Page 1 of Knot Your Romeo

1

Emmie

I reach for myphone, checking it for the hundredth time since landing in Boston, but still no missed calls from Mom.

Did he catch her?

I don’t know how many times I’ve asked myself that. The plan seemed so simple when we made it. We were supposed to run after my sister got married, but like Blake knew, he foiled the plan and made us leave the reception early. So we had to wait for Blake to let his guard down before we could escape. While we waited, we hatched the perfect plan.

Mom dropped me at Myrtle Beach airport. I then flew to New York. From there I jumped on a train to Boston, and I’m now sitting in a hotel room in Boston, the second hotel since I arrived here.

I'm still shocked that the plan worked.

I just have to wait for Mom to get here. After she drove to Charleston airport, she caught a flight to Vegas, then onto NewJersey, where she’s picking up the car she bought online. From New Jersey, she is driving to Boston to pick me up. Only when we're together and knew the plan worked, would we head to our new life in a small town an hour north of Boston.

By the time Blake realizes we’re both gone, our trail will be ice cold. Apart from the red herring, of course, the credit card Mom used in Las Vegas.

The digital clock on the nightstand blinks at 8:47 pm. Mom's flight from Vegas should have landed an hour ago. Now I just have to wait.

My phone buzzes with a text a few minutes later, I rush to open the message.

Mom: Flight delayed. Safe. Will call soon. Don’t leave the room. I’ll see you tomorrow evening, book another night at the hotel.

I groan, but I shouldn’t worry. I’m just glad that Mom finally realized Blake never wanted her, only the monetary value her daughters gave him. But that’s how he got rich. So rich that if he catches me, I know I’ll never escape again.

My stomach grumbles, and my nerves are twitchy as I pace the room.

When I reach the window, I press my palm against the cool glass. Boston sprawls below me; all glittering lights and freedom. I’m only twenty-one years old, but this is the first time in years that I've been more than fifty miles from home without Blake's permission.

The thought makes my stomach churn—not with fear, but with something that feels a lot like relief. I helped orchestrate my own escape from a house that never felt like home. I hated it from the day Mom married my stepfather.

My stomach growls again. I check the mini-fridge. Nothing exciting there. The hotel bar downstairs seemed busy when I checked in. I could hide in a corner among all those people andgrab a hot meal. Nobody here will give me a second glance. Why would they?

I don't second-guess it, though I probably should.

I change from my jeans and sweater into the one dress I packed—a simple black thing that's probably too short but makes me feel older, more sophisticated. Making me look like the kind of woman who eats and drinks alone in hotel bars because she wants to, not because she's killing time while her mother zips around the country, leading her stepfather on a cross-country wild goose chase.

Only when I'm on the elevator ride down do I worry about my decision. I should order pizza instead. Watch TV, and wait for Mom's call like a good girl.

The doors open before I can hit the button for my floor, and suddenly I'm walking across the marble lobby toward the low murmur of conversation and jazz music. I stand at the door of the bar for a moment, glancing around. It’s dimly lit, all dark wood and leather. Just how I want it.

As I walk in, I notice it’s business travelers mostly, judging by the laptops and loosened ties. I still choose a stool at the far end of the bar, close enough to the bartender to order but far enough from everyone else to avoid conversation.

"What can I get you?" The bartender is young, maybe my age, with kind eyes, and he is obviously a beta by his slim build.

"Vodka soda," I say, then quickly add, "with lime."

He doesn't ask for ID, which is both a relief and slightly insulting. I look young for twenty-one, big amber-colored eyes, and soft edges that Blake used to say made me look "precious."

The way he said it always made me want to vomit.

I lift the glass to my mouth. The first sip burns, but the second goes down easier. By the third, the knot in my shoulders loosens.

This is good. This is exactly what I need.

"First time in Boston?" The voice comes from my right, low and warm, with just a hint of gravel.

I turn and nearly choke on my drink. He's older—mid-thirties, maybe a little older—dark hair and eyes, though it’s too dark in the bar to really see their true color. He has the kind of face that could grace magazines for older men. And there is no doubt he is rich. I can tell by the way he holds himself. His suit jacket is propped over his arms, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Only then do I notice the tattoos covering his corded forearms. My throat goes dry.

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