My Darling Bride(15)

“Forget that. What was the name of the girl you mentioned, the one I need to meet?”

“Emmaline Darling. Pretty. Nice boobs—not a D cup, but who needs mountains when you can have gentle rolling hills—and long legs. Will look fantastic in Vera Wang.”

“She stole my car.”

He gasps. “What? No way. That’s a crazy coincidence. Impossible. Plus, she’s a sweetie.”

“And a thief.”

He sputters: “Are you sure?”

“I have her name right in front of me.”

A groan of disappointment comes from him. “But I already had a Pinterest board going for her—”

I cut him off as I pace, chopping the air with my hands. “She’s the one. She’s my fake wife.”

“What? How? Wait, is she the one who pulled you into her room? Did you have sex with her? Are you still in the ‘pussy glow’?”

“Hardly. What matters is she owes me.”

“Um, not seeing it. She’s a thief. Why would—”

“Let me handle it. I gotta go. Bye.”

“Graham, wait—”

I hang up and watch the cops pull up.

Gotcha, Miss Darling.





Chapter 4


EMMY


It’s barely seven in the morning when the wailing starts. Dragging myself out of bed, I rub my eyes and pad out into the hall. I pass Jane’s room and peek in. Snoring softly, my sister has a sleep mask on, ear plugs in her ears.

In the next room, Andrew stirs and stretches his arms. “Better get her before she wakes up the whole neighborhood,” he says with a crooked smile.

“I will. You have an early class?” I ask, lingering at his door as I tug my robe around my sleep shorts and shirt.

He scrubs his jaw. “Meeting a girl at the library. She’s been taking notes in philosophy. I haven’t.”

“Hey, NYU isn’t cheap.” His tuition (sixty thousand a year) weighs heavily on my shoulders. “Keep those grades up.”

“All right, Ma. I promise.”

“Not your mama.” I cross my arms and pretend to glower. “But I am your elder by eight years.”

Wearing pajama pants, he’s chuckling under his breath as he gives me a jaunty wave and disappears into his bathroom, then pokes his head back out. His mahogany curls frame an angelic face with dimples. He looks exactly like our dad, yet they have completely different personalities. “If Kian shows up, call me.”

I groan. He says it every morning, as if I’ll forget. “Don’t worry about that. Besides, the building has been warned.” All twenty-five residents. I went door to door to make sure everyone knows to never open the door for him. “No one will buzz him in.”

He glances at my throat, nose flaring. The bruises have faded, but it’s as if he’s picturing them the day I came home, over a week ago. I’ve since blocked Kian’s number, and he’s only shown up once. Through the speaker box, I threatened to call the police, and that did the trick. The last thing he needs is bad press.

He sighs. “Maybe you should have filed a report.”

“And have a media circus outside our apartment? Reporters taking pictures and following me? Dragging up what happened with our parents? Yes, there’d be support from people, sure, and I appreciate that women are believed these days, but there are also assholes who’d exploit every facet of our past. So, no. He won’t come back. Not if he wants to play football.”

His expression hardens. “It’s what the fucker deserves.”

My head dips as I stare at the hardwood floors. Something snapped in Vegas, like a rubber band that had been stretched too thin. He hurt me.

“You aren’t getting back together with him, are you?” His eyes search my face.

A panicky feeling tugs at me. “Of course not. Go. Shower. I’ll make coffee and breakfast.”

Leaving him, I walk down the hall to the nursery. Painted a soft lilac color, the furniture is white French country. I lean against the doorjamb as Londyn struggles to push up to sitting, her cry changing to coos when she sees me. She manages to stand by gripping the wooden rail of the baby bed. Delighted at her accomplishment, she squeals loudly enough to wake the family in the apartment below us. At nine months, she is freaking adorable.

I tug her up and press my nose to her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin as joy ripples over me.

“Good morning, baby girl,” I murmur as I sway with her in front of the window, where the sun is starting to peek over the Manhattan skyline. The city is coming alive as the first rays of sunshine reflect off the skyscrapers and brownstones. The tranquility is layered with the rumbling of the subway and the honking of yellow cabs. It’s like music to my ears compared to the vastness of the desert.

“Bu, bu, bu.” She watches a bus screech to a stop at a red light and points.

“Yes, the bus is going too fast, but it stopped. Everyone’s got somewhere to be.” I rub my hand over the tufts of wispy blonde hair on top of her head. “How was your night? Any dreams?” I love talking to her, and I’ve read all the baby books. Communication is key in helping her develop language skills, and she’s going to be a little genius.

She grabs my hair and tugs. “Daaa.”