He Loves Me...KNOT

by RC Boldt

  Once we exchange a few greetings with some acquaintances, I guide Becket to a quieter spot off to the side. His eyes, gleaming with curiosity, meet mine and I merely offer a sly smile before I unclasp my clutch purse and withdraw a small flat item. At an outward glance, it appears to be a trading card of some sort.

  Placing the object in his large palm, I watch as the realization hits—the relevance of it and of this date.

  The look on Becket’s face is one I’ll not soon forget. His eyes light up in heartfelt appreciation, and his smile turns more intimate. It serves as even more proof that I have one of the best friends on this earth.

  “Blue.” He stares down at the small card, his voice husky with emotion, before his dark gaze locks with mine. “You mean the world to me, you know that?”

  Tears begin to prick my eyes because I do know. I know it because he means the world to me, too. I firmly believe it was fate that brought us together, stumbling across one another in that bar eight years ago.

  “I know.”

  His lips quirk upward and his eyes sparkle mischievously. “If I could manage to kiss you on the lips without wanting to puke, I’d totally marry you.”

  Laughter erupts from me and causes a few heads to turn at the sound of it. I grin up at him. “I know.”

  He looks down at the trading card I’d had made. It was the photo we’d taken immediately after we’d agreed to help one another out that summer night in the Pensacola Beach bar. Me clad in my wedding dress, him with a backward ball cap, you can see the smiles on our faces, although mine looks a tinge hesitant.

  This photo marked the very beginning of a friendship unlike any other.

  I’d dated it and had a friend in our graphics department show me how to dress it up. Photoshop was still not my friend, but I’d managed to create this for our “friendship-iversary.”

  Becket withdraws his wallet and carefully slips the card inside before tucking it away in his pocket. “I’ll have us with me wherever I go.” He frames my face with his large palms and places a soft kiss on my forehead before whispering against my skin, “Love you.”

  My eyes drift closed, and I murmur, “Love you, too.”

  The sound of a clearing throat interrupts our moment, and we dutifully turn and greet one of the gala hosts.

  “Excuse me, but I have to steal this beautiful woman away for a dance.”

  Becket’s deep voice sounds from behind me, his palm landing at my waist. The ladies I’ve been speaking with all titter, succumbing to my friend’s inherent charm and looks.

  As he leads me away to the large dance floor, I notice the instrumental version of Miranda Lambert’s “Better Man” being played by the musicians on the stage. In my heels, the top of my head nearly reaches Becket’s forehead.

  “Superficial conversation?” he murmurs into my ear.

  “You have no idea. Not to mention, the rumors have managed to spread even further about F&F’s unknown future.” My lips twist. “Someone mentioned seeing the new owner here tonight.”

  Laughter rumbles through his chest. “Dare I say I’m your savior, then? Rescuing you from such distressing talk?”

  I lean back slightly and flutter my lashes playfully, allowing my Southern accent to become more prominent. “Why, how can I, a woman as imperfect as myself, ever repay you?”

  His grin matches mine. “By giving the gossips something else to talk about. Hold on tight.”

  With that, Becket spins me out before smoothly tugging me back, flush against his chest. He dips me gaily, holds me nearly parallel to the floor, and whispers to me.

  “And you’ve got to remember, Blue.” He deepens his voice slightly to recite a line from my favorite movie, Good Will Hunting. “People call those imperfections, but no, that’s the good stuff.”

  He steers us upright again. The musicians finish the song and everyone pauses to offer their applause. That’s when something catches my eye. Or rather someone—a man—and an odd sensation falls over me. On the opposite side of the ballroom, he shifts his stance, and I can’t quite catch sight of his face, but there’s something so familiar about him and the way he holds himself.

  “Blue?”

  I jerk, finding Becket’s concerned expression fixed on me. With a tight smile, I attempt to shake off the feeling of déjà vu.

