A Steel Heart Read online

  A Steel Heart

  Copyright © 2017 Amie Knight

  All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted without written permission from the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with others please purchase a copy for each person. This eBook A Steel Heart is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and occurrences are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events, or locations is purely coincidental.

  Editor: Emily Lawrence of Lawrence Editing

  Proofreading: Julie Deaton of Deaton Author Services

  Interior Design and Formatting: Stacey Blake of Champagne Book Design

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  An Imperfect Heart

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  For Miranda

  Because some people are so cool and awesome they inspire characters who inspire entire novels. This one is for you because I love you and I couldn’t do any of this without you.

  I made lists. Not your simple run-of-the-mill grocery lists. I’m not even talking about lists of errands or appointments. Those are for novice list makers. I mean real lists. The kind of lists that would go on and on and I could add to even two years after I’d started them. Lists that talked about food I loved. Food I hated. Where I wanted to visit. A list of names of people who were kind to me. A list of people who weren’t. A list of quotes from my favorite authors. Infinite lists. Those lists kept me sane and stable when I sometimes felt the world was too chaotic. I kept them everywhere. My notorious lists were strewn about my editing desk on tiny Post-it notes, my handwriting rushed and hardly legible. From gorgeous journals and spiral-bound notebooks to my bathroom mirror written in Ruby Red Mac Lipstick, my lists were all over my home.

  I was only eleven when I’d made my very first list. My mom had come home from work after a twelve-hour shift in one of the very worst moods ever. I tried to stay out of her way those days. Well, most days really. She was an overworked, underpaid, single mother and made sure I knew that every chance she got. She wasn’t physically abusive, but some days I’d felt like maybe that would have been better than the insults she hurled my way. But that day, it’d been particularly bad. She’d lost her job and come in the house enraged, spoiling for a fight, and unfortunately, I’d been the only one there. She’d nitpicked every chore in the house that I should have done. She’d called me lazy, fat, and stupid. I’d run to my room and locked the door, my small legs shaking in fear. I’d lain in my bed in a tiny ball of terror under the covers until I saw the lights turn out in the living room from under my bedroom door. I’d crawled out of bed and across the floor to my rickety hand-me-down wooden desk in the corner and grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. I’d sat at that desk, staring at the blank paper in front of me. Wishing my mom wasn’t so darn mean. Praying that tomorrow she would be in a better mood. Hoping someone would come and save me from that place. Anyone.

  And then I’d thought of who would come. Who would be my savior. And I knew exactly what he’d be like. After all, I’d read about him a million times. He lived in the piles and piles of romance novels my mom kept hidden under her bed. What? A girl had to keep entertained while her mom worked all hours of the day and night. And as soon as my pen hit the paper, peace and calm coursed through my body. I wrote the title My One. I started with his hair and eyes. He’d be dark-haired with even darker eyes. They’d be haunted because all good book boyfriends’ eyes were. He’d be tall and strong because I’d need protecting. And of course, he’d be over-the-top good-looking. He’d be secure and sure of himself, but never cocky or vain. He’d hold doors open for me. He’d call me all the time. He’d cuddle with me whenever I wanted. He’d take me fishing and dancing. He’d think I was adorable even when everyone else thought I was crazy. He’d only make peanut butter sandwiches with honey, and never jelly, because that was just gross. He’d lock down the house at night right after sending me to bed. He’d have a sweet nickname for me that only he called me. Sweetheart was a good one. I really liked that one. He’d love me fiercely. And I’d know it because he’d tell me every single day. The list went on and on. It still did.

  I never expected that eleven years later my one would finally come for me. It wasn’t on my list that he’d come charging into my life, practically railroading me with his presence. Simultaneously, he’d obliterated my list and smashed it to smithereens, while snatching my heart right out of my chest and stealing it for his own, all the while keeping his hidden behind the steel fortress he’d built around it. It wasn’t on my list that he’d crush me. That he’d change my life so irrevocably. It wasn’t on my list that I’d love him so fiercely, he’d break me.

  To Do

  Finish Edits

  Stalk The Hot Neighbor

  Shower

  “What are you doing today?” my friend Ainsley asked through the cell phone that was pressed to my ear with my shoulder. My hands were busy holding open a piece of the blinds so I could look out the front window.

  I gave her a distracted answer. “You know, the usual. Edits and whatnot.” I tilted my head to the side to get a better view out the window and almost dropped the phone. Holy hotness.

  “Why do you sound like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Distracted.” Ainsley sucked in a breath. “Oh my God. It’s nine a.m. Are you neighbor stalking again?”

  I snapped the blinds closed and backed away from the window. “No. Of course not. Why would I do that?”

  “You told me you weren’t going to do that anymore.”

  I thought we’d already established I was a liar.

