Chapter 21

Twenty-One

SCOTTIE

I can't catch my breath.

My legs feel weak, and I know I've made the right decision not to wear shoes under my thrifted wedding dress, because I would have broken my ankle by now.

Emory makes me nervous but not in the way that I'm used to. Instead of a knot in my stomach, I'm jittery with anxious thoughts and excitement, which is conflicting.

The suit he's wearing was obviously tailored to fit his body and his body alone. The sleeves hug his large biceps, and the crisp white collar hits right below the roll of his Adam's apple each time he forces a slow swallow down.

"You want me to act like I'm kissing you?"

My heart races with the rasp in his tone. His perfect peach-colored lips have me in some type of fog, and I can't look away from them.

A single, quick nod is the only response I give my new husband.

Emory's hand falls to my waist, and the only thing separating his palm and my skin is the silk of my wedding dress. I gulp when his eyes bounce back and forth between mine.

"Why not an actual kiss?" he asks, pulling me in closer.

A rushed breath flies from my lips when I gasp.

Emory's jaw flickers on the side, and I'm at a loss for words. He leans in closer, and our noses are almost touching.

I angle my chin, and he slowly grins. "Too afraid you'll like my mouth on yours, Rogue?"

The first click of the camera echoes around the tense room, and my heart jumps. Emory's fingers dig into my back, and I stare at his mouth before trailing up his smooth face and locking eyes with him again.

I thought I knew what bedroom eyes were after looking into the faces of men while I danced on a pole. But I was wrong. Emory looks at me like he wants to devour me and take his time doing it too.

He angles his face, and I mimic him. Our noses rub against each other, and I can almost taste him on my tongue. My body slams into his when he pulls me in closer, and his other hand creeps up each of my curves until it brushes against my neck. He cups my cheek, and our lips brush so gently that I wonder if I imagined it, but after another click of the camera, Emory breaks me out of my daze.

"Are we done?" he asks, voice straining.

"Wh–what?"

"Are we done with the photos?" he repeats.

I blink several times before his hand slowly caresses my face, landing right at my mouth. Heat spreads when his thumb faintly rubs against my bottom lip. "You should take a breath, Scottie."

At the exact time I inhale, my ringtone goes off. I jump away and almost trip, trying to get to my phone. Boulders of dread fall to my shoulders, and the weightlessness I felt when I was in his arms flees.

I tense when I squint past the cracks on my screen and see the number. "I, uh…have to take this." I'm flustered, and Emory knows it.

"Not sure how you could even see who's calling, but I'm assuming that means we're done with our photo shoot." Emory turns and heads for his master bath, and I scramble out of the bedroom door as quickly as I can.

After listening to the automated voice from the prison and saying, "I accept," William's voice hits my ear.

"Scottie?"

"I'm here." I lean against the wall beside the door and chew on my lip. "How are you doing?"

There's too much noise in the background of the call to figure out which is what, but the longer William is in that place, the more I worry about his well-being in the long run.

I glance back at the bedroom door.

William is easily influenced, but maybe I am too, because for a second there, I believed that Emory actually wanted to kiss me as badly as I wanted him to.

Though, I'll deny it until the day I die.

I clench my eyes and wait for William to answer me.

"Everything is…okay."

I'm not convinced.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?"

A shout echoes before he answers. "No. I just don't know anything anymore. I'm confused."

Here we go.

"Tell me what happened," I coax, softening my tone.

He sighs but says nothing.

"William." I'm frustrated and worried at the same time. Part of me is angry with my mom for leaving me to deal with the repercussions of her behavior and the other part is angry with fate for taking my father away, because he was the only stable thing in my life. It's been a long time since I've felt sorry for myself, but I'm just so…fed up.

I look at my wedding dress and have the urge to laugh.

What am I doing?

I'm playing dress-up with a pro hockey player and acting like some housewife for money so I can afford to appeal my brother's prison sentence, only to have to figure out how to prepare him to succeed in society with a disability that isn't even documented? It's just absurd.

"One of the guys asked me to do them a favor, and I did."

Favors in prison. Now that's absurd.

"But?"

"But I think I've made some people angry."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "William, how many times have I told you that your behavior and choices have consequences? You're in the position you're in now because of those choices. You can't let people talk you into doing things."

I'm in my position because of those choices too.

"I know, but…" There's more commotion in the background, and William sounds scared. "I've gotta go. They're cutting my time short."

I panic. "I love y?—"

The phone call ends, and I feel sick.

I cradle my stomach and drop the phone to the floor. It bounces off the soft carpet, and I shut my eyes. Stress hinders me from moving, so I just stay right there, pinned against the wall with my thoughts spiraling.

I'm not sure how much time has passed, but when my breathing feels controlled, and my stomach stops turning, I open my eyes and search for my phone on the floor.

I freeze when I see a pair of men's bare feet in my peripheral vision.

How does someone that works their body to the brink of collapsing daily have such nice feet?

I turn and peer at Emory. He's leaning against the doorframe with one shoulder, and my phone is in his hand.

It's painful to look at him.

Embarrassment stains my cheeks, but I dig down to the smallest amount of self-worth that I have and act as if nothing happened.

He watches me with rapt attention as I stand up taller. I cross my arms over the silky, low-cut dress before holding my hand out. "Can I have my phone, please?"

His eyes show a challenge. "No."

"No?" I question, attempting to pop my hip out.

It didn't work because of my dress, but the attempt was there.

His attention falls to my waist before he creeps his way back to my face.

"Turn."

"Excuse me?"

Emory stalks toward me with my phone still in his tight grip. His free hand drops to my hip, and he spins me around. "I said turn."

I can't breathe, and I have no idea why I'm letting him boss me around. If it were any other man, I'd stomp on his foot and curse him out, but with Emory, it's different.

The sound of my zipper echoes throughout the long, empty hallway, and my dress loosens around my shoulders. A shiver sweeps through my bloodstream when I feel the faint touch of his knuckles graze my spine. "Go change and meet me in the kitchen."

I open my mouth with a refusal ready to go, but Emory is already halfway down the hall and heading for the stairs when I turn around, half-holding my dress.

"Are you going to give me my phone back?!" I shout, heading for my bag that's still unpacked in his bedroom.

Emory ignores me, which is nothing new.