Honor

by Jay Crownover

  Denver has always been just a pit stop for Church on his way back to rural Mississippi. It was supposed to be simple, uneventful, but nothing could have prepared him for the bubbly, bouncy redhead with doe eyes and endless curves. Now he knows it’s time to get out of Denver, fast. For a man used to living in the shadows, the idea of spending his days in the sun is nothing short of terrifying.

  When Dixie and Church find themselves caught up in a homecoming overshadowed with lies and danger, Dixie realizes that while falling in love is easy, loving takes a whole lot more work . . . especially when Mr. Right thinks he’s all wrong for you.

  Prologue

  My mom met her prince charming when she was a freshman in college and my dad leaned over and asked to borrow a pen so he could take notes. Rumpled, obviously hungover but flashing a smile that promised a good time and with a twinkle in his eyes, he was impossible to resist. She always told me and my sister that it happened that fast. In a split second she knew he was the one for her.

  It was a sweet story. One that my parents shared with us often, both still sharing private smiles and eyes still twinkling, but neither one of us gave it much thought until my younger sister met her very own prince before she was old enough to drive. It was during a hard time in my family, hard for all of us, but especially for her. She’s always been the baby, been spoiled and treated like a princess. When the attention was yanked off of her in a really ugly way, she was lost and let the family tragedy consume her. Lost in grief and confusion, she somehow managed to sign herself up for auto shop instead of an extracurricular that actually made sense for my very girly, very feminine younger sibling. She spent five minutes in that noisy, greasy garage, but she spent years and years leaning on and loving the quiet, enigmatic auburn-haired boy she met in those five minutes. He saved her and even though she was way too young to know anything about anything, she had the same story that my mother did . . . she just knew he was the one for her.

  It happened fast in my family. We fell hard and we didn’t get up once we fell. We stayed down and we loved hard and deep. I also learned as I watched all my friends, the men I worked with, the women that I considered sisters of the heart, that when it was right for anyone it happened fast and that they did indeed just know. They knew when it was right. They knew when it was going to last. They knew when it was worth fighting for. They knew they had found the person that might not necessarily be perfect, but they were without a doubt perfect for them. They just knew.

  So I waited, admittedly impatiently and anxiously for my shot, for my turn to fall. I waited through my family healing, to come back with a love that was even stronger. I waited through my sister screwing up and desperately trying to repair her perfect. I waited through weddings and babies. I waited through danger and drama. I waited through one bad date and one failed relationship after another. I waited through nights alone and nights spent with the occasional someone I knew wasn’t the one for me. I waited and waited as good men fell to even better women, all the while wondering when it was my turn. I waited and watched love that was easy and love that was hard, telling myself I was far more prepared for my fall than anyone else around me was. I wanted it so bad I could taste it . . . but the more I waited the more certain I was never going to fall.

  I would be lying if I said that I didn’t think Dash Churchill was something special the second he walked into the bar where I worked—all coiled tension, sexy swagger, and a black cloud of attitude hanging over him that seemed to dim even the brightest summer days. I had eyes and I had a vagina so all the things that I thought were special were the things those parts of my anatomy couldn’t miss. Long-limbed, a body that looked like it was ripped from the cover of a Men’s Health magazine, bronze skin, unforgettable eyes and mouth that even though it was constantly frowning brought to mind every single dirty, sexy thing a pair of lips like that was capable of doing. I liked the way he looked . . . a lot . . . but I couldn’t say I much liked him. He was sullen, distant, uncommunicative, and there was an air about him that marked in no uncertain terms that he was dangerous. But more than that he was a very unhappy individual, and no amount of rest, relaxation, and good friends seemed to shake that dark storm that hung over him. It was a warning that I was smart enough to heed. I liked my days spent basking in the sun, not dancing in the rain.

  I was friendly to Church because I was friendly to everyone. The first month or so we had an uneasy working relationship that involved me dancing around him while every other single and not-so-single woman that came into the bar where we worked did their best to catch his eye. It worked out well for me and seemingly for him so I went back to waiting for my perfect, my fairytale, my heroic knight, my unmatched hero. He had to be out there somewhere and I was starting to think if he wasn’t looking for me I needed to start looking for him. My patience was wearing thin and my typically affable attitude was starting to get just as cloudy and gray as the one that hung over Church.

