Page 80 of Knotted

“Well,” she plops down next to me, beaming, “your account is blowing up like the Eiffel Tower on New Year’s Eve,” she says, buzzing with excitement.

“What? Why?”

“Someone found the watch!” she squeals, clapping.

“That’s incredible.” I mean, yes, I care that the idiot gets his watch back. This isn’t about us. It’s about family. “So, they’re getting it to him?”

“Slow your jelly roll. This is where social media ends and public relations kicks in.”

“Public relations?” I frown.

She hits me with a deadpan stare. “You. You’re public relations. You’re still Sydney Sun on Instagram, and you need to make sure this person isn’t a total weirdo before you go telling Brian where he can find his precious watch. Also,babe, it’s two in the afternoon. Time to get up and rejoin society.”

After a skin-scaldingshower and a shave that finally rids my legs of their Yeti-level hibernation, I grab my phone and dive into my real obsession: investigating.

The beauty of being a writer with time to kill and a laser-sharp focus? I can snoop the hell out of anything or anyone like a free-lancer on a caffeine bender.

First, I pull up the source.

An Instagram account with the handle @BigDogCoach57—because, obviously, big dogs need a life coach, right? His feed is flooded with shots of him, two retrievers, and enough little-league action to make you wonder if he’s running for team dad of the year.

It’s all suburban and harmless. But when I open the images he sent, something clicks. And for the first time in days, a real smile stretches across my face.

We didn’t share every detail for a reason. The second a billionaire dangles a reward, every opportunist with a Wi-Fi connection comes crawling out of the woodwork.

Taylor, the social media queen she is, picked through the chaos like a kid fishing peas out of Sunday dinner, equal parts focused and fed up. And I have to hand it to her, when it comes to weeding out the crazies, the woman is a human spam filter in heels.

The pictures of the watch are a goldmine, all the proof I need. The face is chipped, cratered like the moon, and the strapshows the wear and tear of more than one deployment. But it’s the inscription on the back that cinches it:Our path may change as life goes on, but our bond is ever strong.

That watch is Brian’s. No doubt about it.

I’m buzzing with so much excitement that my fingers slip, fumbling with my phone as I accidentally hit the video call option—because, of course, me and social media? Not exactly besties.

A kid’s face flashes across the screen. He’s maybe ten or eleven, with a messy mop of dark hair and wide, innocent brown eyes that seem to light up the entire call.

He’s wearing a battered baseball cap, tilted just enough to make it cool, and a jersey that’s been through one too many games, hanging on by pure determination.

“Uh, hi,” he says, a little awkward, fiddling with the brim of his cap. “Are you...Sydney Sun?”

“That’s me. What’s your name?”

“Max.”

So few people know I’m Sydney Sun, and the fact that this kid does sends a strange flutter through my chest. I can feel a grin lifting sky high—wide and goofy. Must. Fight. Smile.

I’m just about to ask for his dad when it hits me—he knows my name. Then it clicks. “Wait, you’re the one who sent the photos.”

He bites his lip, glancing over his shoulder like he’s about to spill state secrets. “So, uh...I saw that Brian guy on TikTok. And I found his watch.”

My pulse skips. “Where?”

“The dugout.”

“The dugout?” I repeat, a little thrown. From my littleleague days, I know the only things left in a dugout are sunflower seeds, gum, and spit.

“Okay, fine.” He groans. “I found it in my sister’s backpack. She’ll kill me if she finds out.” He runs a finger across his throat for emphasis.

I smirk, leaning in like we’re partners in crime. “Our little secret.” I pretend to lock my lips and toss the key, sealing the deal with a wink. “How old’s your sister?”

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