by RC Boldt
“Ah, I take it you’re from Mobile, too?”
Wells cocks his head in question at the inquiry, and Becket merely shrugs. “Just assumed, since Knox and Blue are both from there, as well.”
Wells’s eyebrows rise slightly and he flashes me a quick look. “Yes, I’m from Mobile, just like Knox and Blue.”
Ah. I know what he’s getting at, and I can’t say that I blame him. It grates on my nerves, too. The fact that this guy has a little nickname for EJ.
I mean, Emma Jane.
Shit.
“I’ll let her know you’ve arrived.” Becket offers an easy smile before turning and calling, “Blue?”
Blue. God, that nickname is going to make me grind my teeth into dust.
“Want to come over and say hi to our friends?” Becket asks, and the way he’s turned prevents me from seeing past him to gauge her reaction.
If I thought she was gorgeous while standing about twenty feet away, it pales in comparison to how breathtaking she is once barely three feet separate us.
Right now, right here at this moment, drives home the fact that she’s turned into an elegant, poised woman. So vastly different from the one I once knew who would rebel against her strict, overbearing father and dye a streak of blue or purple in her hair or get her nose pierced.
Sure, back then, she’d been refined and knew the proper etiquette for social events and outings, but she always had a hint of wildness within her.
Now, I can’t help but wonder where that wildness went. If it was extinguished, much like the way she killed our love, our future plans, our—
“Knox? Becket was just asking how long you’ll be in charge of the company before you hire a new CEO?” Wells prompts.
Great. I’ve been zoning out, going all maudlin about the past.
Doing my best to exude a calm, cool composure, I slip my hands in my pockets and offer a shrug of nonchalance. “I’m hoping everything will be firmed up within a matter of a few months.” Tipping my head in Emma Jane’s direction, I add, “Assuming we can get our prospective deals finalized.”
Becket drapes an arm around Emma Jane’s shoulders, and my spine immediately goes rigid in response as a fierce surge of jealousy pulses through my veins. “I foresee my girl, here, knocking that out of the park. And”—he flashes a pointed look at me—“earning that promotion.”
She laughs nervously. “Beck, now’s not the time to talk business.”
He shoots her a look of confusion. “But weren’t you just talking to the editor of—”
“I could use some more champagne,” she interrupts, and the two of them have some weird silent conversation.
Finally, Becket winks and gives us an apologetic smile. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He plucks her glass from her grip. “I need to get the lady a refill.”
“I think I’ll follow you and get myself a drink,” Wells pipes up, and before I can say anything, he and Becket disappear in the crowd.
“Well.” Emma Jane clears her throat and smiles politely. “You and Wells are making good progress with looking everything over?”
“Yes,” I answer, watching as she fiddles with the clasp of her small wristlet purse. “It’s been trying at times, but things are coming along.”
“That’s great.” Another polite smile.
I fucking hate it. I don’t want a polite smile. I want a real one, dammit.
Silence falls over us—awkward silence, at that—and the words spill out.
“Remember the time we went to some debutante ball, and you were pissed at Annabeth for calling you and your newly dyed hair an ‘abomination,’ so you tampered with the punch she insisted on having even though no one liked it?”
“And it turned her teeth red for days,” she finishes with a laugh, her lips parting in a wide smile at the memory. Shaking her head, her eyes sparkle with humor. “It was the best revenge.” Her expression sobers slightly, and her brows draw together, her head tipping to the side. “But you took the fall for that instead of me,” she adds softly.
My smile mirrors hers, genuine and softened with the fondness of memories. “I didn’t mind taking the heat so my girl could escape the wrath.”
Her eyes study me thoughtfully. “You were forced to clean the administration offices for a month.”
I lift a shoulder in an off-hand shrug. “Wasn’t the worst punishment I ever suffered.” I cock an eyebrow and flash her a smug grin. “Plus, I believe someone crept in after hours while I was cleaning and gave me extra incentive to finish up faster.”
She laughs and shakes her head before her features cloud. “Knox, I—”
“They’re playing our song.” Becket reappears and snags her wrist, drawing her attention. “Dance with me, please, gorgeous?”
She frowns. “But I thought you were getting me a champagne?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” He offers her a look of faux dismay before brightening. “Knox and Wells can watch over your purse because”—EJ appears stunned as Becket slides the strap of her small wristlet over and off her wrist—“you’re going to need to bring your A-game for this one.”
Becket tosses the purse at me, and luckily, I catch it. I watch the two walk away, hand in hand.
“Why don’t we snag that table over there?” Wells gestures to an available table that’s on the outskirts of the ballroom. I follow him, carrying Emma Jane’s purse, and set it on the table.
We take our seats, and Wells sets our drinks down before he reaches over and flicks open the clasp of her purse.
“What the hell are you doing?” I hiss incredulously.
He flashes me a bored expression before taking a sip of his drink. “Just look inside.” He averts his eyes to the dance floor where Becket and Emma Jane are dancing.
