Page 26 of Pucking Knox
Because I can’t lose her.
Chapter 11
"Stop fidgeting," Patricia scolds as the stylist adjusts my hair. "Tonight needs to be perfect."
The campaign gala is the biggest event of the season – senators, governors, donors, and press all gathered at the Boston Harbor Hotel. Every detail of my appearance has been managed, from the deep green silk gown to the family diamonds at my throat.
"Knox is meeting us there?" My mother sounds anxious.
"Yes." I check my phone for the tenth time. "His suit fitting ran late."
What I don't tell them is that he's been radio silent since yesterday. Since he woke up with me in his bed, something shifting in his eyes when he looked at me.
"Well, he better not—" Patricia stops abruptly, staring at the doorway.
I turn and forget how to breathe.
Knox in a tuxedo should be illegal. The perfect tailoring emphasizes everything dangerous about him – broad shoulders, narrow hips, the kind of presence that makes people step back instinctively. His hair is styled just enough to look intentionally messy, and the hint of stubble along his jaw makes him look like sin in formal wear.
"Princess." He crosses to me, and I notice he's still wearing his beaten-up motorcycle boots. Something about that small rebellion makes my heart flutter. "You look..."
His eyes track down my body, lingering on the low back of my dress, and heat floods my cheeks.
"You clean up okay yourself."
"Okay?" He smirks. "I'm fucking devastating and you know it."
"Language," Patricia hisses, but I'm already laughing.
The drive to the hotel feels endless. Knox's hand rests on my knee, thumb stroking small circles that make it hard to think. He's been touching me differently since the night with his father – more possessive, more real.
"Remember," Patricia says as we pull up. "Cameras will be watching. Keep it appropriate."
Knox's hand slides higher on my thigh, whispering in my ear, "Define appropriate."
The red carpet is a blur of flashbulbs and careful poses. Knox plays his part perfectly – opening doors, guiding me with a hand on my lower back, smiling for photos like he was born to it.
"Senator Walters must be pleased," a reporter comments. "Your boyfriend's quite the gentleman."
If only they knew how ungentlemanly his hands have been.
Inside, the ballroom glitters with wealth and power. Crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, string quartet playing in the corner. Knox's hand tightens on my waist.
"Breathe," I whisper. "Just pretend they're all in their underwear."
"Rather think about you in yours."
Before I can respond, the quartet starts a waltz.
"May I?" Knox holds out his hand, formal as ever.
"You can waltz?"
His smirk should be photographed. "Princess, I'm full of surprises."
He leads me onto the dance floor with unexpected grace. One hand splays across my back, the other clasps mine firmly, and suddenly we're moving like we've done this a thousand times.
"Where did you learn to dance?" I ask as he guides us through a perfect turn.