  I stepped back toward the window because I couldn’t help myself, obviously a glutton for freaking punishment. But this was the only time of day I saw him besides when he left in his big, black truck at three in the afternoon on the dot, and I didn’t want to miss a thing. I cradled the phone with my shoulder again, pushed the blinds apart with my hands, and pressed my face to the windowpane like the creepy stalker I was. And there he was. Every gorgeous inch of him.

  He walked toward my building from across the busy downtown street like a tall glass of water on a hot day. All swagger and supreme male beauty. The kind of beauty that made a girl’s breath catch and heart pitter-patter. He pushed his dark hair off his tan forehead and the big muscles in his arms bunched.

  Goose bumps broke out on my skin and I may have whispered, “Christ on a cracker.” I didn’t know his name, but I knew his schedul
e like the back of my hand. That wasn’t weird at all.

  “You’re a terrible liar.” She giggled. “What’s he wearing today?”

  I barely heard Ainsley. Every morning when I watched this man walk down the street and toward our building, it was like just he and I existed. Slow motion. Our own sexy theme music. Nameless, ridiculously hot man and Miranda. He didn’t know it, but there was a world of our own and it was the absolute best part of my day.

  “Sunglasses. White, tight, sleeveless T-shirt. Black running pants with three white stripes down the sides. Black tennis shoes,” I said breathlessly into the phone. I left out all the good bits. Like the scowl he was wearing. It was perpetual. I’d never seen the man smile in the month he’d been living next door to me and for some reason that made me all the hotter for him. He owned that scowl. He freaking rocked it. His jaw was square and clean-shaven. His mouth flat. He was a giant of a man. Well over six feet. His chest was wide, his arms thick and imposing. Dog tags jangled from a silver necklace around his neck, letting me know he was military of some sort. I’d never seen his eyes, but I knew they were going to be stunning. Everything about him was. Not even the slight limp in his gait as he made his way across the street took away from his godlike beauty. I could’ve eaten him with a spoon.

  “I know. You’re obsessed,” Ainsley responded.

  I laughed, only a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

  “When are you going to bite the bullet and talk to him?”

  I sighed. “Never.”

  “Oh, come on, Miranda. He could probably use a friend. He’s new to the building and always alone.” She paused for a moment. “And you like him,” she finished in a singsong voice.

  I didn’t tell her that liking him was an understatement. I liked chocolate. Good beer. The beach. A fantastic romance novel. This man looked like he’d walked right out of one of the military romances I edited for a living. He was everything a girl could want; stoic, hard, possibly damaged, and sexy as sin. I was obsessed. I had spent too many nights imagining him over me. Under me. In me. With my hand between my legs, my eyes pinched tightly closed, the image of what he might look like underneath his clothes burned into the back of my eyelids.

  I watched him disappear into the lower level of our building and frowned. Boo. Hiss. I heard the thunder of him making his way up the steps and opening the door across from mine. His front door. Yes, only a wall stood between me and my dream man.

  I raced to my front door and pressed my eye to the peephole. Never had the name for that hole been truer. Because I was definitely peeping. I watched him unlock his front door. Sweat rolled down his neck and underneath the collar of his white tee. And, man, I wanted a taste of that sweat. Lucky shirt. He pushed the door open and inside he went. I sagged against my own front door, my hand pressed over my thundering heart.

  I walked to the bathroom, the phone still to my ear, and looked in the mirror. “You’ve seen him, Ains. He’s outta my league.”

  She’d spent a few mornings checking him out for herself. And even though she was engaged to my other best friend, Adrian, she’d seen nameless man in all his glory. Needless to say, she all kinds of appreciated it.

  But I was me. And he was magnificent. And therein lay the problem. Don’t get me wrong. I knew I was cute, even if slightly plump. But I was nowhere near the same ballpark as that gorgeous man.

  “You’re beautiful and sweet and kind. You have an amazing job and support yourself. You’re a damn catch, woman!” Ainsley yelled into the phone.

  I gave myself a once-over in the mirror. I was twenty-two years old. I wore a big T-shirt that read ‘I Like Big Books And I Cannot Lie.’ It had a brownish stain near the collar. I smelled it and winced. Mustard from the sandwich I ate yesterday. I bet that beautiful man wouldn’t be caught dead wearing yucky old mustard clothes. The T-shirt covered me almost to my knees, which was good because I wasn’t wearing any pants. It was one of my policies. The no pants is the best pants policy. My dark brown-red hair was thrown into a knot on the top of my head. I was pretty sure I hadn’t brushed it since I’d had a shower almost three days ago. I know. Gross. But Miranda-Mae’s Editing had been swamped that week. I’d been so busy the last three days I’d almost taken a stalker break. Almost.

  “And chubby,” I said, patting the round cheeks attached to my face. “You forgot that part. I’m a redhead. No one wants a chubby redhead.” I laughed into the phone, but not really. He was fit as a fiddle, and I liked donuts and iced coffees and pizza. I wasn’t mad about how I looked. I liked me. I was okay with who I was, comfortable in my skin.

