Love Me Love Me Knot Read online

Sophie sulked as Red passed out the pamphlets. When he tried to hand her one, she just glared at it.

  Red dropped his chin. “How do you kids say it these days? Who pooped in your Cheerios?”

  Sophie couldn’t help the grin. Hipster lingo was not his forte.

  “That’s better,” he said.

  Sophie leaned in and whispered, “You know what Ryan wrote about me.”

  “I do.” He pressed the pamphlet into her hand. “And you’re not that girl anymore. You’re an amazing journalist and an even more amazing woman. He’ll see that.”

  Sophie frowned. “My column covers hernias this month. I highly doubt that screams amazing.”

  “We write about health, life, and leisure. Your health and humor column is very important. Remember, you earned the Ellie, he didn’t.”

  Sophie played with the pamphlet’s corner edge. Something in Red’s tone was off. He was normally so lively. “Is there something we should know? Why the sudden change in training?”

  Red sucked in a deep breath and squeezed her shoulder. “Nothing you need to worry about. Just remember to never put your career over your heart.”

  Sophie cupped her hand over his. She couldn’t count how many times he’d told her that. “Never.”

  “I have some calls to make.” He tapped her chin with his fist and walked out of the room, leaving Sophie somewhere between “This can’t be happening” and “I feel like I’m going to toss my cookies.” The copies of her editorial fell from her grip.

  Asher scooped them up and handed them to her. “Nice hernia there, Soph,” he said, then waltzed away like a cat that just sprayed.

  Ficus.

  Sophie shuffled back to her cubicle and slumped into her chair. She studied the colorful brochure, which glamorized the Baja Californian escape like it was paradise at sea. Considering the rock and the hard place she found herself between, paradise may as well have been purgatory.

  Her thoughts subconsciously drifted to Ryan. A forever reminder that no girl forgets her first heartbreak, or in this case, her first backstabbing.

  Chapter 3

  “So you never actually met Derek Jeter, right?” one of the junior journalists said. This question happened to come from a twelve-year-old whose screeching voice made Ryan Pike’s ears bleed. He hated these office tours.

  He felt suffocated despite his four-thousand-square-foot office on the thirty-fifth floor of Stark Tower with a killer view of San Antonio’s famous River Walk. He could play golf in here, but whenever a band of aspiring journalists arrived, they made him sweat . . . something that not even a coveted interview with the president of the NBA could do. Kids were out of his league.

  “I had a telephone interview with him right before his final game.”

  “So you are a poser,” he screeched. A couple of the other kids snickered. “I knew it!”

  The squealing lad was pressing his luck. His hair looked like a beaver had cut it, and the gap in his teeth almost made him look cute.

  Almost.

  “I am not a poser, I was paid a lot of money for that interview.” He nodded at an autographed picture of the great Jeter that hung on his wall, accompanied by photos of a few dozen other sports legends. His reflection from the glass frame caught his eye. He looked tired, and a five o’clock shadow darkened his chin. Time to wrap up this sports journalism tour turned accusation hour.

  “But you didn’t actually meet him. Hang out with him. Get his autograph on a real baseball.”

  Sizing the boy up, Ryan imagined the amount of force it would require to launch the boy through the massive double-paned window. If aimed just right the kid would land in the River Walk’s mucky water. Four feet deep was plenty of cushion, right? “There’s a lot more to journalism than getting baseballs signed.”

  The boy crossed his arms. “Well, my dad has a ball signed by Babe Ruth and Jackie Robinson from the 1947 World Series.”

  “Impossible.” Was the argument worth the effort? He knew firsthand the pressure dads put on their kids. And if he could alert this brat to that hard truth, his civic duty would be done for the day. “There’s no such thing as a signed Ruth-Robinson ball. And if it did exist, it would be worth more money than I make in a year. And that’s a lot.”

  The kid glared at him. “Well, my dad also has George Washington’s sword from the Battle of Trenton.”