  But then it happened and I just knew. I knew like I had never known anything as clearly and as unquestionably in my whole life. I knew with a rightness that shot through my soul and made my heart flip over in my chest.

  I was trying to cash out a group of overly intoxicated and obviously difficult young men. It wasn’t anything new. I’d been a cocktail waitress for a long time and knew how to handle myself and the customers. This group was no better or worse than any other one I’d had to deal with in all my years slinging drinks and working the floor, but they were loud and the things they were saying were easily heard throughout the bar. Some of it wasn’t so bad. They liked my hair (curly and strawberry blond, who didn’t like my damn hair?) and they liked the way my shirt fit tight and snug across my chest. I was a solid D cup, so again, who didn’t like my tits? But they also had a lot to say about my ass, apparently it was too big for my small frame, and they didn’t love my freckles. That red hair was authentic and as real as it could be so there wasn’t much I could do about the colored specks that dotted the bridge of my nose and brushed the curve of my cheeks.

  I had pretty thick skin; you had to when you worked in a bar, and liquor loosened tongues. I was ready to brush the entire conversation off and snatch the credit card off the table when I felt a hand on my lower back and a storm not just brewing, but collecting and gathering, ready to unleash hell at my back.

  “You good, Dixie?” The question made me freeze and it wasn’t just because it was asked into my ear with that slow southern drawl. It wasn’t because he was so close I could feel every line of muscle in his massive body and both the heat of his skin and the chill of his icy anger pressing into my back.

  No, I froze, riveted to the spot and stunned stupid because in twenty-six years no one had ever bothered to ask me if I was good. They always assumed I was.

  I was the girl that could handle myself and everyone else around me.

  I was the girl that never asked for help.

  I was the girl that always smiled even when that smile hurt my face.

  I was the girl that always had time for a friend even when I really didn’t have that time.

  I was the girl that everyone ran to with a problem because I would drop everything to help fix it even if it was unfixable.

  I was the girl that never let anything or anyone drag me down and fought to keep everyone else up with me.

  I was the girl that everyone always assumed was good . . . so they never asked . . . but he did and the world stopped. At least the world before I fell headfirst into the kind of love that was bound to hurt with Dash Churchill.

  I gripped my pen and struggled to clear my throat. “I’m good, Church.” My voice was barely a breath of sound and I felt his touch press even deeper into my lower back.

  “You sure?” No I wasn’t sure. I was as far from good as I had ever been and I had no clue what to do with it.

  I gave a jerky nod and blew out a breath which had him taking a step away from me. I looked at him over my shoulder and he returned the look. There was st
ill no warmth in his fantastic eyes. There was no change in the harsh expression on his face. There was no knowledge that he had just fundamentally changed my life.

  He was simply doing his job, making sure everything in the bar was okay and that the staff was safe, meanwhile I was shoved, arms falling, legs kicking, a scream ripped from my lungs in love with him because I might know he was it for me, but it was evident Church didn’t have a clue.

  No one had ever given me any idea how to handle it when the right one came along, but you weren’t the right one for him.

  About the Author

  JAY CROWNOVER is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Marked Men, Welcome to the Point, and Saints of Denver series. Like her characters, she is a big fan of tattoos. She loves music and wishes she could be a rock star, but since she has no aptitude for singing or instrument playing, she’ll settle for writing stories with interesting characters that make the reader feel something. She lives in Colorado with her three dogs.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  By Jay Crownover

  The Breaking Point Series

  Honor

  The Saints of Denver Series

  Charged

  Built

  Leveled (novella)

  The Welcome to the Point Series

  Better When He’s Brave

  Better When He’s Bold

  Better When He’s Bad

  The Marked Men Series

  Asa

  Rowdy

  Nash

  Rome

  Jet

  Rule

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  HONOR. Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer M. Voorhees. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780062435576

  Print Edition ISBN: 9780062435569

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