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Riveted
Jay Crownover
The next book in the smoking hot SAINTS OF DENVER series from NYT bestselling author of the MARKED MEN series, Jay CrownoverEveryone else in Dixie Carmichael’s life has made falling in love look easy, and now she’s ready for her own chance at happy ever after. Which means no more pining for Dash Churchill, the moody, silent former soldier who she works with. She’s going hunting for Mr Right and a pesky little crush isn’t going to stop her…Denver has always been just a pit stop for Church on his way home. It was supposed to be simple, uneventful, but nothing could have prepared him for the bubbly, bouncy Dixie, determined to break down his walls. Now he knows it’s time to get out of Denver, fast.But while falling in love is easy, loving takes a whole lot more work… especially when Mr Right thinks he’s all wrong for you.
Copyright (#ulink_38cf8dc6-8a4d-5adf-b099-327af7b7f281)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
The News Building
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Harper 2017
Copyright © Jennifer M Voorhees 2017
Cover design by Studio Takoma/Zoe Norvell © HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
Cover photograph © Deborah Kolb/ImageBrief
Cover image © Alamy (detail)
Jennifer M Voorhees asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, 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 hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008116330
Ebook Edition © February 2017 ISBN: 9780008116347
Version: 2017-10-27
Dedication (#ulink_7abc45c7-3ebd-5be5-b8ab-ea7d4e62a84c)
Dedicated to Elma Mae Bruce.
I am a changed person because your story and my story intersected, no matter how brief that chapter may have been. Your support as a reader meant the world to me as an author, but the impact you had on me as a person … well, that is unforgettable, and I will be forever grateful that I was able to share both your triumphs and disappointments as you fought the good fight. It is true what they say … not all heroes wear capes.
We are all going to leave a legacy behind us when we go. Be it big or small, I hope that all of us take a moment, a minute, a split second to invest in making sure the one that we are building is one that we can be proud of, one that makes others smile and think fondly of us, because it’s so easy to forget the good when the bad seems to always out front and center. Leave the lives you touch better off for having had you in them.
Also FUCK YOU, cancer … you are literally the worst and we’re all pretty sick of your shit.
Epigraph (#ulink_48e81351-b28e-57cf-8520-0cf86f131911)
If you’re going through hell, keep going.
—Winston Churchill
Contents
Cover (#u4d89369f-8b5d-5005-ac5f-35a6e0955272)
Title Page (#ueb0d4c27-d2ce-5c45-b57f-74b8ca7299fa)
Copyright (#ucc23c9d3-0e3c-566e-b59b-b1e0d6fe767c)
Dedication (#u63ac3f2a-6c6a-5a6e-99b2-bac46801dbca)
Epigraph (#ud2a4876a-64fe-5a9c-a5a7-f43d43ed5f75)
Introduction (#u76dc3359-e4a7-5b76-8f51-2832ee254f23)
Prologue (#u6d9a829b-fb4b-5d67-8eb8-1bdba25a66b4)
Chapter 1 (#u67d2d74c-c3b7-5c20-9ac0-ed0e5cc9c236)
Chapter 2 (#u8433a12e-72dd-5c9b-bb73-f5210ec8809f)
Chapter 3 (#u005f709b-04a7-57ea-8d31-6a39ff6260fe)
Chapter 4 (#u505a31d6-549a-5e39-ba46-2185f9fb460a)
Chapter 5 (#u763b0db8-aa82-5865-9a48-1561386e0f65)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Riveted Playlist (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Jay Crownover (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
INTRODUCTION (#ulink_c67e7b5f-d68c-594a-8727-2254b6b8a6bd)
So I’m sure it’s no surprise that I consider myself kind of a badass (on occasion at least). Not much fazes me. I’m pretty willing and able to roll with the punches and I’ve always been a “take the bull by the horns and make him your bitch” kind of gal. That being said there are things that are bigger and badder than me, things that scare the ever-living stuffing out of me and I really didn’t stop to think about how I handled the fear, or rather didn’t handle it, until I started working on this book.
If you follow me on social media at all I’m sure you know I have three dogs that I’m obsessed with. They are my best furry friends and my family. I love them unconditionally and fiercely. The boy Italian greyhound, Duce, (I know, I know, it isn’t spelled right, but even before writing books I was doing weird stuff with names) is getting older and last year he got sick … and I mean really sick. It was terrifying. It was heartbreaking and I handled it like shit. I broke down and turned into a tantrum-throwing idiot, which helped my dog and the situation zero percent. Quite frankly I didn’t know what to do or how to help him and that lack of control, no matter how much money I threw at the problem, turned me into a lunatic. I was terrified that I was going to lose him even though logically I knew he couldn’t stick around forever.
Eventually I got him to an amazing veterinarian … shout-out to Northwest Animal Hospital here in Colorado Springs and Doctor Sudduth, who took great care of him, got him diagnosed, and promised that it wasn’t his time to go yet. Duce is still old, still sickly, but he’s on meds and kicking right along. The last year was a struggle but we spent it together at home for the most part, which means I owe my readers and everyone that supports my books even more than you will ever know.
None of it changes the fact that I’m eventually going to have to say good-bye.
It still scares me. It makes me tear up even thinking about it. It’s going to be one of the hardest things I’m ever going to have to do … but writing this book … focusing on how Church handles love and loss, how we have this stoic, tough-as-nails soldier that has been through hell and back, but has things bigger and badder than he is that he can’t get out from underneath, was eye-opening. No matter what kind of armor we wear, all of it has a chink, a dent that speaks to a battle we fought and lost.
I know now that when the time comes I want to focus on the good, on the years we spent together, and all the wonderful memories my furry little guy gave to me. I don’t want any of that goodness and enduring love to be overshadowed by the pain of letting go. I need to be strong when the little guy can’t be … seriously, he’s only like seventeen pounds … so small to be poked, prodded, and medicated the way he is. He handles it like a boss though.
I can’t lie and say I’m not still scared, terrified even. Every time I leave home for an event I spend most of my free time checking in on the old man. But I like to think that I now have the where withal to be there for my four-legged bestie the way he has always been there for me.
So yeah … this entire book was kind of inspired by my sick dog … the good and the bad … Church and Dixie represent both sides of that … lol … I promise it will make sense when you read it.
Welcome to my love and loss …
Xoxo
Jay
(#ulink_50380d4e-6e8a-5008-b992-3cd0428aea47)
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 for my family, hard for all of us, but especially for her. She’d 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 girlie, 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 when they had found the person that might not necessarily be perfect, but that was 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, for them 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 and watched so many weddings and babies that weren’t mine. 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 for even better women, all the while wondering when it would be 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 became that 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 with a swirling, threatening cloud of attitude hanging over him that would 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, with a body that looked like it was ripped from the cover of Men’s Health magazine, bronze skin, unforgettable eyes, and a 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 and volatile. He came across as a very unhappy individual, and no amount of rest, relaxation, and good friends seemed to shake that dark shroud of discontentment that hung over him. His amazing eyes flashed warnings 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 fairy tale, 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 gloomy 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 obnoxiously 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 drunken 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, so 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 off in the distance but collecting and gathering, ready to unleash hell at my back.
“You good, Dixie?” The question made me freeze and it wasn’t because it was asked into my ear with an unmistakable slow and very 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 an ear to bend or a shoulder to lean on for a friend even when I really didn’t have 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 her down and fought to keep everyone else up with her.
I was the girl that everyone always assumed was good … so they never asked … but he had and the world stopped.
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 about 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 no warmth in his fantastic eyes. There was no change in the harsh expression on his face. There was no knowledge that he had fundamentally changed my life in the span of a few terse words.