  “Equally doubtful,” Ryan mumbled.

  “And the first coin ever minted.”

  “Okay, we’re done here.” Ryan pressed the intercom to his secretary. “Lola, do we have parting gifts for these young men?”

  “Wow, fifteen minutes,” she answered with bright enthusiasm, all of it sarcastic. “A new record.”

  He stifled a grin. “You’re fired.”

  “Ha ha. You couldn’t find your left foot without me.”

  So true, but he’d never own up to it. “Will you see these boys out?”

  Dead air and the tapping of a keyboard came from the other end of the intercom. “Lola? Parting gifts.”

  “You owe them another fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes I’ve set aside to order you a throw rug for your bleak, man cave office. Oh, and thank you for the daffodils you’re also ordering me. Your generosity knows no bounds.”

  “Lola.” Ryan squeezed the bridge of his nose.

  “Fine.” Ryan could hear her smiling on the other end of the intercom. “I’ll have the gifts ready.”

  He released the button. “Boys, it’s been a pleasure.” He glared at the beaver-haircut boy and added, “Of sorts. On your way out, my assistant will give each of you an autographed photo of the Dallas Cowboys.”

  Beaver Boy frowned. “My dad has a real—”

  “I’m sure he does.” Ryan tousled the kid’s hair. He escorted the boys through his office door.

  Lola handed them their photos and whispered, “Phil wants to see you.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his stubble. This was going to be his day. It was the pennant, after all and he was just waiting for the green light from Phil to cover what could be the final game in highly sought after championship.

  “And Ryan.” Lola lowered her voice, creasing her forehead.

  Ryan knew that look. “Hmm?”

  “Your dad called. Again.”

  ~ ~ ~

  After waiting for the boys to disappear down the hall, Ryan veered for the corner office where a silver plaque on the door read “Phil Grites—Editor-in-Chief.” Equal parts respect and admiration for this man crossed Ryan’s mind. Phil had given Ryan his first job as a young journalist right out of college and personally mentored him into the A-list writer he was today.

  Ryan opened the solid oak door and let it close on its own behind him. “Hey, Phil.”

  Phil waved him into an oversized leather chair facing a mahogany desk. “You survive the boys?”

  He shrugged. “And they survived me.” Why the delay tactic? Phil was always direct and to the point. Was he trying to build up to good news? Or hesitating to deliver bad news?

  Phil sat. “I appreciate you stepping up today. You know how we value the youth in our community.”

  “Sure,” Ryan said, locking his hands together behind his head. “But I’m sure that’s not what you wanted.”

  “Listen, Ryan,” Phil said amicably, shuffling some papers from a stack on his desk. “Red Goldman from Up Front has accepted an offer for early retirement effective Friday.”

  Retired or fired? Ryan wondered. He’d never seen an editor retire with four days’ notice. What was he missing?

  “The board has asked I assign my best employee to cover in the interim until he’s replaced. You’re my number one and you have experience, so naturally I’ve assigned you.” Phil’s smile widened as he passed a folder across the desk.


  Ryan paused, absorbing the news. Red Goldman was Sophie’s boss. He hadn’t seen her in years but showing up as her interim boss after how she left things may cross more than a few hairs. And how he reacted to how she left things may cross her left hook to his chin.

  And then the nagging question of why Goldman would retire on such short notice bothered him. There was more going on here.

  Clearing his throat, he took the file and composed himself. He needed an excuse to decline. “Next week’s the pennant,” he said, knowing Phil was well aware Ryan was scheduled to cover it.

  “Johnson can cover it.”

  A heated stab of adrenaline shot up Ryan’s spine. The hell he can. The pennant was one of the most coveted sporting events. Over fifty thousand people followed his personal sports blog, and he couldn’t just not write about the pennant. Up until now he’d made accurate predictions and called games based on relief pitchers. That sort of thing couldn’t be taught. It was instinct. Something Johnson lacked. This meeting was turning to crap fast. “Johnson?”

