He Loves Me...KNOT Read online

  He Loves Me…KNOT

  RC Boldt

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About The Book

  Pronunciation Note for the Reader

  Prologue

  1. Emma Jane

  2. Emma Jane

  3. Knox

  EMMA JANE

  4. Emma Jane

  5. Emma Jane

  6. Knox

  KNOX

  7. Emma Jane

  8. Knox

  9. Emma Jane

  KNOX

  10. Knox

  11. Emma Jane

  12. Knox

  KNOX

  13. Emma Jane

  14. Knox

  15. Emma Jane

  EMMA JANE

  16. Knox

  EMMA JANE

  17. Emma Jane

  EMMA JANE

  18. Knox

  KNOX

  19. Emma Jane

  KNOX

  20. Knox

  21. Emma Jane

  EMMA JANE

  22. Knox

  23. Emma Jane

  24. Knox

  25. Emma Jane

  26. Knox

  27. Emma Jane

  28. Knox

  29. Emma Jane

  30. Knox

  31. Emma Jane

  32. Knox

  33. Emma Jane

  EMMA JANE

  34. Knox

  35. Emma Jane

  36. Knox

  37. Emma Jane

  38. Knox

  39. Emma Jane

  40. Emma Jane

  41. Knox

  42. Emma Jane

  43. Knox

  44. Emma Jane

  45. Knox

  46. Emma Jane

  DITCHED

  He Loves Me…KNOT Playlist

  Dear Reader

  Stay Connected To RC Boldt

  Out of the Ashes

  Out of the Ashes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  He Loves Me…KNOT

  Copyright © 2017 by RC Boldt

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 13: 9780996893862

  Editing:

  Editing 4 Indies

  www.editing4indies.com

  Bex Harper

  https://www.bexharperdesigns.com

  Evident Ink

  http://www.evidentink.com

  Proofreaders:

  Deaton Author Services

  http://jdproofs.wixsite.com/jddeaton

  Judy’s Proofreading Services

  http://www.judysproofreading.com

  Cover design:

  Cover Me Darling

  http://www.covermedarling.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by trademark owners. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features in any media form are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if one of these terms are used in this work of fiction.

  Please note: Although the Jacksonville Jaguars are an actual NFL team, liberties were taken in order to accommodate the storyline.

  If you upload this work to any site without the author’s permission, it indicates piracy which is stealing. Both are ridiculously uncool and if you do so, then you understand that you’ll forever be labeled a pirate (and not the super hot Johnny Depp kind) and the Book Loving Gods will be watching you. And when I say that, I mean they’ll be watching EVERYTHING you do. Especially when you do those kinds of things. Just a heads up.

  Visit my website at www.rcboldtbooks.com.

  Sign up for my mailing list: http://eepurl.com/cgftw5

  Excerpt from Out of the Ashes Copyright @ 2017 by RC BOLDT

  Dedication

  Matty,

  I’d been on the verge of giving up on finding true love—the kind everyone dreams of, the kind everyone writes about—when my second chance finally came around.

  You.

  P.S. I still love you more. It’s confirmed since I dedicate ALL of my books to you.

  A,

  You have no idea how much you are loved, sweet girl. Just remember to never give up on finding your “one”.

  Just a quick heads up, though… Your “one” is not the guy who still lives with his mother, plays video games all day, and doesn’t make you laugh and/or feel like the most beautiful person on earth (even when your hair’s a godawful mess and you have no makeup on). Find yourself someone who has a steady job, laughs at your silly jokes, and appreciates sarcasm. Basically, find a cross between your dad and Grandpa M. because, trust me, then you’ll be golden.

  About The Book

  Sometimes love needs a second chance…

  I never looked back after skipping out on my own wedding, even if it did leave me estranged from most of my family. Eight years later, I have the life I’ve always wanted. As an advertising account executive, my world is damn near perfect.

  Until I come face-to-face with my past. With the man I once loved. The man who holds my future in his hands. The man who’s hell-bent on getting even with me for leaving him at the altar.

  Even with all the unfinished business between us, I still love Knox Montgomery. The only problem?

  He loves me…KNOT.

  Pronunciation Note for the Reader

  The city of Mobile, Alabama is often mispronounced and I’d be remiss if I didn’t clarify this for readers who might be unfamiliar with this lovely, southern location.

  Pronunciation: MO-BEEL (with emphasis on the second syllable)

  Prologue

  EMMA JANE

  “Bless her heart.”

