Saving Emilee

By J.A. Smith

The thing about growing up in a small town is that everyone knows you. They know your secrets. They know your shame. It's something that you can never get away from, no matter how invisible you are to those around you. No matter how desperately you just want to be seen.

By someone.

By anyone.

Before it's too late.

 

Emilee Jackson has lived in Independence her entire life. But she's still alone in her day-to-day struggles. She doesn't have anyone to turn to when her home life starts to fall apart. Even her friends turned their backs on her when she needed them the most.

Until a handsome stranger comes into the diner where she works. The only person to really see her as a person in need of a little help. Maybe even a little love.

 

Landon Strong isn't a stranger to life in a small town. He was raised in Independence by his grandparents, but he got away. As a successful architect, he started a new life for himself in the city. Closing out his grandparents' estate has brought him back to small-town life temporarily where he instantly falls for the innocent waitress at the diner.

Taking a risk he never thought he would take, Landon takes Emilee under his wing – into his protection.

But can he protect her when her past comes back for her?

Will he be able to get to her in time before everything they've worked toward together is torn apart before it ever really gets a chance to begin?

 

Saving Emilee is a complete standalone. It is a spicy contemporary romance written in dual POV with themes and content suitable for readers over the age of 18. While you may find Easter Eggs leading to other books written by the author, it is not necessary to read any of the other books in order to fully enjoy this one.

 

Trigger Warning: Saving Emilee includes rough and sometimes intense scenes that may be triggering to some readers including domestic abuse (not by MC) and kidnapping (Not by MC).

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.A. Smith
• Release date: May 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223227649

J.A. Smith

J.A. Smith is a new author living in Southwest Virginia with her husband, son, and two overactive Pomeranians. She has found a balance of working a full-time job with reading an obsessive amount of romance novels while writing her heart-shattering stories to share with the masses. Granted, this balance includes copious amounts of caffeine and aspirin.  Find her on FaceBook @JASmithAuthor Find her on Instagram @jasmithbooks Follow me on GoodReads 

Book preview

Chapter One

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THEY SAY WE are the writers of our own destinies. But I’m here to tell you that if that’s the case, then I didn’t pay enough attention in my literature class in high school. The story that I’ve been putting together for the last nineteen years was obviously written by some emo kid on a drunken bender after breaking into daddy’s liquor cabinet and swallowing a bottle of mommy’s anxiety pills. You can’t make this stuff up. This isn’t one of Shakespeare’s greatest tragedies. There is nothing even remotely poetic about the life I lead.

Who am I?

Well, I can tell you with certainty that I’m not the same girl I was even ten years ago. Back then, I was a happy-go-lucky kid with a loving mother living in a happy home. It was just the two of us, but it was perfect. We didn’t have much, her being a single mother and working two jobs. But what we had was filled with happiness, laughter, and love. We had a simple life, just the two of us, and didn’t need anything more than this tiny home.

Then she fell in love, and everything started to change.

So, who am I now? I’m an introvert – not by choice mind you. I’ve been forced into solitude by society and their inclination to judge others on their imperfections – or what they perceive as imperfections. Their uncanny ability to point out the flaws of anything that goes against the perfect standards of what you’re expected to be, how you’re expected to look or dress. Because of the perfect societal Karens of the world, I have chosen to stay in hiding. But lately, I want to come out. I want to be seen. I want to admit that I’m not the only woman in the world that suffers as I have for most of my life. And I want to be free of it all.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I shake away my wayward thoughts and focus on the task at hand. I tie my sneakers and make sure to double knot the laces, so they don’t come undone while I’m working on my feet all day. I don’t have to be at work for another hour – thirty minutes of which will be spent walking there – but I’m anxious to get out of the house. It’s eerily quiet these days and I’d rather not stick around any longer than necessary. These rickety old four walls used to be filled with sounds of love and happiness but now resemble more of an empty tomb that no longer feels like a home but more like a prison.

My stomach rumbles loudly as I stand and reach for my favorite cardigan. I ignore it, reaching for the bottle of water on my nightstand instead, knowing that I’ll fix myself a sandwich when I get to work. Ralph doesn’t mind as long as I’m not ignoring the customers to fulfill my own needs. I never do of course. I depend too much on the extra tips considering I only make the basic waitress wages which isn’t much, unfortunately.

