Knightless in Seattle

A Knit Witchery Tale

By

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
events described herein are products of the author's imagination or
are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-210-0

Knightless in Seattle
Copyright ©
2015 by Jaimee Friedl

Cover art and design by Becca Holland, Un4seen
Design
Copyright © 2015 Jaimee Friedl

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the
reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any
form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or
hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of
the publisher.

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of $250,000.

Published by Uncial Press,
an imprint of GCT,
Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

For Keely, thanks for all the brainstorming and
the endless supply of subject matter experts on
the most interesting things. You're welcome for
the margaritas.

For the awesome ladies of WSR--thanks for
challenging me to be my best and then helping me
do it.

And for Steve. You are every hero in the world
to me.

"I swear this ending gets me every time," Nikki sniffled, and
wiped teary eyes with the back of her sleeve. "Even if it is the third
time I've watched it this week."

The strains of Lerner and Loewe's "Camelot Reprise"
swelled and faded as the movie credits began to roll up the
screen.

She sighed and bent her head over her knitting, counting
carefully as she focused on the delicate lacy pattern she was creating.
"There's just something about knights in shining armor and chivalry
and castles. So romantic. Except for the part where Guinevere
becomes a nun." Nikki shuddered. "What was she thinking, giving up
that hottie, Lancelot?"

"Meow." Samantha, Sammy for short, replied from where
she crouched at the foot of the padded rocking chair on the other
side of the lamp Nikki was knitting by.

"I know, I know, it's going to make me drop a stitch and I've
got to get this done tonight for Jackie. I told her to come first thing in
the morning and get her birthday gift." She glanced down at the cat,
and shook her head. "I wish I knew what you find so fascinating
about that chair, Sammy. Kinda gives me the creeps sometimes, not
gonna lie."

Sammy tucked her front paws under her chest in what Nikki
called her loaf-of-bread position, and purred. She never took her
attention from the rocking chair.

"There." Nikki tied off the yarn and laid down her knitting
needles. She held up her work to inspect it. "Not bad, if I do say so
myself."

Sammy purred louder in agreement.

"You know, Jackie doesn't come off like a girly-girl, but I
have a feeling she's really going to like these gloves." Nikki laid her
work carefully over the arm of her chair, yawned and flicked the off
button on the remote. "Let's go to bed, Sammy. It's really late."

She stood and turned off the antique Tiffany floor lamp
she'd received several weeks ago as a surprise inheritance from the
Italian grandmother she'd never met. Glancing behind as she headed
down the hall, she saw Sammy rise, stretch, and then pad silently
after her.

She crawled into bed, and was asleep almost as soon as her
head hit the pillow.

In the darkened living room, the rocking chair began to
move silently.

* * * *

The tingling sensation running up and down her arms was
so distracting that Jackie totally missed the first hiccup of her failing
engine.

"No! No!
Nooo!
" She pumped the gas pedal
desperately as the car sputtered, pinged and coughed. "Come on, we
can do this baby."

But her battered Civic only coasted to an inevitable stop. A
mere half a block ahead, the lights at the gas station pumps taunted
her through the Seattle drizzle.

With a resigned sigh, she shoved the gearstick into park,
turned off the engine, and laid her forehead on the backs of her
hands where she gripped the top of the steering wheel. It was her
own fault. She had no one else to blame.

Leave it to her to run out of gas first thing on a Saturday
morning, on her way into work. On her birthday, no less. How
pathetic was that? She needed some lessons in how to "Just Say No,"
especially to her boss. She couldn't help but notice that she was the
only one at Ernest, Ernest and Cope Architects he ever called with all
of his last minute must-have's. Likely everyone else had gotten wise
to him years ago.

So here she was, responding to another late Friday night call
to go into the office on the weekend. This time it was to prepare for a
surprise "Team Building" event that he just remembered to tell her
would be held first thing Monday morning.

One of these days--hopefully soon--all her hard work would
pay off, and her boss would finally recognize that she was the best
choice for her dream job of office manager.

Well, career goals were one thing, but birthdays were
another thing entirely. Even
she
deserved some small corner
of the day for herself, which was why she had ignored the yellow
light warning her that she was running on fumes and swung by her
best friend Nikki's house first to pick up the handmade birthday gift
waiting for her. She had gambled that those fumes would be enough
to make the six-block detour and still get her to the gas station.

She was a terrible gambler.

Lifting her head, she stretched out her fingers to admire the
delicate ivory lacework of the fingerless gloves Nikki had made for
her and decided running out of gas two hundred feet away from the
gas station was a reasonable price to pay.

Romantic, feminine and completely impractical, they were
perfect. She loved the feel of the lace snugly enclosing her arms up to
her elbows; her little secret beneath the bulky sweater she wore
against the chill. Something about them reminded her of a time when
a woman could count on a little chivalry in the world, maybe even a
knight-in-shining-armor or two.

Jackie rolled her eyes. Yeah, like that was ever going to
happen. The only men--and she used the term loosely--she ever
seemed to attract with any consistency were shy, socially awkward
emo-boys that she agonized over hurting when she inevitably gave
them the "Let's be friends" talk.

