Page 25 of Broken Vows (Marital Privileges #4)

Emerson’s arms tighten around my waist when I veer down a road we traveled many years ago.

Her excitement is as palpable as mine, her memories as vivid.

This is where I took her on our first official date.

It was summer back then, and we were in the comfort of her mother’s car, but we made enough memories to last us a lifetime, which means this is only our second visit.

After weaving past a locked boom gate, I park at the side of an empty lot before helping Emerson off my bike. She removes her helmet and fluffs out her flattened hair, the excitement on her face as breathtaking as the sight we’re about to take in.

In silence, we walk toward the sound of rushing water. I can tell the exact moment Emerson spots the waterfall that will never stop flowing no matter the temperature. Her breath catches in her throat as the most dazzling smile stretches across her face.

“It is…” She can’t finish her sentence. The cascading water has rendered her speechless, and it makes me even more grateful that I set aside my earlier frustrations.

Seeing her like this, speechless and in awe, could only be better if she were naked beneath me, panting in ecstasy.

The waterfall is even more stunning than I remembered. The constant flow of water creates a mist that cools the air around us even more than my unrelenting speed, but its natural beauty makes it barely noticeable.

Emerson’s nose is the color of beets, but she doesn’t seem to mind. The water captivates her, her eyes sparkling with joy.

I linger back, certain the combined view of Emerson and the waterfall will far exceed a natural wonder centuries in the making.

Emerson steps close to the edge before dipping her fingers into the water. Despite the chill, when she twists to face me, her smile is capable of warming my chest more than any synthetic material.

We share an array of memories without a word being spoken between us, and it heals the cracks her equally silent departure caused.

Water could always calm Emerson’s wildest storms. I now understand why. The atmosphere feels almost magical, so much so that I don’t hesitate when Emerson asks if we can climb to the crest.

The last time we were here, the area had recently experienced a deluge of rain. It made the conditions unsafe, so instead of spiking Emerson’s blood with adrenaline with a dangerous climb, I achieved a similar result in the back seat of her mother’s beat-up Lada.

The path is steep and slippery, but the enthusiasm beaming out of Emerson is infectious. I match her eagerness, and in no time, the silence is filled with chatter and laughter. We talk the entire way, the sound of rushing water accompanying us.

The climb is challenging, but when we reach the top, the view makes it worthwhile. It is breathtaking. The landscape stretches from one side to the next, a mix of greenery and sparkling water so cold that it is the bluest of blues.

I twist to face Emerson when she murmurs, “As icy as your eyes.” Her cheeks whiten when it dawns on her that she said her statement out loud, but she tries to play it off. “And as blue as your balls have never been.” She grimaces, and it ends the tension in an instant.

She has always sucked at analogies.

“Careful,” I murmur when she moves close to the edge, desperate to tear her embarrassed face from my view.

“Wow,” she whispers, her chest stilling as if she is too afraid to breathe for the fear of a deep gasp pulling her out of her dream. “It is so beautiful.”

With my eyes locked on her instead of the natural wonder before us, I reply, “It sure is.”

Memories of our past linger in the back of my mind while I drink in the beautiful vista. I wonder if Emerson is thinking the same, but I don’t dare to ask. World War III can take a moment of reprieve as well.

Emerson turns to face me, her eyes reflecting a myriad of colors. “Do you remember the first time we came here?”

I nod, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “How could I forget?”

It was the summer that changed everything.

It was the week she officially became mine.

Emerson sighs, a mixture of sadness and nostalgia in her expression. “We were so young back then and so full of hope.” Her laugh echoes in the quiet. “I also thought we were so grown up.”

Her eye roll stops halfway when I say, “We were.”

She pffts me. “We were planning to marry at twenty-one.”

Interested to see where she’s going with this, but not wanting to dictate the course of our conversation, I keep my reply short. “And?”

She follows along with my plan nicely. “And your family had every right to be apprehensive.” I huff, but she continues as if I didn’t make a sound. “We were too young and too na?ve to understand the complexities of marriage.”

“What does age have to do with anything?” I talk faster when she tries to answer my rhetorical question. “Love is enough. It can overcome any obstacle.”