I had hoped that I would have a better job by now but there isn’t much to choose from in this small town. Independence is a town practically dwelling in the stone ages. Okay, maybe not that far back, but still. I used to watch the movie Pleasantville with Amber, who used to be my best friend in high school, and we’d make jokes about how Independence reminded us so much of the town in the movie. Everyone walking around with their plastic smiles and living their perfect little lives while ignoring the world changing all around them.

One last stop into my bathroom, I gaze at my reflection in the mirror and cringe slightly at the face staring back at me. My hair is pulled up into a tight ponytail and my pale complexion shines brightly in the florescent lighting – an artificial glow from an overuse of concealer beneath my eyes. An unfortunate side effect of malnutrition and lack of sleep. Malnutrition because I only eat once a day, and only on days that I work at the diner. Lack of sleep because I hate being in this house and have nowhere else to go. Sadly, neither of which I’ll be able to remedy as long as I continue to live in this house. Don’t get me wrong, I love this house. I grew up here. I’ve literally lived in the same house for my entire life. But it isn’t the same since my mother died.

Running my fingers through my ponytail, I take in the rest of my appearance in the mirror. My Freedom Diner shirt hangs loosely on my frame. My cardigan feels heavy on my shoulders but hangs nearly to my fingers on each arm. It’s springtime but it’s already humid outside. Even in my bedroom, the air is hot and stale. My little window unit is just about worn out after having been used for five years already but I can’t afford to replace it. I hate having to wear the sweater, but I don’t need any questions from the customers if they notice the marks on my arms. Not that I should expect them to, I’m practically invisible to anyone that lives in this little town.

Walking out of my bedroom, I step into the quiet hallway. The air in the rest of the house is sticky and hot, you can practically cut through the humidity with a butter knife. There isn’t air conditioning in any other part of the house besides my bedroom and even with the open windows, the breeze is minimal. Not that it matters since I primarily hide out in my room when I’m home, aside from when I’m cooking dinner. Thankfully, I only have to cook for one, so it doesn’t take long before I’m able to close myself up in my room and curl up in front of the somewhat cool air conditioning.

Walking down the hallway to the front of the house, I run my fingertips along the cracked and peeling paint. The faded paint is littered with darker splotches of various shapes and sizes – the ghostly shadows of the past – telling the story of a time where pictures once hung proudly. Pictures that depicted a life full of love, vacations and time well spent with my mother. The story of my childhood once adorned the walls and flat surfaces throughout the house in full color only to disappear without a trace. I came home from working at the diner several months ago and they were all gone. A distant memory desperate to be forgotten. Even the photos that I took in high school while learning photography, along with my camera and laptop. Everything was taken from me, the last of my happiest memories.

Stepping out onto the porch, there’s a slight reprieve from the horrid temperature inside the house. It’s several degrees cooler outside, but still humid. The tickling sensation of sweat dripping down my back started almost instantly once I stepped out of my bedroom and I know it will only worsen as the day goes on. I’ve learned to ignore it as much as possible over the last several months.

Careful to avoid the loose boards on the porch, I turn my gaze to the wooden swing laying cracked and aged against the railing like a neglected trophy. Ivy and honeysuckle have already started creeping through the porch railings and overtaking the wooden atrocity that was meant to be the perfect place to sit and read while sipping on a mason jar of sweet tea on cool afternoons. Probably no sense in daydreaming about that swing now. I say to myself as I tiptoe down the porch steps, keeping my feet as close to the sides as possible for fear of falling through one of the rotten boards. It’s probably as decrepit as the porch itself at this point. I’d end up breaking my neck the first time I sit on it and the seat finally breaks.