I feel torn between curiosity and guilt. But, as I tap a finger to the side of the small purse, nothing is jostled out except for her slim cell phone. A tiny zippered square, which I assume is a wallet, is still tucked inside, and I want badly to see what’s inside.
And if she decided to carry a condom with her tonight.
With what feels like lightning speed, I reach in for the small wallet, but my finger snags something else.
And I stop dead in my tracks.
Because what I originally thought was the inner fabric of the purse isn’t. It’s a handkerchief. With a monogram.
With my initials on it.
21
Emma Jane
“So this dance was a ploy of some sort, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Becket’s answer is accompanied by the telltale sparkle of amusement in his dark eyes. Which means he’s full of it.
“Becket,” I warn.
“Blue,” he parrots back with a wide grin. “Just let me work my magic.”
With a laughing roll of my eyes, I let him spin me out and back before he dips me with flair.
It’s his—well, really our—go-to dance at events like this.
Pulling me closer and smiling down sweetly, he presses a kiss to my forehead, and as we sway, he murmurs, “You still keep that handkerchief in your purse, don’t you?”
Drawing back in surprise, I stare up at him. “How do you know about—” I shake my head. “Never mind. You’re Becket Jones. You always meddle.”
His eyebrows rise expectantly. “You mean I help people?”
With a little laugh, I shake my head. “You set it up so he’d find my handkerchief.” Suddenly, a thought stops me. “Wait. How would he find it inside my purse?”
He just gives me a look.
“No.” My eyes narrow. “He wouldn’t.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” I relax instantly. “But I bet Wells would.”
My eyes widen with alarm. “Becket, he can’t—”
He dips his head, our gazes lock, and from others’ perspectives, we probably appear like two lovers, engaged in an intimate conversation.
Not squabbling like we actually are.
“Blue.” The way
he murmurs my name gains my attention because his tone is softer, gentled. “When the past knocks on your door, it’s because there’s unfinished business.”
“But you’re—”
“Helping it along so you can finish it.” He levels me a look. “Because you and I both know he’s the one man who still has a hold on your heart.”
“Thanks for a wonderful night. Even if I did have to wear this getup, it was worth it.” Wells and Becket shake hands like old friends.
“Saw you chatting up that one blonde in the red dress.” Becket grins and wiggles his eyebrows at Wells.
“And that’s my cue.” I offer my goodbyes with a tired smile before addressing Becket. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby.” Turning, I take one step in the direction of the exit of the ballroom. Only about a third of the original crowd remains, either dancing or chatting at the numerous round tables.
“Wait.” Becket’s voice stops me. “I’m thinking of doing the after party.”
Slowly spinning on my heel, I narrow my eyes at my friend. “The after party?” I repeat slowly.
Becket hates after parties of any kind. Heck, he’s repeatedly preached to me about how much he abhors them.
“Yeah, an after party. So”—he nods to Knox and Wells beside him—“these two gentlemen would be honored to see you home, I’m sure.”
“Of course, we would,” Wells instantly agrees. “Oh, wait!”
“Let me guess,” I suggest in a bored tone, “you forgot that you suddenly have an affinity for after parties too?”
Wells doesn’t answer me. Instead, he addresses Becket. “Mind if I tag along?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, let’s head out then.”
I stand here stunned because my best friend just gave me the heave-ho.
“Bye, gorgeous.” He drops a quick kiss to my cheek. “Call you later.” And the two of them are gone in a flash.
Leaving me with Knox. Again.
With a weary sigh, I open my purse and withdraw my cell phone. “Look, don’t feel obligated. I can get a cab or a ride with Lyft.”
As I scroll through my phone for the app, Knox’s softly spoken words drift over me.
“I’d be honored to take you home.”
My eyes lift to his, and all I witness in the depths is sincerity.
He tips his head toward the entrance of the ballroom, only a few feet away, and I now notice the first few notes of a song I once loved. Knox’s expression turns almost bashful.
“One last dance?” He holds out an upturned palm.
Indecision wars within me until something gives way. I’m not certain whether it’s my weakness for the old Elton John song, “I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues” and the way the musicians aren’t butchering it like most tend to do, or if it’s the fact that I actually want to dance with Knox. To simply pretend we don’t have a past and tons of baggage between us.
Sliding my phone back inside my purse, I snap it closed. When I slip my hand into his, his features soften, eyes crinkling at the corners with a small smile forming on his lips.
After leading me to the dance floor, he pulls me in close, and it’s like that moment when you’re on the verge of solving a new puzzle and you have maybe half a dozen pieces left. The picture is there—evident—but still incomplete. But you know where those pieces need to go, and things slip into place with ease.
That’s what I feel when I dance with Knox—when his hand falls to rest at my hip, the way he grasps my other hand in his, the way we fit together so perfectly.
I don’t think anything of it when he dips his head just so, and his jaw brushes lightly against my cheek. The short yet soft strands of his beard take part in a tantalizing dance across my skin.
“Remember when you found out Elton John was coming to Mobile, and you just about went crazy trying to save up the money for tickets to see him in concert?”
My eyes fall closed at the memory, but also at the way Knox’s husky voice sounds melodic and intimate.
