by RC Boldt
As I notice the effect my request has on her, it takes every single ounce of my self-control to restrain the predatory smile itching to break free.
Right now, I reckon Emma Jane Haywood deserves a big, Southern pitying “Bless your heart.”
EMMA JANE
HIGH SCHOOL
TENTH GRADE
Knox Montgomery is so confident and far too cute for his own good.
“We had advanced algebra together last year, remember? I was the handsome guy sitting two rows over on the left.”
His infectious grin should be outlawed. The problem is, he knows it. Especially since it seems to captivate most of the female population.
I steel myself against his charm and studiously ignore him. I know he thinks I’m a snob—most people make that assumption simply because of who my father is—but I’m not. After what happened with Patrick, I can’t help but have a wary distaste for guys. Especially guys who are such smooth talkers.
When I reach inside my locker for the book I need for my next class, someone bumps into me and it causes my hand to bang into the edge of the metal.
At the feel of a sharp sting, I jerk back and notice a small cut along the side of my palm. I reach for the packet of tissues I normally keep in my purse but before I get that far, my wrist is caught in a gentle but firm grip.
“You’re hurt.”
At his touch, my breath lodges in my throat, and I watch in disbelief as Knox withdraws a handkerchief from the back pocket of his khaki pants. The slightly frayed edges indicate it’s seen better days, and he proceeds to carefully, tenderly, blot at the small cut.
Knox Montgomery carries a handkerchief?
Green eyes rise and lock with mine, and I realize with dismay that I’ve spoken aloud. “It used to be my grandfather’s.” He averts his gaze, inspecting my cut that’s no longer bleeding, thankfully. His thumb grazes over the top of my hand in the lightest caress.
Unsettled by his touch, I give a slight tug, silently requesting that he release my hand. Once he does, the absence of contact is tangible, and I’m not sure what to make of it.
“I can pay for your handkerchief to be dry cleaned so the blood stains come out,” I blurt out, internally cringing at the nervousness in my voice.
He replaces the handkerchief in his pocket and takes a step back. “It’s no big deal, EJ.” He winks and when his mouth tips up in a smile, it’s somehow different. This one seems more personal. Sweeter, even. “Don’t let any more lockers attack you, okay?”
He turns to head in the direction of his next class, and before I realize it, I call out, “What if it happens again?”
Those emerald eyes lock with mine. “Then you’d better call me, and I’ll bring my mighty steed—er, handkerchief—to the rescue.”
This time, when he walks away, I’m left staring after him and feel like I’ve caught a glimpse of the real Knox Montgomery. The one beneath the swoon-worthy grins and undeniable charm.
4
Emma Jane
PRESENT
Inhaling a deep, fortifying breath, I clutch my legal pad to my chest and turn to face Knox, forcing myself to meet his gaze.
The thing about encountering someone from your past, someone you were never able to get closure with, is when you see them, there’s always this tiny ache in the center of your chest. As if your heart recognizes that person without you articulating a single word; it immediately recalls the agonizing pain it once endured. The pain might ease with time, but it will always remain; it will never cease to be a vulnerability.
For me, that’s Knox Montgomery.
Attempting to maintain a professional façade, I raise my eyebrows politely in question. “Sir?”
He doesn’t immediately respond, instead choosing to regard me carefully, almost analytically. As if he’s the guy from those Terminator movies or something, cataloguing me and noting my weaknesses.
I subconsciously move a hand to smooth down my slim black pencil skirt but catch myself in the nick of time. Clearing my throat, I repeat, “Sir? You wished to speak to me?”
A corner of his mouth shifts, tipping upward but it isn’t one of those humorous smirks. No, this one sends an ominous shiver down my spine.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” He gestures to the chair nearest to where he remains at the head of the table.
Warily eyeing him, I stride over to a chair and perch on it, placing my pad and pen on my lap.
“In all the gin joints in all the world…” One corner of his mouth tilts up in what some might classify a harmless smile.
It’s not. It has Big, Bad Wolf written all over it.
And he thinks I’m his Red Riding Hood.
Think again, Montgomery. My eyes narrow slightly. “You needed to speak with me?” I redirect him in an overly polite manner.
He laces his fingers together and leans back in his chair as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“You realize your job is on the chopping block?”
I hold his stare for a beat. With force, I strive to maintain a controlled tone while simultaneously calming my erratic heart rate. “I’m aware you’re restructuring and we must all pass qualifications to be eligible to keep our positions.”
His eyes bore into mine. “And how do you feel about that?”
“It doesn’t matter how I feel about it, sir. It just matters that I do my best—as I always do—and provide proof that I’m qualified to hold my current position.”
There. That sounded cool, calm, and professional.
“You’ve got your eye on the VP position.”
I refuse to rise to the bait because I’m not about to show all my cards to him. Especially since I don’t know his entire agenda.
Green eyes narrow at my lack of response before he finally breaks eye contact, thumbing through some papers in the binder before him. “Your file holds not one poor assessment, Ms. Haywood.” His stress on the Ms. grates on me, but I remain silent. “Your reviews are stellar, and you’ve managed to bring in a great deal of revenue to F&F since you’ve come on board.”