Thanks to the abundant amount of rain we’ve had lately, the grass is already taller than my ankles, tickling the sliver of skin between my sock and the hem of my jeans. I know I’ll need to make time to mow it down soon. I’ll just add that to my never-ending list of things I need to do. Several of my neighbors are already out mowing their own lawns as I walk down the street. Not even one of them bothers to look up or acknowledge my presence.  It’s like I don’t exist unless I’m at work, and even then, they shout their orders at me like I’m a stranger, not even bothering to make eye contact. Everyone in this timeless town treats me like an outsider even though I’ve lived here since I was born nineteen years ago. I grew up with all their children, went to school with them, even played on the same softball team as several of them.

I don’t even feel guilty when I don’t bother to wave at anyone I pass. It doesn’t matter anymore if they see me or not. I’m done waiting around for someone to notice me. I tried when I was younger to get them to see me, to reach out and offer help when I needed it. I’ve come to terms with being invisible knowing that it’s only myself that’ll be able to get me out of this town. I just have to keep my head down and my arms covered.

Following my normal everyday path to work, I pause for several minutes at the edge of the city park. There are no children playing today, it’s early enough in the day that most of them are still in school. I watch as birds flit gracefully from branch to branch on the budding trees, inhaling the sweet scents of spring. The sun shines brightly through the branches, igniting the small buds with multicolored flames like twinkling lights at Christmas time.

This is honestly my favorite time of the year in this timeless town. When all the trees and flowers start to bud and bloom, igniting my senses with the sweetest fragrances. I only wish I still had my camera; I could immortalize the images rather than have to rely on my imagination to recall them later. Unfortunately, not only was my camera taken from me, but I don’t even have a phone anymore. Just another piece of my past that I’ll have to fight tooth and nail to get back. If only I had a better job, I could replace everything and start living my life again in peace.

I thought I had it all figured out. My mother saw my interest in photography when I was a freshman in high school. She worked hard to help me achieve my dreams, not only waiting tables at Freedom Diner – the same diner I work at now – but she was also a receptionist at the small doctor’s office in town. I had dreams of graduating and going away to college. I wanted to be a nature photographer, traveling the world, and viewing the sites through the lens of a camera. And I would have, if only she hadn’t gotten sick. When she died, everything changed.

Not that I mind working at Freedom Diner. Ralph is a great boss, and he takes care of his waitresses. He inherited the diner from his parents when they passed away a few years ago, but I remember eating there when I was a kid. On the days my mom was waiting tables, I would walk to the diner after school, and she’d let me sit in one of the booths toward the back of the diner and work on my homework. Mrs. Jacobs, Ralph’s mother, would bring me a slice of pie and a jar of sweet tea. To give you enough energy to get through all that schoolwork, she would tell me with a smile. She was like the grandmother that I never had.

The Jacobs family had run the diner in our little town for over fifty years. Ralph was a dishwasher for a long time before finally learning the ropes and the menu. I was happy that he kept it open after his parents’ passing. This town might not be much, but the diner is the best place to eat in the entire county as far as I know. Of course, I’ve never been outside of Independence, so I don’t know what else is available. But remember that I’m invisible. I’m really good at disappearing – in plain sight – and listening to the customers talking over their meals. To hear most of them talk, they’d probably starve to death if it weren’t for Ralph’s cooking. Especially the meatloaf. It’s his grandmother’s recipe, and everyone loves it.

Honestly, I worry about what’s going to happen to the diner when Ralph is ready to let it go. He doesn’t have any kids, he never married. He says he’s been married to the diner for most of his life and couldn’t make the time for anything, or anyone else. Unfortunately, that means there’s no one for him to pass the apron to when he’s gone. He doesn’t have much staff either. He cooks and does dishes, by hand mind you, and his minimal wait staff does the rest of the cleaning and taking care of the customers. It’s a lot of time on your feet for minimal pay but I can’t picture myself doing anything else in this town.

Then, there’s Amber. She’s a waitress at Freedom Diner too. She was my best friend growing up, even though she’s a couple years older than me. She graduated from high school when I was just a sophomore and we stopped hanging out as much. She didn’t go to college, and she isn’t married. She doesn’t stay with anyone long enough to consider a long-term relationship. She’s been working at the diner longer than I have, I didn’t start there until my mom got sick and I dropped out of school to help her out around the house.