  Phil tipped his head, as if he’d thought this through. Except details, Phil. You can’t play the rookie when the game is on the line.

  “You still get the World Series, don’t worry.”

  At that Ryan clenched his jaw. Johnson’s articles were crap, but his father was chairman of the board, which meant he often scored top assignments. “With all due respect, sir, ever see a turtle on top of a post?”

  Phil combed a hand over the few strands of hair on top of his head. “I know, but think of this as a great opportunity.”

  Yeah, and I actually earned my position here. Ryan checked his tone before responding. “Why me?” What Ryan really wanted to ask was why not send Johnson as the interim? The guy had his lips permanently glued to whosever ass was in command, so this position was perfect for him.

  “Why not?” Phil ambled to the wet bar. He poured two fingers of whiskey and handed one to Ryan before raising his glass. “To a new promotion.”

  Ryan almost dropped the tumbler. “A promotion?”

  Phil clinked Ryan’s glass, and then swallowed its contents. “The position’s open. Why not throw your name in the hat? Consider this your on-the-job interview.” Phil poured a second round. “I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  Ryan nodded in thanks and stared out the massive window overlooking the Alamo. The whiskey’s spicy and vanilla notes burned his nose. He tossed the drink back and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. The familiar burn grounded him.

  The last thing he wanted was to work out of the San Francisco office. After all, he’d done a fine job not visiting that office more than absolutely necessary, and Sophie had been conveniently absent each time he’d flown in. But he wasn’t in a position to tell Phil no. Besides, he loved his job. There was nothing better than being in the middle of the action, feeling the players sweat and hearing the grunts as they became America’s heroes. All he wanted was to tell their stories and follow their careers. He interviewed every athlete he wanted. The job was daunting and living out of hotels was exhausting, but the chase kept him going.

  Ryan sighed. “I don’t know, Phil. I’m not sure running Up Front is for me.” He turned and faced Phil. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m honored. But I interview athletes. I have a pre-pennant interview with Buster Posey in two days. That’s what I know. That’s my job.”

  Phil poured another shot of whiskey. Ryan already felt the liquor numbing all the right places and he held up a hand, signifying a half shot was sufficient.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, son.” Phil’s smoker’s voice graveled. “Your Sports Now app put us in contract with the largest smart phone company, making it the fastest downloaded sports app ever. That’s the sort of mind we need running one of our magazines.”

  Ryan smiled at the compliment. He worked two years on that app and was thoroughly enjoying the residual income each download offered.

  Phil slid another file across the desk. “You’ll also join the Up Front staff on their team-builder excursion in a few days and assist with some of the training. I’ve already let Red know you’re flying in.”

  Ryan nearly choked on his drink. Did Phil not get it? Not only was Ryan just informed that he’d no longer cover the pennant, but now he’d miss watching the final games. Sure, he could watch the highlights on his app, but apps didn’t show live action details—the fierce look in the pitcher’s eyes after the catcher determined whether to call a curve ball or splitter, how the third baseman rarely planted his heels on the ground after the pitch, and most importantly, the excruciating pained look in a thousand fans’ eyes when a batter made contact. Would it be a homerun, a base hit, an out?

  Writing about pounding heartbeats in athletes who blew out their knees and suffered concussions was a privilege. Being an editor for a magazine that covered fashion, entertainment, and health didn’t exactly call to him.

  Phil crossed his office again and poured himself a seltzer. “Johnson’s going to be madder than an old wet hen that we passed him over. He looks good on paper and all, but we need a man with your digital experience and someone who knows this industry inside and out. It’s a new ball game out there, and we have to stay ahead of our competition.” Phil’s eyes narrowed. “We feel you’re the best for the interim.”

  Ryan scrubbed a hand through his hair. There was something more Phil wasn’t saying. Why was Red quitting? Why reassign him when there were dozens of more qualified candidates looking to jump in at Up Front. What was he missing? “Level with me, Phil. Is he quitting or is it something more?”