  This—the quintessential Southern phrase “bless her heart”—is the ultimate kiss of death.

  The irony isn’t lost on me since I just avoided my own kiss of death, figuratively speaking. Instead of walking down the aisle, I’m trudging along the Pensacola Beach boardwalk in my wedding dress.

  Alone.

  With tear-stained cheeks.

  Two elderly women peer at me, blatant curiosity etched across their features, and one turns to the other to hiss, “I wonder if the groom left her.”

  “Would you blame him?” the other woman responds, disdain dripping from her tone. “She’s got a”—she utters the next words much like they’re absolutely scandalous—“nose piercing.”

  My sunglasses conceal the dark glare I direct at them, so with a dismissive huff, I continue plodding along, swiping a hand across my tear-streaked cheeks. Judging by the black smudges on my fingers, my waterproof mascara clearly lied.

  Damn jackass mascara.

  Damn jackass groom. I’m starting to see a trend here…

  The longer I walk, the more stares I get. One little girl in a tutu bathing suit points at the top of my head and squeals with joy, “Look! A princess!”

  Damn jackass tiara and veil my mother insisted I wear.

  I march over to a large trash bin and—without any
finesse whatsoever—begin tugging the pins holding this awful tiara-veil combo in place. As I’m attempting to remove it, agitation takes over due to my sad lack of progress. I bunch the veil in my fists and give it a firm tug from my elaborate updo. Bobby pins shoot and ping in various directions, and I distractedly pray no one gets too close and loses an eye. Shoving the obscene length of fabric in the trash, I feel a bit lighter.

  The June sun beats down on me as I stand on the stamped cement of the boardwalk, the heat radiating through the soles of my favorite flip-flops. My eyes flutter closed as I inhale a deep breath of the salty Gulf of Mexico air.

  God, I love this beach. It’s always been one of my favorites, especially since it takes just under an hour to drive here from Mobile. The water is a gorgeous shade of blue-green, and the sand is perfectly white and free of pesky shells. Any other time, I’d be kicking off my flip-flops and running toward the surf. Now, though, I have different priorities: a stiff drink. Or ten.

  Or twenty.

  The challenge is finding a place where I might not draw attention—er, as much attention. I slowly survey the nearby choices of bars and restaurants lined up along the boardwalk; I scan and dismiss them one by one.

  “No…no…no…n—”

  Wait a minute.

  One particular sign snags my eye. It has an outline of two men standing back to back, their forms filled with a swirl of rainbows and the name Be-Bob’s written in script-like font beneath it.

  A gay bar.

  Perfect.

  With my key ring clipped to my small wristlet, I stalk over to the bar, doing my best to ignore the startled looks and gawking from other beachgoers. Tugging open the heavy door, I step over the threshold and into the brisk air conditioning.

  Into a place where I might find slightly more acceptance.

  I slide my sunglasses to rest atop my head and take a moment to allow my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. There are only about eight people scattered about, chatting over drinks. When I don’t earn more than a brief glance before they return to their own conversations, I breathe my first sigh of relief. Most of the patrons are likely indulging in the great weather and enjoying a Saturday at the beach, not looking for refuge and hiding out like I am.

  I scan the framed photos adorning the walls, which feature local drag queens and scantily clad male models before striding over to the bar. I hoist myself up onto a worn leather barstool, and catch the eye of the only bartender behind the counter. He appears to be taking inventory of the liquor, if his clipboard is anything to go by.

  When he turns around and gets the full visual of me, his expression is priceless as his eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. I’d laugh if I had it in me, but I’m emotionally spent.

  As he regards what’s visible to him from the top of the bar on up to my hair, his light brown eyes soften and the corners of his mouth tip up slightly. Without batting an eye, he reaches below the counter and produces a wet wipe. I gratefully accept it and he rests his forearms upon the lacquered surface, regarding me with interest as I rid my cheeks of the dark mascara streaks.

  The bartender waits until I’m finished and then accepts the wipe from me before tossing it into the trash.

  “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever served a runaway bride before.” My makeup-fail savior appears to gauge me, as if expecting me to burst into a river of tears.

  Funny enough, the drive here has expended me of those and I’m firmly entrenched in the anger stage of my fiancé’s betrayal.

  I prop an elbow on the bar, rest my chin on my palm, and offer what I know is the weakest excuse for a smile. “There’s a first time for everything, right?”

  He doesn’t immediately answer, eyeing me curiously until his lips stretch into an easy smile. His eyes do that little crinkly thing at the corners, and he has what I call “kind eyes.”

