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But the seat next to him says otherwise.
"Felix"—Arthur nods in his direction—"you have something to tell us?"
The noise at the table dies down again.
Felix clears his throat. "I’m joining the Marines."
My husband freezes. I shoot him a glance to find a mixture of surprise and pride on his face—combined with a trace of fear.
"You didn’t know?"
He shakes his head. "He hinted to me, but no… I didn’t think he’d go through with it."
Felix meets my husband’s gaze. "I hope to be half as good at it as my father was."
My husband’s throat moves as he swallows. Then he raises his glass. "To Felix."
"To Felix." The rest of us raise our glasses. After we’ve taken a sip—with the blonde topping up Knox’s glass again—he places his glass on the table and rises to his feet. He heads toward the house, where a woman steps out onto the porch. She’s tall, willowy, and wearing a green dress that reaches below her knees. It’s sleeveless, baring her thin white arms. Her dark hair is a waterfall of health that flows down her back. Her eyes are almond shaped, her skin creamy, and so pale the sun seems to be reflected off of it to bathe her in an ethereal light. Knox guides her over to the table and seats her on his left. There’s pin-drop silence at the table as we stare at the newcomer.
"Can I do the honors?" Arthur asks.
Knox shrugs. "By all means."
Arthur frowns, then smooths out his expression. "This is Priscilla Whittington, Toren Whittington’s sister. Toren and I agree that the best way to resolve our family feud and join our collective fortunes is through an arranged marriage."
"Of course you did," Brody snorts.
Arthur ignores him. “Tor couldn’t be here, but he was happy for us to go ahead with announcing?—"
"To cut a long story short, Priscilla has agreed to be my wife," Knox cuts in with a bored eye-roll.
I glance at June's face, and she looks stricken.
There’s the sound of a glass breaking, and I turn to find Tyler pushing back from the table. He looks between the Knox and Priscilla, then turns and stalks off.
June, on the other hand, seems frozen. It’s clear, she didn’t see this coming either.
Knox, of course, is oblivious to the drama unfolding around him. He raises his glass in Priscilla’s direction. "To my future wife."
To find out what happens next read Knox and June's story in The Unplanned Wedding HERE
Want an extended bonus epilogue with Q and Vivian and their child? Click here
Read an excerpt from Knox and June’s story in The Unplanned Wedding
June
"Thanks, Norma." My boss nods in my direction without looking at me as I place the bottle of water in his outstretched hand.
"It’s June," I mutter, wondering why I bother. I've corrected him a hundred, possibly a thousand, times about my name. Or at least, it seems like it’s a thousand times. He’s never called me by my given name. Worse, it’s a different name each time. That’s how much attention he pays toward me—or rather, doesn’t pay in my direction. Which is, of course, what I intended when I joined Davenport Group as Knox Davenport’s assistant. I’m also his Girl Friday. Which means, I go with him where he goes. In the office, to the gym in the basement of his luxurious condominium building, then back in the elevator with him to his home, where I cook him dinner.
I leave his apartment at seven p.m. each day and am back at seven a.m. each morning to make him breakfast. But not before I call him at five a.m. with a wakeup call. You heard that right—five freakin’ a.m. Ugh! Which means, I have five alarms in place to wake me up, starting from four-thirty a.m. until four-fifty-five a.m, and I never wake up before the last one. Then, I only manage to crack open my eyelids enough to call him at five and wish him, "Good F’ing Morning," before crawling back under the covers and sleeping until 6:45 a.m.
The only saving grace is, I need less than fifteen minutes to make myself presentable and take the elevator up to his penthouse apartment. It’s also one of the reasons I’ve hung onto this job for almost a year. Because as his sidekick—sorry, I mean his aide—I'm entitled to the apartment on the floor below his. It means, I have enough distance from him, but I'm close enough for him to call me in case of an emergency. It should also be stated here that, before me, the position was held by a series of men, none of whom lasted more than a few weeks. In desperation, the agency asked for a woman to interview for the role. And they were clear: it had to be someone who could put up with the whims of a dictator who looks like a pagan God—a gross understatement, IMO, for he resembles Adonis himself—and acts like he owns the world. Which, technically, he does, given what he and the Davenports are worth. Oh, also, it had to be someone who wouldn’t fall for her boss. That wasn’t in the specs on paper, but it was something the recruiter hinted to me on the phone.
They wanted someone who wouldn’t complicate the situation by developing a personal relationship with the man. I thought they were joking, until I came for the interview, took one look at his almost too perfect jawline, those high cheekbones, and the piercing silver eyes, and swooned.
Then, there are those scars on his cheek—some kind of war wound, apparently, from when he was a Marine, before he took over at the Davenports. It only accentuates the perfection of the rest of his face and heightens the air of menace clinging to him.