It still haunts me to this day how she was getting so much better. Even the doctor said it was looking good. Then I came home one afternoon from the diner to find her in her bed. I thought she was taking a nap, she’d always been so tired since she first found out she was sick and started her treatment. It wasn’t anything new to find her napping in the middle of the day. But she didn’t move when I walked into the room. She didn’t wake up when I placed my hand on her shoulder. She was gone, my worst fears realized when I came home to find out that I truly was alone. They said she had been dead for several hours which means that she passed away shortly after I had left her that morning to go to work. My poor mother had spent the entire day alone in her bed, no one there to hold her hand as she took her last breaths.

Knowing that I’m almost to the diner, my fingers twist together nervously as I take several calming breaths to clear my thoughts. Amber should already be there, having worked the morning shift. She usually has something snarky to say to me when I get there because I’ll be several minutes early, whereas she’s always running late. It shouldn’t bother me as much as it does, but it hurts when she pops off at me for no reason. She was always so sweet to me when I was younger, watching over me like the big sister that I could have had in another life.

It's horrible sometimes, the way things change as you get older. People that you thought you could count on to have your back tend to show their true self when you least expect it. The ones that should have taken care of you when you needed it the most, even if just a shoulder to cry on when everything fell apart, are the ones that turned their backs instead. They’re the ones that hurt the most to watch walking away from you when all you want to do is run up to them and throw your arms around them, hold them close forever.

One of these days, I’ll be the one walking away. I’ll be the one that gets out of this town and never looks back.

Chapter Two

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CHECKING MY WRISTWATCH for the time, a groan builds in my chest before I turn my attention back to the computer screen. I have a meeting with a lawyer this afternoon and the plotter is taking forever to spit out my latest blueprint. As much as I need to leave if I’m going to make it across town in time for my meeting, I’m determined to check this print before I get it over to my foreman. I may own the company, Strong Designs, but I’m still the primary architect and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My father was an architect, as well as his father before him. I followed in both their footsteps when I decided to go to school and get my degree in architecture and minoring in engineering. Both my father and grandfather worked as architects here in the city. I took it a step further and started my own design company. Not only do I get to design the buildings going up around the city, and surrounding areas, but I have a construction crew that does the majority of the work. That allows us to continue working when the weather gets too cold to break ground for new construction. We were able to expand our services to offering reconstruction and remodels as well.

I didn’t grow up in the city, however. I grew up in a small town about forty-five miles outside of the city called Independence. It’s a boring little nowhere town. Granted, it’s a great place to raise a family, which is what my grandparents did with me. They took me in when I was eight years old after my parents were killed in a car accident. I’ll be honest, I believe that my grandmother was a saint to have put up with me during my teenage years. Looking back, I know I gave her a hard time. Especially after my grandfather died and it was just the two of us.

I wasn’t a rebellious teen, at least I don’t think I was. But I wasn’t an easy one either. More than once, I snuck out of my second story window to go to parties. I even hooked up with cheerleaders under the bleachers after football games. Yeah, I was probably a glutton for punishment, only I never got caught. I knowingly took advantage of my grandmother’s heavy sleeping and hearing loss more than I should have. But I was a good student too – I got good grades and graduated with honors. I went to college on a scholarship without having to put my grandmother or myself in debt. I worked my ass off for five years and graduated with my degree.

It didn’t take me long working for someone else in the design field to know that I wouldn’t be able to follow orders forever. I’m just not wired that way. I began planning and researching and finally opened my design and construction company four years ago. Since opening, we’ve become one of the top design houses in the state and I’ve had to increase my workforce so we could take on more jobs over a larger expanse on the map. It’s a great feeling though when I can drive through the city streets and see so many buildings in the metro area that I designed myself.

A buzz sounds behind me on my desk pulling me from my thoughts and preventing me from slamming my fists against the top of the plotter in frustration. Walking over to my desk, I push the button. Yes?

You’re going to be late, my assistant Melodee replies into the small intercom device. You told me to remind you so you could leave on time.