  Then again, I remind myself, what the hell do I know?

  I’m clearly not the best judge of people. That much has become all too evident.

  The bartender reaches out a hand. “Casey.”

  I grasp his hand, noting his impressive manicure. This guy’s cuticles are better than mine, and I love the shade of metallic gray polish on his nails. “Nice to meet you, Casey. I’m Emma Jane.”

  He reaches beneath the bar and I hear a clinking as he scoops ice, before he brings a cup into view. Then he works his magic and pours in a bit of this and that from one bottle to the next. Finally, with flourish—and a maraschino cherry tossed in—he slides the plastic cup across the smooth surface.

  “It’s my special secret mix. I call it”—he leans in toward me and lowers his voice, his eyes dancing with mischief—“the Panty Dropper.”

  One of my brows arches as I stare back at him with dismayed skepticism. “I hardly think I’m a prime panty-dropping candidate right now.”

  Casey lifts a shoulder in a half shrug, his eyes flickering over my shoulder before returning to me. His smile grows wider. “You never can tell.”

  With a tiny laugh, I shake my head and wrap my lips around the straw to take a sip of this concoction he’s made me. Just as I swallow the sweet drink, I both feel and smell a person sidle up next to me at the bar.

  Hell. The reason I came here was because I thought for sure my chances of getting hit on would be slim to none. But as I glance at him from the corner of my eye, I observe strong, muscled forearms, tanned and sprinkled with dark hair. The scent of him is appealing and masculine, with a cologne that doesn’t overpower. Just the sight of those arms alone, however, makes me incredibly wary to see the rest of him.

  Casey doesn’t address the newcomer, his focus still on me. “I’m all ears, Emma Jane. Been told I’m a great listener.”

  Good Lord. Where do I even start?

  Before I can answer, the man speaks up, his deep voice booming. “Are you cheating on me, Case?” He makes what sounds like a gasp of exaggerated indignation. “I can’t believe you’d betray me like this.”

  I glance up to see Casey’s expression full of mirth, and he rolls his eyes. “You know better. I’m still waiting for you to switch over.”

  A husky laugh greets my ears, and it sounds far too male—far too appealing—which is why I refuse to turn and look at the man beside me.

  “I might switch if you’d agree to root for my team.”

  “Not gonna happen,” Casey scoffs before his gaze meets mine. “Isn’t that drink exactly what the doctor ordered?”

  I muster up a smile because he seems like a sweet guy. “It is.” With a start, I realize I haven’t given him my card to pay or to at least start a tab. I reach for my wristlet. “What do I owe you?”

  He waves me off. “Honey, that one’s on me as long as you promise to dish before we get slammed in a few hours.”

  A loud exhale spills past my lips. “It’s a pathetic story, really.”

  “Let me guess.” Mr. Forearms’s husky voice is a deep timbre, amusement threaded in his tone. “You caught him with your maid of honor.”

  I let out a harsh laugh and fiddle with my straw, using it to move around the ice cubes in my drink. “Nope.” If only it were that simple, I muse internally.

  “Caught him with his best man?”

  This time, his suggestion drags a lighter sounding laugh from me. “Not even.”

  “Well, you know I can’t leave here without hearing the story. I’m intrigued.”

  This guy is something else, that’s for sure. His voice is the epitome of sexy, yet, even with all that’s transpired, I have zero interest.

  Finally, I drag my attention from my drink and my eyes travel up those muscled forearms, over the bulging biceps stretching the short sleeves of a dark-blue polo shirt, and up to the face that—

  My breath catches in my throat as recognition floods me, my eyes widening as I take in the man beside me.

  Becket Jones, the quarterback for the NFL team in Jacksonville, Florida. He’s a two-time Heisman Trophy winner from the University of Florida and was the second ov
erall draft pick by the Jacksonville Jaguars. Adding to that impressive resumé, he’s a Lombardi Trophy recipient and was recently voted MVP. His face is in commercials and on billboards everywhere. Living in Mobile, Alabama, and in a state without a pro football team, most of us either gravitate toward the Atlanta Falcons, the New Orleans Saints, or the Jacksonville Jaguars.

  I don’t follow NFL as closely as college football, but I’d have to live under a rock not to recognize Becket and his pretty-boy face. Even beneath the brim of the ball cap, which curls under at the edges and draws shadows over his eyes, I’d recognize that wide charming smile of his anywhere. He’s slouching against the bar but I know he pushes well over six feet.