My silence causes him to raise his eyes, and the instant they clash with mine, my skin prickles with the rise of goosebumps at the utter coldness in the depths. That cool demeanor, the icy tone is at complete odds with his drawl; it’s not overly pronounced, yet just enough to give him that “Southern gentleman” vibe.
“You were recommended—by the VP herself—to move up to her position once she either retired or moved on.”
This time, it appears as though he’s waiting for me to respond, so I simply offer a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”
Leaning back casually in his chair, he fiddles with his pen, and for a moment, I recall how he used to do that long ago. Back in high school, during study sessions.
Funny, the things the brain recalls, even after so many years have passed.
“Know this, Ms. Haywood. You will have to prove yourself to me before you’ll be eligible for that promotion. But”—he waves his hand in what’s supposed to be a casual gesture, but I know better—“let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You have to, first, prove that you’re deserving of your current position.”
Great. I have to run the gauntlet because I left this jackass at the altar.
“What would you say if I told you that you couldn’t have the VP position? That I was promoting someone else, instead?”
My lips instantly part to form a protest because what the hell? There isn’t anyone else more qualified, anyone else who busts their butt as I do for this place.
I clamp my mouth shut as I fight for composure. Because it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he’s baiting me.
Finally, I speak in careful monotone. “I would wonder who that particular person was, but also assume and respect that you were placing someone else in that position who’d managed to bring in more revenue than I have and also managed to maintain propriety and represent the company in the best light possible.”
His lips stretch into
a grin that sends shivers of unease trickling down my spine.
“Are you suggesting you represent the company in the best light possible? By being the girlfriend of an NFL quarterback?”
The bite in his tone causes my spine to stiffen further, and my posture becomes rigid.
“I’m not—”
“Because, here’s the way it’s going to be, Ms. Haywood,” he interrupts fluidly. “You have to prove yourself. No missteps in any way. Otherwise, your job?” He waves a hand dismissively. “Gone to Ms. Mitchell.”
The words slip past my lips before I can think twice. “The intern?”
His gaze hardens, narrowing on me, and his tone is wintery. “Yes. Ms. Mitchell will be promoted and you will lose your position as executive marketing and advertising assistant.” There’s the briefest pause. “Unless you bring in a deal with Coastal Media.” Then he hammers the final nail in my proverbial employment coffin. “In no more than five months’ time.”
It takes everything in my power not to allow my jaw to drop open because Coastal Media is the largest media group in the southeast. We’ve been trying to get an “in” with them—trying to come up with the perfect pitch for a joint venture—for a while now, to no avail.
And now, apparently, it’s up to me to make that happen if I want to keep my job, at the very least.
“I’ll be by your office later to discuss a few accounts, the latest proposals in the works, and your current client list. We’ll see once and for all whether you have staying power.” He rises from the chair, and closes his binder before picking it up. “Unlike all those years ago.”
With that final jab, he leaves the boardroom. And I’m still sitting here, stunned.
Not only has my past turned up, but it’s also out for vengeance.
Happy Tuesday to me.
“So, he turned out not to be a super old dude, but in a crazy twist, ended up being your ex-fiancé?” The disbelief is apparent in Becket’s tone.
“Yes!” I hiss into my cell phone as I pace back and forth in my office.
Sure, the door is closed, but I’m whispering because I’m still so thrown off by what’s transpired and can’t afford for this news to get out. I’d immediately called Becket because he was—and still is—the only person who knows my entire sordid story.
Well, aside from Brantley and Vonn, of course. But they live in Pensacola Beach.
“What am I going to do, Beck?” I hear the slight whimper in my voice, the hint of fragility.
“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, Blue.” Becket’s voice shifts, sounding gruff with steely undertones. “You’re going to show that asshole who’s boss. You understand me?” He pauses, and I nod even though he can’t see me. “You’re going to show him that you’re the best at what you do. The best, you hear me? And you damn well deserve to be promoted to VP.”
What if my best isn’t good enough? I silently worry.
“And if he doesn’t see it,” Becket continues as though he can hear my internal thoughts, “you can and will be hired elsewhere.”
“Right.” I punctuate this with a sharp nod. “You’re absolutely right.” A surge of confidence begins to flood my consciousness. “I will show him exactly who he’s dealing with. That he’s not messing with that same naïve girl from back in Mobile.”
“That’s right, Blue. Now g—”
“You can start by showing me your current client list and some of the proposals you’ve drawn up.”
My entire body draws to a sudden halt, muscles tensing, my spine stiffening. Eyes closing on a wince, I’m at least thankful to be facing away from the door—the same door Knox Montgomery stealthily opened without so much as a knock.
The silence on the other end of the line tells me Becket heard. He confirms it with his next hushed words.
“If I need to come down there, you just give me the word.”
“Thanks. I have to go.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Disconnecting the call, I let my arm drop, clenching my cell phone as though it’s a lifeline. Firming my posture, I attempt composure and do my best to channel professionalism.