  Ainsley sighed. “You’re not chubby. You’re curvy. Voluptuous. Juicy in all the right—”

  I cut her off, laughing. “You did not just call me juicy. And I’m pretty sure every word you just used is a synonym for chubby.”

  “Those words do not mean chubby.”

  I smiled. “They do.”

  She groaned. “They don’t.”

  “Who’s the English major in this conversation?” I asked.

  “Fine, but I mean it, Miranda. You’re beautiful. If you want that man, march across the hall and get him. He’d be lucky to have you.”

  “And this is why you’re my best friend. Because you love me even though I’m a fluffy redhead.” I laughed.

  “Okay, that’s it. I gotta go before I slap you. Take a shower sometime soon.”

  I hung up the phone, making my way to the spare bedroom in my tiny apartment that functioned as a makeshift office. I moved over the bazillion Post-it notes that contained an atrocious number of lists and pieces of stationary that sat on my desk and opened the romance book I was finishing editing before I’d started my man stalking.

  I wasn’t just a curvy redhead, I was also apparently a clutter bug. I didn’t have a lot growing up, so the things I loved I kept. Like my lists and books. And I had tons of each. Everywhere.

  Two hours later, my feet hit the downtown streets of Columbia, South Carolina. I even showered and put on pants. Look at me adulting and all that jazz. I breathed in the fresh air and tilted my head to the sunny sky, enjoying the feel of the Carolina sunshine on my face. I was from a small town only thirty minutes away, but I always knew I’d live in the city. It was a dream of mine, and I always followed my dreams. Columbia wasn’t a big city, but it was a city nonetheless, and my apartment was just a few steps from the State House, being that this city was the capitol. I liked the convenience of hitting up my favorite coffee shop whenever I liked. Meeting my friends at fancy restaurants close by without having to drive my car. But I knew I’d never leave the South. Its customs and culture and my love for its food were too deeply ingrained in me. The South was as deeply entrenched in me as I was in it. I was what I liked to call a southern city girl.

  I walked into the coffee shop directly below my apartment and ordered my usual cold brew from Letty, the coffee shop owner, before walking to the tiny library two blocks from my apartment.

  I got a small thrill every time I saw the small box that was shaped like a palmetto tree, the state tree of South Carolina. Not to be mistaken for a palm tree. I opened the small, colorful front of the tree and took note of the five books inside. I reached into my purse and pulled out three more books. I took a few of my business cards from my purse and slipped them inside the books and placed them on top of the others in the little library. I loved adding the independently published authors I edited for to the small library and drumming up some business for myself. Sharing a good author’s work always put me in a good mood. I stopped on my way back home and ordered some Chinese takeout that had me tapping my foot and glancing at the time on my phone. It took way longer than it should have.

  I checked the time again and quickened my pace, worried I’d miss my nameless hot man getting into his truck for his trusted 3:00 p.m. appointment. I came around the entrance to my stairwell like a hurricane, wind-blown hair and frazzled, Chinese food and purse in hand, determined to make
it to my front window so I’d have the best view when bam, I hit a solid wall of muscle. And Lord have mercy, because that wall smelled like cologne and clean musk and pure man. I wanted to lean closer and take a big whiff, but that would have been inappropriate, and I was only inappropriate about 50 percent of the time and that was usually when I wasn’t wearing pants. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case at that moment, so instead I backed up, clutched my Chinese food to my chest like someone was going to steal it, and looked up. And then I looked up some more and more because this dude was tall. Like really tall. I kept looking up until I realized I was staring at my nameless hot man.

  And goodness gracious. His jaw was just as square as I imagined it would be up close. I wanted to run the pads of my fingertips over the smooth skin, but that would have been weird. And, honestly, chubby girls couldn’t afford for people to know they were weird, too. I took in his every feature. I’d never been this close to my dream man and I might never be again. His nose was strong and wide with a slight bump in the center. His eyes were covered by those darn sunglasses again, and I cursed their very existence even as I saw my shocked face reflected back in them. My eyes were wide. My mouth a perfect O staring back at me. My face dreamy and stunned.

  I backed up, embarrassed at my gawking, but still not managing to pull my eyes away from him. His broad shoulders and torso were sporting a black T-shirt that clung to every muscle on his body. He wore dark, denim jeans that sat tight across his big, strong thighs.

  “Excuse me,” a deep, rich, exquisitely baritone voice said, bringing my attention back to his face.

  He speaks!

  Dazed, I stepped aside with a mumbled, “Okay.” I watched him walk toward his truck and, my God, that booty. It was downright phenomenal. Juicy. That was the appropriate use of that word. I’d have to let Ainsley know later. He jumped into his truck, which was parallel parked in front of our apartment building. He cranked the vehicle, not sparing me a single glance, and pulled into traffic.