Captivated

CAPTIVATED BOOK 1 THE CAPTIVATED SERIES JESSICA ROOKER JCPUBLISHING LLC Copyright © 2023 JCPublishing LLC All rights reserved The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Captivated (Book 1) Identifiers ISBN 978-1-961101-00-5 (eBook) ISBN 978-1-961101-01-2 (paperback) Cover design by Lynn Andreozzi Cover photographer © Wander Aguiar Photography LLC Cover model Andrew Biernat Edited by Elise Hitchings Author photographer © Evermore Photo Co. Printed in the United States of America DEDICATION For Christy, you believed in me before I believed in myself. And for my husband, for helping make this book possible. CONTENTS 1. Amelia 2. Quinton 3. Amelia 4. Quinton 5. Amelia 6. Quinton 7. Amelia 8. Quinton 9. Amelia 10. Quinton 11. Amelia 12. Quinton 13. Amelia 14. Quinton 15. Amelia 16. Quinton 17. Amelia 18. Quinton 19. Amelia 20. Quinton 21. Amelia 22. Quinton 23. Amelia 24. Quinton 25. Amelia 26. Quinton 27. Amelia 28. Quinton 29. Amelia 30. Quinton 31. Amelia 32. Quinton 33. Amelia 34. Quinton 35. Amelia 36. Quinton 37. Amelia 38. Quinton 39. Amelia 40. Quinton 41. Amelia 42. Quinton 43. Amelia 44. Quinton 45. Amelia 46. Quinton 47. Amelia 48. Quinton 49. Amelia 50. Quinton 51. Amelia 52. Quinton 53. Amelia 54. Quinton 55. Amelia 56. Quinton 57. Amelia 58. Quinton 59. Amelia 60. Quinton 61. Amelia 62. Quinton 63. Amelia 64. Quinton 65. Amelia 66. Quinton 67. Amelia Author’s Note About the Author AMELIA I’m sitting here thinking about my marriage. I hear stories all the time of abusive relationships … physical abuse … emotional abuse; but what is the difference? Emotional, physical, it’s all abuse. Both have physical and emotional impacts on the abused. I’d love for someone to argue with me on that point. I live everyday with physical scars, yet they’re unseen to the naked eye. Maybe those are the worst kind of scars, I don’t know. Is a scar just a scar? Can physical abuse exist without emotional, or can emotional abuse exist without physical? I’m Amelia Johansson and I have a story tell, but no one is listening. Who would I even share it with? My secrets have ruined any ties to my friends; I have no coworkers because I’ve allowed myself to be manipulated and my family has passed on. Sadness feels my soul remembering my sweet daddy, laying in the hospital alone and dying. I couldn’t even be there to hold his hand in his final hours. Yet he’s the man whose hand always held mine. He made me a strong independent woman. Today he wouldn’t recognize the shell that once hosted the soul of his only daughter. The anxiety is almost overwhelming at times; it’s usually worse when we’ve just had another typical day of screaming, doors slamming, furniture kicked across the room, and, oh yes, my personal favorite: watching a grown ass man throw his cell phone or the remote control across the living room in a fit of rage. Yes, that’s what I find most attractive about my husband—his ability to single-handedly demonstrate what a true ass the male population can be. He is the true epitome of why I never wanted to marry. He wraps up the very essence of what a bad marriage is with a big pretty bow! Boy he’s a great player; master manipulator. I see glimpses of my true self, yet only glimpses remain. I look up when I hear a car pull in. I’ve got to pull myself out of my self-loathing pity party; it’s time to play the perfect hostess. One of the many masks I wear nowadays. I plaster on my hostess smile, and as I make my way from the back of the house, my grandmother’s antique oval mirror catches my reflection. I stop and turn, looking at myself. I don’t have to worry about smile lines, because I’m never overly happy. Just pleasant I reckon, looking at my complexion, and I smooth my flyaways. As I reach my hostess desk, the door opens. “Hi, welcome to Amelia’s.” I recognize my repeat guests: Marty and Jeanette Compton. They come every year for the Isle of Eight Flags Shrimp Festival. This is one of my busiest weekends of the year, with the festival attracting more than one hundred thousand visitors; and the pirate parade is always a highlight. We’re usually booked in full by this time, but this has been a slow season. “Hello darling.” Marty’s long southern draw makes me laugh. He’s such a sweet man who adores his wife; I’m envious. “Hey sugar, aren’t you just a vision,” Jeanette sings. Her brimming toothy smile is quite charming in a southern belle kind of way. Sometimes I wonder if she can actually not smile or close her mouth completely for her teeth. “Isn’t she just a doll, Marty?” She grins, taking me in with her hand clutched over her bosom like a proud momma bear. “She sure is. I reckon she’s still off the market.” I smile at his joke. He’s hinted I should meet their eldest son since they first started visiting my inn, four years ago. “She’s as pretty as a ripe peach on a hot summer day.” I’m laughing on the outside, eyes rolling on the inside. “Yes, I’m afraid I’m still off the market. You might as well find that boy of yours another catch.” I take their credit card and swipe it to complete their payment. “Okay, you two are in your usual room.” “Tell me, peaches, are you booked up for the weekend?” Marty inquires as he slides his card back in its rightful spot. Smiling, he tucks his leather wallet in his back pocket. “Not yet, it has actually been slow,” I