A smile plays upon my lips. “And you surprised me by scoring front row tickets.” My eyes open, and I lean back slightly to peer up at him in question. “How did you manage that, by the way?”
His eyes are alit with what appears to be humor and possibly affection. “A guy’s gotta have some secrets, doesn’t he?”
As though someone’s just tossed ice cold water on me, his words wake me from a daze.
Secrets. Boy, he’s not kidding.
I draw to a stop, pulling from his embrace, and fix a polite smile on my face.
“Thank you for the dance, but I’m calling it a night.”
Desperate to put distance between us, I walk as fast as I possibly can without breaking an ankle in these heels. And the irony is not lost on me.
Yet again, I find myself walking away from Knox Montgomery.
EMMA JANE
WEDDING DAY
“Do you think…I can’t…” I’m having great difficulty voicing coherent thoughts. Not to mention, I’m also on the verge of hyperventilating.
I relented and let my best friend inside the room, hoping she’ll be able to help me regain composure and figure out what I should do.
“Calm down.” Katherine pats my back soothingly. “You had no way of knowing. Especially since you’ve been so wrapped up in work and wedding planning.”
Something in her words, in her tone, brings my eyes up to clash with hers. “I had no way of knowing,” I repeat numbly. “Meaning…you knew?”
Her smile is sympathetic yet pitying. And that speaks volumes.
Frantic, I nearly rip the engagement ring from my finger and slam it down on the small table off to the side of the room. I stand, my chest heaving with heavy breaths, and stare down at what I’d thought was a beautiful token of the start of our lives together as a married couple.
Now, though, all I see when I look at this diamond ring is betrayal and lies.
And devastating heartache.
22
Knox
PRESENT
OCTOBER
“What the hell are you doing at a florist this early in the morning? Did someone die?”
Why did I blurt out where I was to Wells? Sweet Jesus, it’s Monday morning, and my head’s still not right after how things ended between me and Emma Jane the night of the gala.
“Just let it go,” I mutter into my cell phone with clenched teeth.
“I’m over here at the office—been here since five this morning—and I could use something to distract me from the messages from the city council about how hellfire and damnation will be brought upon the lovely city of Mobile if we allow a grocery store that offers primarily organic foods to be built in the downtown area. The same downtown area whose population is growing in vast numbers.”
“The same downtown area that only has one old, rinky-dink grocery store,” I supply, shaking my head as I peruse the various flowers in the shop. “That’s why they need more freethinking people on the council. People who aren’t against any form of growth or addition but still appreciate ways to keep the quaint and historical relevance of the city.”
“Exactly.” Wells pauses. “Think you’d consider running for councilman? And what are you doing at the florist again?”
I make a face even though I know he can’t see it. “Not a chance. And I’m getting a dai—”
That sneaky fucker.
“Ah.” There’s no missing the smugness in his tone. “A flower for your Southern belle. Just like old times.”
“That’s enough out of you.”
He just laughs. “I’ll let you get to your flower picking. Good luck.”
We end our call and I finally spy a lone daisy in the top portion of one of the refrigerated sections. I open the door and reach up to snag it when I hear a female voice.
“Good morning, Pete.”
“Morning, Ms. Emma Jane.” I can hear the warmth in the shop employee’s voice. It doesn’t surprise me that the older man has ta
ken to her since she’s always had a way about her that makes everyone like her. “I saved one for you, and it’s—”
He stops, and I know it’s because he’s just noticed me. Grasping the stem of the flower, I pluck it from the container and close the door to the case before turning around.
“Oh, dear.” This comes from Pete.
“Oh.” My eyes land on Emma Jane and I watch as her eyes flicker back and forth between me and the flower I’m currently holding. Finally, she turns to Pete and offers an overly bright smile. “Thanks anyway, Pete. I’ll check back tomorrow.” With a quick wave, her heels click in rapid staccato and she’s gone.
Heading over to the cash register, I hand my card to Pete who looks a bit torn between confusion and dismay. “Not to worry.” I wink. “It just so happens this flower’s intended for her.”
“Oh, I see.” His expression relaxes instantly, and he lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank heavens.” He slides my card through the reader, and a soft smile plays at his lips. “When she stops in, she’s like a bright ray of sunshine, and I hate to disappoint her on the rare occasions I don’t have a daisy for her.” With narrowed eyes, he gives me a sharp look while we wait for the credit card slip to print out. “You’re on the up-and-up, though, aren’t you?”
Am I? I’m caught off guard by his question. “Yes, sir.”
He eyes me hard before ripping off the receipt and sliding it across the counter for my signature. Pete hands me a pen, and I accept it, but he holds tight, waiting for me to meet his gaze again.
“It doesn’t take a genius to know that lovely woman’s been hurt by a man. I also know she’s not the modern type who shacks up with some young buck. She’s a white picket fence woman.”
I once thought the same thing, I muse to myself.
Long after I exit the shop and head to the office with a flower in hand, Pete’s earlier words stay with me.
“That lovely woman’s been hurt by a man.”