  “Sorry. Just…thought I saw someone I knew.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I put more effort into my smile. “Promise.”

  He studies me for a beat before he tips his head in the direction of the large tables filled with a variety of hors d'oeuvres. “Feel like grabbing some food?”

  “Absolutely.”

  After we partake in some of the delicious catered food, we’re soon caught up in conversations with those inquiring about Becket’s take on some upcoming free agents or those curious about my job with F&F.

  And the entire time, I can’t shake the unsettling feeling like my past is at the periphery, haunting me.

  “Exhausted doesn’t cover how I feel right now.”

  After kicking off my heels in the back of the limo at the end of the night, I let out a soft moan as I wiggle my finally uncramped toes.

  Becket leans his head back against the seat of the limo, eyes falling closed. “Same.”

  With my cheek against the smooth leather, I regard him affectionately. “You’d make a really great boyfriend, you know.” My voice is soft, tone hushed as I study his profile.

  One corner of his mouth hitches slightly, but his eyes remain closed. “That so?”

  I reach out, slip my hand in his, and grasp it tightly. “Beck, you know so,” I whisper softly. “I think it’s time to get that new game plan ready.”

  He shifts his head to the side and peers at me within the confines of the dimly lit vehicle. “Using some sports terminology on me now?”

  With a half-smile, I answer, “I was told once that a game plan was needed when you decide to execute change…”

  “Sounds like a wise person.”

  “He is.” I swallow hard, braving my next words. “But he needs more—deserves more—than to continuously dote on his best friend.”

  He stares at me in heavy silence. And I should know better than to think I can toss this out at him without him being more astute. Becket’s often pigeonholed as a dumb jock, but he’s the furthest thing from it.

  As is proven with his next, hushed words.

  “I could say the same for you.”

  2

  Emma Jane

  THE FOLLOWING MONDAY

  “Oh, and Emma Jane? Gail wanted to see you before you get started for the day.” Alissa catches me as I’m entering my office, about to set my briefcase down and unpack my things.

  My head snaps up as unease ripples through me. Gail, VP of marketing and advertising, normally has a loose rein when it comes to me doing my job. She’s a wonderful mentor but also isn’t one to keep constant tabs on me.

  “Okay,” I answer slowly as I set my briefcase on the floor against my desk. After I open the top drawer, I place my keys in it before tossing my purse in the back of the bottom drawer. Then I grab a legal pad and a pen and make my way down the hall to Gail’s corner office.

  Her secretary, Margo, calls on the intercom before waving me into her boss’s office. Striding in, I’m startled by Gail’s quiet request for me to close the door, leaving us ensconced in silence for a moment.

  Running a finely manicured hand down her sleek, gray bob hairstyle, Gail’s attention settles on me.

  “Please have a seat, Emma Jane.”

  Stepping toward one of the plush chairs, I perch on it, bristling with curiosity.

  She steeples her fingers, resting her elbows on the mahogany surface of her desk, and levels a look at me. “I assume you’ve heard the rumors about Martin.”

  My brow furrows. “I assumed they were just that: rumors.”

  “Sadly, no. It’s been confirmed that the new owner will be arriving tomorrow.”


  My stomach flips, but her next words make it feel like the floor drops out from beneath me entirely.

  “And word on the street is, our new owner has major plans for restructuring.”

  The blood leaves my face, and I instantly pale. Restructuring? I reach up to pinch the bridge of my nose as I attempt composure. Inhaling what I hope to be a calming breath, I meet Gail’s eyes.

  Only to see everything I feared written in the depths.

  “I’ve already submitted my resignation to HR and have accepted a position with StyleNow.”

  “But—”

  Gail offers me a sympathetic smile. “Emma Jane, I’m far too old to go through the rigmarole of jumping through hoops for some young print media mogul. I need stability.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And this means great things for you.” Flashing me a knowing look, she adds, “Because this way, you’ll have the opportunity to slip into my position.”