  Phil sipped his water and stared at Ryan. He set his glass down and tapped the rim. “I’ve heard talk of a merge with Jazz. But it’s doubtful. Blending Up Front with Jazz doesn’t feel like a good mix. Not only is Jazz only in digital form, it’d require a whole new facelift. Marketing is looking into that now. But we need you there.” He tipped his chin and raised his brow. “Is that clear?”

  Ryan nodded. “Crystal.” He set his drink down and picked up the file, fanning through the specs. The first few pages explained the itinerary. Ensenada, Avalon, a day at sea. That he could manage, especially the stop in Avalon where he owed a friend a long, overdue visit. Flipping through a few more pages, he stopped at Sophie’s employee fact sheet. Memories flooded his mind, twisting in his gut the way only painful ones can. It had been ten years. She’d made it abhorrently clear she was over him. This would be a little harder to manage. But he was a professional. This was his job. A routine business trip where they’d work separately. Period.

  Phil slapped Ryan on the shoulder and he stiffened. “Relax, son. This is a good thing. Aligning your career in a direct path that’s both good for business and lining your pocket—that’s what separates the go-getters from the has-beens around here. And I’m not going to be around here much longer. So, pull this off successfully and when you return from the West Coast, the two words you’ll here from me will be”—Phil held up his glass—“Congrats, Chief.”

  Chapter 4

  Sophie tapped a brad nail into Chicks ’n’ Slicks wood paneling and hung the vintage sign she’d picked up at a garage sale last weekend. This one quoted Laurel Thatcher Ulrich: ‘Well-behaved woman seldom make history.’ She angled it in an effort to conceal a crack on the café’s gray-tinted wall. Yet another thing her sleazy landlord hadn’t fixed.

  Being six blocks from the publishing office, the café’s location was an easy after-work walk. She had fallen in love with its 1950s malt-shop inspiration. With money earned from a fundraiser, they’d put in a black-and-white-square tile floor, red jukebox, and a frozen-custard machine, AKA Suzie—fondly named after one of their girls here. They even paid extra to have it restored to its original 1955 condition.

  Despite a few holes in the walls, some dents in the cold box, outdated fixtures, and the unsightly smoke da
mage on the ceiling above the grill, the café was perfect. Its flaws mirrored the imperfect teens that volunteered here. Sophie wished she had money to fix everything, but then again, securing five grand this month for rent to keep the program running was money she didn’t have. And it could be weeks before she heard back from the recent batch of grant applications.

  She popped another hip-o-licious chocolate morsel into her mouth, trying to ignore the looming, gray cloud reminding her that if this place closed, the teens had nowhere to go. The chocolate sat on her tongue, engaging her taste buds the way only sugar crystals could. Was that her fifth? No, probably more like her eighth . . . or eighteenth.

  Familiar squabbling from the kitchen grew louder as Charlie Williams, her favorite teenager in the world, and Donovan pushed through the kitchen door. Donovan carried a fresh batch of sweet potato fries.

  “I’ll hear something when I hear something,” Charlie said on a laugh. “It’s not even that big of a deal.”

  “You bet your bum it’s a big deal,” Donovan insisted. He set the tray of fries on the bar top and transferred them to a basket before sliding them toward Sophie. “Try these. New recipe.”

  “What is or isn’t that big of a deal?” Sophie tossed a rag on a recently vacated dining table so she wouldn’t forget to wipe it down.

  Donovan dusted his hands, shed his hair net, and hung up his apron. “Nothing. Charlie likes to argue, especially when it involves senseless reasons why she hasn’t heard back from any of her choice colleges.”

  “I could’ve told you that.” Sophie, popped a fry into her mouth. “These are good. Need salt though.”

  Donovan’s eyes cut to hers. “Not everything needs salt.”

  “That’s debatable,” she said and then wiped down the table. “Anyway, I agree with Charlie. She’ll hear something when she does, and hopefully it will include a full-ride.”