She peered through her watery windshield at the gas station
ahead. It looked pretty deserted, except for one car parked by the
minimart, so it didn't appear that assistance would be showing up
any time soon. She sighed. It wouldn't be the first time she had
pushed her car into a gas station, and it likely wouldn't be her
last.

Popping the gearshift into neutral, she shoved open the
driver's door and jumped out to the accompanying whoosh of cold,
damp air. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand and the door
frame with the other, she lowered her head and pushed with
everything she had.

Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Dammit! Shifting her grip,
she tried again, grunting with what surely had to be super-human
effort. Still nothing.

"Well, crap," she muttered, and shivered as the rain turned
her carefully straightened hair into rebellious curls and trickled in
icy rivulets down the back of her neck. Where was a hero when a girl
needed one?

She moved to the front of the car and bent to peer at the
angle of her wheels to see if anything was blocking them. Suddenly
the skin beneath her lace gloves began to tingle again. She hiked the
sleeve of her jacket up, rubbing one arm. "What the heck? Am I
allergic or something?"

"Need a hand?"

With an involuntary squeak, Jackie whirled to face whoever
had snuck up on her. The tart response on the tip of her tongue died
with her first glimpse of the man who stood before her.

The second glance pretty much killed any other chance of a
civilized response.

He had to be at least six-foot-three. But it wasn't just his
size, or the muscled breadth of shoulder and chest on that
impressive frame that stole her breath. Or the blue of his eyes that
smiled at her from a square-jawed face that would do Sir Lancelot
proud. Nor was it the way his nearly shoulder-length golden hair
seemed glow with its own light, even dripping with rain in the gray
of a drizzly Seattle morning.

Nope. It was the chain mail.

Worked in an intricate pattern of silver rings, it clung to his
form from neck to thigh like a living thing, flexing sinuously with
every movement, every breath.

Jackie pushed wet hair out of her face and stole an admiring
glance at lean hips banded by an ornate leather belt, then down to
long muscular legs encased in sturdy looking leggings of some kind.
Scuffed black leather boots that looked like they had marched a
league or two completed the ensemble.

He oozed sheer male power from every pore, sending an
unmistakable call that reverberated through every cell of her body
and shook her to her toes. Raising her eyes, she found him watching
her, apparently still waiting for her response.

"I'll take that as a yes." He produced an amazing dimple with
his careless smile. "Why don't you get into the car and steer, and I'll
push."

"Um, sure. Okay." She silently smacked her forehead at her
inane answer as she hurried past him to duck into the dry interior of
her car. The universe had just dropped a knight in
shining-freaking-armor right into her path and all she could say was, "Um, sure,
okay"?

In less time than she would have thought possible, he had
pushed the car into the gas station and up to an open pump.

Still, she had had a few minutes to compose herself and her
thoughts while her knight was completing her rescue. Now a few
million questions were competing for attention in her head. She got
out of the car, determined to make a better showing of herself.

"Thank you, kind sir," she offered with a nod, and wondered
briefly if she should curtsy. As he walked towards her from the rear
of the car, she couldn't help thinking how unfair it was that the only
effect pushing a car in the rain had on the man's amazing good looks
was to make him appear slightly ruffled, in a bed-head, sleepy-sexy
kind of way.

She knew she must look like a drowned rat with her
bedraggled hair, somewhat soggy knitted sweater and leggings. At
least she'd had the good sense not to wear makeup, or she'd be
sporting raccoon eyes for sure.

The overhead lights lit the silver of his mail and the gold of
his hair with bright fire, and it was easy to believe for a moment that
he had stepped out of a legend to rescue her.

She swallowed hard, helpless to pull her eyes away as he
came close, invading her personal space by a few significant,
breath-hitching inches. God, he was hot.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. It was a fair ways
up, since she was only five foot two. He had at least a good foot on
her.

For the space of several heartbeats, she could only swim in
his blue gaze as he pressed a warm kiss to her hand, sending a shiver
through her that had nothing to do with the cold. He was all vibrant,
virile man. No figments here.

She heard a sigh escape her lips. He was just so...pretty.

"The honor is mine," he murmured, still holding her hand
captive, and flashed that amazing dimple again.

Jackie giggled. Actually giggled. What was wrong with her?
Her heart pounded and she could feel herself blushing like the dorky
teenager she had once been instead of the competent
twenty-eight-year-old she was. She couldn't remember ever having been so
affected by a man.

Sir Lancelot smiled. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Oh. No, I'm fine." She blinked and took a step back, putting
a little distance and cold reality between them, even though he still
kept possession of her hand. "Just need to fill her up, is all."

He didn't say anything, just stood there, a slight smile
playing about those perfectly shaped lips. Jackie was acutely aware
of the feel of his warm palm, so much larger than hers.

She cleared her throat. "Um, so, what's a knight like you
doing in a place like this?"

His lips quirked and his eyes lit with amusement. "Why,
rescuing a fair maiden, obviously."

"Hmm. You must new around here." She tilted her head and
grinned at him. "I can't say I've ever seen a knight in Seattle."