Thank you, Melodee. My reply to her is short. It isn’t her fault that the plotter has taken all the patience I have to spare for the day. I think it’s time for an upgrade. I bought this machine new when I opened Strong Designs four years ago, but it’s been used enough for ten years’ worth of blueprints. If I had known four years ago what I know today, then I would have paid for a more expensive machine with a longer warranty. Making a mental note to research new plotters, I concede that the print won’t be done before I have no choice but to leave. Grabbing my suit jacket from the back of my desk chair, I check to make sure my keys are still in my pocket and walk out of the office.

I’ll be back in an hour, Melodee, I call over my shoulder as I push the button to call the elevator car.

Okay, Mr. Strong. Anything you need me to do while you’re out?

No. I’m trying to print a blueprint, but I’ll check on it when I return. I’ll need to set up a meeting with the foreman so we can go over it together, but I want to double check the design first. I don’t wait for her to say anything else as the elevator opens and I immediately step into the car. Thankfully, there is no one else in the elevator so I don’t have to worry about pleasantries.

Taking the elevator down to the parking garage below the building, I pull my cell phone from my inner jacket pocket and check my emails. I have an email from the lawyer confirming our appointment this afternoon. I only wish I knew what the meeting was about. His original email to me requesting the meeting was vague and didn’t specify what the reasoning was for contacting me.

It's a bright and sunny spring day today and everyone is out in droves. The streets are overcrowded with downtown lunch traffic, and it takes me an extra fifteen minutes to get to the lawyer’s office.  Stepping into the office, I’m immediately greeted by the receptionist with a pleasant smile. Her bright red hair is pulled up into a tight bun on top of her head, her lips overly painted with an odd shade of burgundy that clashes with her eyes and hair color. It makes me wonder if she put her makeup on in the dark this morning before coming to work.

Landon Strong. I have an appointment with Mr. Nichols, I calmly state as I approach her desk. The nameplate in front of her blotter says her name is Rebecca and I smile to myself. She looks like a Rebecca. I bet she doesn’t even shorten it to anything like Becky or Becca either. She probably insists that people call her Rebecca just because she’s better than everyone and deserves to be addressed properly.

I know.

I know.

I shouldn’t make snap judgments about people that I don’t know. I swear, I never used to be so cynical. Having grown up in Independence, I got used to other people doing the same thing to newcomers when they happened to step foot into their precious town. It made me this way. I’ll add it to the list of attributes that I need to work on. If my grandmother were here right now, she would probably slap me on the back of the head for being so judgmental of the beautiful young woman working the reception desk.

Trying to look at her with a different set of eyes, I wonder if she would be the type of person to go out for a night on the town. Maybe a nice dinner and dancing – vertical or horizontal doesn’t matter to me. It’s been months since I’ve had a beautiful woman under me.

No.

I just can’t picture it. I’ve never been a fan of red hair to be honest. And that shade of lipstick is off-putting.

Mr. Nichols has been expecting you, she replies with a forced smile. I don’t miss how her eyes travel over my face, down my chest to my abs and stopping just above my waist where her view is cut off by the highbacked desk. She gets a wicked gleam in her eyes as I cross my arms over my chest impatiently. I’ve never been to this office before, never had a reason to meet with a lawyer before thankfully. I may have been a hellion growing up, but I didn’t get into trouble. As her gaze wanders back up to my face, I lift my brows in question hoping that she gets the hint. I have nothing more that I want to say to her while I’m here. Second door on the left, she finally relents.

Without a word, I turn away from the reception desk and walk toward the hallway. Pausing long enough to knock twice on the door that I hope belongs to Mr. Nichols, I open the door to a greying man in a three-piece suit sitting behind a huge mahogany desk. This guy obviously does well in whatever type of law he practices if he can afford such a monstrous desk as that. This isn’t a bad location for an office either, so I know he pays a pretty penny for rent here.

Ah, I watch silently, still standing in front of the now open door, as he stands behind his desk and extends his hand in my direction. Mr. Strong. I was beginning to wonder if we were going to need to reschedule.

My apologies. Walking forward the few steps it takes to get to his desk, I reach out and take his hand in mine in a tight squeeze. The traffic was terrible.

Yes, I suppose it would be for a Friday at this time. Releasing my hand, he sits behind his desk, and I take the seat across from him. The chair is