Turning around, I fix a polite smile upon my face but, at the sight of him, I feel the corners of it waver ever so slightly.
There’s something so incredibly unsettling about facing the man you once loved, the man you were once ready to spend the rest of your life with, the man whose body you knew like the back of your hand.
The man who single-handedly shattered your heart into tiny fragments with his betrayal.
His lips twist in a hint of a sneer, his gaze hard, unfeeling. “If you’re finished talking—on company time, no less—with your boyfriend, we need to get to work, Ms. Haywood.” There’s a minute pause. “For starters, I’d like to see your client list and your latest proposals.”
My fingers curl into my palm, one hand making a fist at my side while the other clenches my phone tighter. I’ll be surprised if there aren’t imprints in the case after this.
“Let me pull it up on my computer.”
Stepping around my desk, I take a seat. I place my cell phone off to one side before grasping the wireless mouse and clicking on the designated folder to print the information Knox has requested.
The printer whirs a few feet away from where it sits on the far right of my L-shaped desk, rapidly spitting out the requested papers. When I turn to reach for the printouts, my fingertips encounter Knox’s simultaneously.
Apparently, someone is a little anxious to get his paws on this information.
Drawing my hand back, I watch as he grasps the papers, appearing to skim the contents before his gaze connects with mine, unnerving in its intense scrutiny.
“Why don’t we sit at the table and you can fill me in on everything.” He poses this, not as a question, but as more of a command, tipping his head to indicate the small, round table in one corner of my office with four chairs pushed in around it.
Without a word, I rise from my seat and walk to the table. Pulling out a chair, I slide into it and assume he’ll take a seat in the one directly across from me.
Imagine my shock when, instead, he chooses the one right beside me. His proximity allows me to catch a hint of his body wash, and I recognize it as the same one he’s always used. The scent which had once comforted me.
He catches sight of the slim, nondescript vase I normally keep at the center of the table and something flashes in his eyes. It takes me a moment to realize why.
The vase holds a single daisy.
Sweet sugar, I internally cuss. Because it also happens to be the same flower Knox used to leave me to find on the windshield of my car, the stem safely tucked beneath the windshield wiper, when they’d bloom in season.
They’ve always been my favorite flower, and now, when I pass by the small floral shop on my way into the office each day, if I see that they have this particular flower available, I’ll purchase one.
Because it’s my favorite, of course. Not for memories or anything more than that.
“My first question”—Knox’s voice draws me from my inner thoughts and forces me to focus on the spreadsheets laying on the table—“is why you don’t have this amount of ad space allotted…”
And so it begins.
5
Emma Jane
TWO WEEKS LATER
I’m dying.
Okay, I’m not actually dying, but it sure feels like it right now. And there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m well past my eyeballs with tasks to complete, and for the past few weeks, Knox has been hounding me like I’m on work release from prison or something. A slacker who’s going to skip out or steal from the till, perhaps.
To make matters worse, my migraines have been rearing their ugly head with a vengeance lately. Today’s, however, puts the others to shame. My head started to ache by ten this morning and only got worse from there. It’s a full-blown migraine now, and as my terrible luck would have it, I’m out of
medicine to alleviate the incessant pain. I’ve already drawn the blinds in my office, cursing the fact that it faces east. Of course, today would be one of those typical sunny Florida days.
Knox has also emailed me no less than twenty times already with requests and criticism—heavy on the criticism, of course. There’s no way I can head home because I know that will add fuel to Knox’s fire. I’m certain he’d write me up and place it in my file to document that I was found slacking on the job.
I’m also starving and forgot my lunch at home, and I haven’t had time to place a food order. Heck, I barely had time to answer Becket’s earlier call, checking in on me.
A knock on my door has my head snapping up from where I’ve been attempting to concentrate on typing out a proposal. The same one I’ve been working on for over an hour because my head has developed a near-deafening pulse of its own.
“Please don’t be Knox,” I whimper to myself.
The door opens and I instantly slump with relief.
“Hey, hey, how’s my—” Becket stops short at the sight of me. Dropping the bag of takeout on my table, he circles my desk and grasps the arm of my desk chair to swivel it toward him. Bending at the knees, he reaches a hand out to tuck some of my hair behind my ear, his features etched with concern.
“Blue?”
“Migraine,” is all I manage to utter. I don’t normally get them but, when I do, it’s because I’m under extreme stress.
Immediately, Becket reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, square pill box. “Here, take these. They’re the natural, anti-inflammatory enzymes Pres swears by.”
He opens the tiny container he normally carries the pills in for when his throwing shoulder acts up. Plucking out two tablets, he hands me my water thermos perched on the far corner of my desk. I down them and pray for relief as quickly as possible.
Becket’s friend from college, Presley Hendrixson, is a naturopathic doctor and chiropractor. She helped me a great deal shortly after I moved here, with wellness supplements and vitamins. She and her husband are expecting their first baby soon, and Becket has far exceeded the threshold of excitement and preparation for the little one’s arrival.
