Page 24 of Knotted

Everywhere I look, there are women—too many, too close, their eyes locked on me like I’m the main course. My apartment might be a stone’s throw away, but there’s no way in hell I’m leading this pack of deranged stalkers to my doorstep. No matter how much I need a shower.

Sweet but psycho is so four years ago. Fool me once...

My jog takes on a full-blown sprint as I head for our headquarters. There’s a small crowd formed at the entrance of the building—some of the paparazzi I recognize, though up until now, they’ve never recognized me.

There’s a swarm of them—dozens of women. One of them even has a sign that reads,I want Brian Bishop’s baby. I run a hand through my hair.

What the actual fuck?

“There he is!” one of them shrieks, and before I can react, they’re on me like I’m the last Birkin on earth.

Considering I’m a foot taller than them, I remain calm, figuring I can talk my way out of this. Firmly, I hold up my hands, trying to reason with the crowd though I’m forced to take a step back. “Look, ladies, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else?—”

“Did you really save that dog from drowning?”

Bruiser? My damn goldendoodle? The fact that they know about him is just plain creepy.

Another woman chimes in, her voice dripping with sticky sweetness. “It’s adorable that you eat chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, Bri.”

Bri?Since when am I Bri?

“Tell them we’re getting married, baby,” another one purrs, her hand reaching out to brush my arm like we’re already a couple.

All right, that’s it. Loon meter officially pegged. I’m out.

Just as I turn to make my exit, I feel a hand grab my ass.What the?—?

I spin around, ready to set one of these nut jobs straight about looking with their eyes, when the movement throws me off balance. My prosthetic skids, throwing me off balance.

I stumble, crashing headfirst into a stack of newspapers at the stand. Papers scatter as I lie there, half-buried in tomorrow’s headlines, when I feel massive hands haul me up.

“We’ve got you, sir,” Dean says as several guards swoop in, clearing a path and ushering me into the building. I swear, I’m doubling the salaries of every last one of them.

We make it through the lobby and to the elevator where Ames has it waiting. We rush in, and the doors slide shut.

I slump back against the wall, trying to catch my breath.

“That’s, uh, quite the fan club you’ve got,” Ames says, eyeing me with a mix of amusement and concern.

“Har,” I mutter, pressing the button for the twelfth floor repeatedly—corporate gym. My eyes drop to my favorite running shirt—now soaked in coffee, with two fresh tears marring the vintage Batman logo.Perfect.

Ames sniffs the air. “Do I detect a hint of cinnamon?”

“No.” Ames shakes his head. “More like two pumps of vanilla if you ask me.”

I blow out a breath. “What? Is there a billboard or something?”

“Nope.” One of them shows me his phone.

And there it is, splashed all over social media—like a headline straight from hell:

Get Up Close and Personal with the Iron Man of Manhattan.

My picture is plastered across the front, and not my good picture. Like, shit, my DMV photo.

“Iron Man,” Dean says with a smirk, his gaze dropping to my leg. “It’s got a ring to it.”

“Childhood nickname,” I start, trying to brush it off. “Mark was Batman, I was Iron Man, and Zac...Dean just raises an expectant eyebrow, clearly waiting for more. I open my mouth to explain, but then give up with a sigh. “Never mind.”

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