”

  “Well, all we can do is fill out these puppies and pray your sob story is sobbier than the next.” Amy took her chance with a dart. She flung it, striking a man’s calf two tables over. She winced and hollered over the crowd’s cheers. “Sorry!”

  The man, obviously three sheets to the wind, laughed at the pinhole-sized mark in his leg. He tossed the dart back. “Double bogey.”