Emerson once said my optimism was one thing she loved about me the most, but today, it seems as if my words hurt her as much as the three words my brother spoke to me that fateful day.

She isn’t coming.

“But it didn’t overcome any obstacle, Mikhail. We?—”

I want to throw my phone over the cliff when it buzzes, cutting her off. This conversation will hurt, but it is inevitable. And, in all honesty, I’d rather it take place here than in front of witnesses who mean nothing to me.

My teeth grit when my phone buzzes again, my calendar as impatient as the man who set it.

“Sorry. I thought it was on silent.”

I cuss while pulling my phone out to silence it.

It isn’t Kolya calling to berate me about losing the security detail, as suspected, or the alarms I set to remind me of the many appointments I made earlier today.

It is an email from a company I contacted while waiting for Emerson at her family’s church for the second time in my life.

“What is it?” Emerson asks, moving closer.

I see the conflict in her eyes, the desire for us to continue with our conversation, but she picks the civil route, also wary about bringing up a subject that will cause conflict so soon after we’ve reached an amicable pack to be pleasant.

“Is that the suggested meeting time for the dress fitting?”

“No,” I answer before replying to the email and storing my phone. “It is far more important than that.”

“More important than me not wearing a potato sack to an event that charges twenty-five thousand a plate?” She scoffs, and it makes me smile. The disappointment the interruption caused is gone faster than I can snap my fingers.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you rocked the shit out of a potato sack. Doubt it’ll be the last,” I say before I can stop myself.

Emerson’s family lived comfortably throughout her childhood, but when things are tight, you toss a potato sack on your five-year-old, scrub some dirt on her face, and call it a costume.

We replicated her outfit many moons later, but instead of writing potatoes in thick black ink on the hessian bag covering Emerson’s delectable curves, we wrote onions. I attended the party as the Grinch. I’ll let you guess why.

I stop recalling how badly we itched for days after that party when Emerson says, “I don’t think a potato sack will cut it this time. If my outfit isn’t perfect like the other attendees’, people will ridicule me for months.”

“Over my dead body.”

I’d never let anyone ridicule her. Not back then, and not now.

But I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t wary of us attending this event.

The last time Emerson and my father were in the same room, he mocked both her and our relationship.

We almost came to blows because that exchange was the first time I didn’t immediately heel when barked at.

I told him that either Emerson would become my wife or I would remain single for the rest of my life.

My bachelor status at the start of the week should clue you in on how that negotiation turned out.

Emerson smiles, grateful I still have her back, before she takes a final glance at the waterfall.

When she pouts, disappointed the magic is over so soon, my smile augments.

Her bottom lip lowered often when we dated.

She isn’t a sulker. It’s because I threatened to bite her bottom lip anytime she did it.

Still moping, she repeats, “It is so beautiful.”

“It sure is,” I echo, still staring at her.

After twanging her protruded bottom lip, the only movement I can make that won’t expose the hand I’m meant to be holding close to my chest, I lead our trek back to the lot. “I’ll go first. That way, I can catch you if you fall.”

Emerson’s eye roll cuts off partway around when her wish to take the lead sees her non-hiking-approved shoes losing traction on a shiny rock.

Her mouth forms an O as she struggles to maintain her balance, and my heart stops beating. She’s close to the edge, teetering dangerously toward a life-altering drop, and I care too much about her to pretend I’m not filled with fear.

Faster than I can blink, I snatch her wrist and tug her into my body, plucking her to safety.

The briskness of my snatch-and-grab routine causes me to also lose my footing. I stumble backward, colliding hard on the ground with a thud. Emerson lands on top of me, her unexpected ribbing knocking the wind out of me.

“Are you okay?” A range of emotions fills her voice. The most notable is relief. For me saving her? I don’t know. I just know she is relieved.

While trying to replenish my lungs with air, breathless from the fear of her near-fatal fall, I nod. “You?”

After she nods, we lie still for a moment, stunned and thankful.

The torrent of the waterfall is nothing compared to the thumping of my pulse in my ears when our eyes meet. Emerson’s eyes are wide with shock, but they quickly haze with lust when it dawns on her how closely our bodies are aligned.