  My lips part in surprise. I mean, sure, I’ve always set my sights on moving up, but I also knew Gail wouldn’t be retiring for a while. Now, with this new development and her leaving…

  “Oh, wow.”

  Gail lets out a subdued chuckle. “Yes, dear. Wow, indeed.” Raising her eyebrows, she returns to business. “You’ll need to ensure that you make all the right moves with the new owner, get off on the right foot so there won’t be any doubt that you should be promoted. I’ve already written that in my notes to HR.”

  The fact that Gail thinks so highly of me is an immense compliment, but my excitement begins to ebb at the challenge I face ahead.

  I have to do everything in my power to compel this new owner to not only keep me on staff, but to also promote me to VP of marketing and advertising.

  Holy hell in a handbasket.

  “So you’re telling me she doesn’t even know the guy’s name?”

  I’m FaceTiming with Madison, who is one of my closest girlfriends and F&F’s beauty editor, while I finish typing up some proposals in my office.

  I immediately called her once I returned to my office after the unsettling talk with Gail, praying Madison would be available since she’s down in Miami for some conference.

  “Get this. No one seems to know anything about him—not his name or even where he’s from—except for the fact that he’s hell-bent on restructuring and cutting jobs.”

  Madison stares back at me, her blue eyes wide with dismay. “That’s insane! What the hell happened with Martin?”

  I roll my eyes. “Apparently, he did some not-so-savory things with earnings from this place, and it got him into some pretty hot water, financially speaking.”

  “Wow.”

  “Tell me about it,” I breathe out on a sigh. “Gail’s using up her personal leave because she’s already accepted a position with StyleNow.”

  “You should have no problem convincing this guy you’re the right person for the job. You’ve got this in the bag. I mean”—Madison waves a hand dismissively—“you’ve practically been groomed for the job all along.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  I hear someone call to her in the background. She nods and offers me an apologetic look. “Sorry, but I have to get going.” She crosses her eyes. “More complexion remedies for sweaty breakouts and clogged pores.”

  “Have fun with that.”

  She makes a face. “Pray for me. If it’s another one of those godforsaken peel-off charcoal masks…”

  “Ah, the fad that needs to die a quick death.” I wink at her. “At least your pores will be clean and clear.”

  She sticks out her tongue playfully before we say our goodbyes and disconnect.

  TUESDAY

  “Emma Jane?” Alissa’s voice sounds over my speakerphone the following day. “I just wanted to be sure you received the email about the mandatory meeting in Boardroom G for the marketing and advertising department.”

  “Sweet sugar,” I curse beneath my breath, dragging my attention away from my work. The latest proposal I’ve been working on had caused me to lose track of time. Now I only have a few minutes to haul my butt down the long hallway to catch an elevator and make it to the designated boardroom on the next floor. With a sigh, I press the intercom button on my phone. “Thanks for the reminder, Alissa.”

  Scooping up my legal pad and pen, I rush out of my office, mentally preparing to meet the new owner. Once I exit the elevator and make my way to Boardroom G, I manage to snag a seat at the far end of the long oval-shaped table.

  Barely a minute passes before the din of light conversation ebbs to complete silence when a man enters the room and heads straight for the opposite end of the table. I can only see the back of him as he takes long, powerful strides, one hand grasping a thick binder. Something seems so familiar about him... My eyes track his movements, and my forehead creases as I try to place him.

  His suit is well tailored, and it’s evident the man works out, the black pinstriped dress pants failing to mask his powerful, muscled thighs and firm backside. When he sets the binder down, his suit jacket shifts and hints at a firm, flat stomach beneath the button-down shirt. My appraisal continues down to his hands when he draws one hand back from the binder.

  An odd sensation overtakes me, and a rousing awareness crackles within the air, causing me to immediately grow still.

  Then he turns, fully facing everyone in the room, and it’s at this moment my breath is completely robbed from me.

  As if in shock, my mind refuses to operate on all cylinders, acting sluggish. I continue to take in the sight before me, cataloguing my observations. The square jawline that used to remain clean-shaven now has a short, neatly trimmed beard of the same dark shade of brown as his hair. My eyes skim over the straight nose that has the faintest bump on the bridge from the time when he was five and fel—

  Sweet Lord, no.

  As the man’s identity dawns on me, my eyes flicker over my co-workers seated around the large table before I return my panicked gaze to the individual who’s garnering attention with his commanding presence.

  He surveys everyone in attendance, and those piercing green eyes, framed by dark lashes, scan each person and slowly travel around the table. My heart skips a beat when his eyes land on me. If I weren’t scrutinizing so intently, I wouldn’t have caught the slight pause, the faint shift in depth of his gaze, as it grows frigid before he continues his perusal of the remainder of the staff members.

  My throat grows dry, and I immediately wish I’d brought my water bottle along. A stick of gum, even. Anything.

  I should’ve known better than to think my past wouldn’t catch up to me at some point.

  In my case, however, it seems my past is the new owner of my place of employment.

  Knox Montgomery. The man I left at the altar.

  3

  Knox

  The sight of her nearly sends me rearing back. It’s such a jolt to my system to be in the same room with her and have her focus centered on me.

  It’s disturbing how easy it is to recall how much I loved having her attention years ago.

  I hate that she’s still so beautiful, that she doesn’t look like she’s aged aside from the way she now carries herself. Her poise—the air of confidence—is evident. I can’t deny the nostalgia that washes over me at the sight of that tiny diamond stud in her nose, nor the disappointment when I notice the lack of a wild streak of color in her dark hair.

  Her eyes are the same; those pale-blue orbs that always felt like they could see straight through me. Her slim, elegant hands once held mine as if they’d never let go. Those nearly perfect lips, always a light shade of red, had once whispered words of love.

  Only to mutilate my heart in the worst way possible.

  Sometimes I wonder if it would’ve been easier to deal with Emma Jane skipping out on me if it hadn’t been our wedding day. If I hadn’t been standing at the altar, waiting for her to walk down the aisle with that sparkle in her eyes I’d come to adore. If I hadn’t
been the focus of pity for what seemed like forever afterward.

  Throwing myself into work has been a haven for me. I’ve been living and breathing my career, have achieved success, even going so far as to be featured in Business Weekly as an up-and-coming entrepreneur and hailed the “Turnaround King” for bringing businesses and companies back from the “dead.”

  Now, though, alongside my duty of “trimming the fat” and restoring Fit & Fashion magazine to operate in the black, it’s my turn to serve up a dish of retribution.

  Apparently, the marketing and advertising crew are an emotionally fragile bunch. Jesus.

  As soon as I finish detailing my plans for the employees assembled around the table, identifying my expectations—ones which are decidedly not unreasonable—an employee by the name of Madeline Grove jumps up from her seat, sending the wheeled desk chair rolling. “But you can’t give me two weeks to do those tasks! I have plans!” She waves her arms wildly, outraged.

  I narrow my eyes in a cold stare. “Perhaps you should rethink your plans.” My voice is low with a lethal undertone.

  It’s evident that she finally comprehends the dire situation when she blurts out, “I quit!”, scoops up her things, and flees the room.

  Once the room has settled again, I regard everyone seated around the table, and restrain the urge to linger on one particular woman.

  I pick up my pen and place a checkmark next to Madeline’s name. “Let’s move on…”

  Twenty minutes later, after conveying my intent to do everything in my power to pull this magazine out of the red, financially, I call an end to the meeting. The marketing and advertising team rises and files out of the boardroom quietly. Emma Jane makes it within two feet of the door, within two feet of freedom, when I stop her.

  “Ms. Haywood, I’d like to have a quick word with you, please.”

  Her spine noticeably stiffens, as if her body recognizes a threat.