Sneak Peek #2
He shifts his hold to reach for the doorknob, pulling me more tightly against his chest, and I fist my hands in the lapels of his navy suit jacket. He’s warm and muscular and God, he smells so good. Like cedar and musk and every craving I’ve never let myself name.
Right now I want to press my mouth to the suntanned skin of his throat and force my gaze to remain fixed on his striped tie.
It’s a terrible, inconvenient want with no business showing up on the worst day of my life, so I blame the adrenaline, blame the painkillers I haven’t taken, blame anything but the truth—that being this close to him feels less like a problem and more like the first full breath I’ve drawn all day.
He sets me gently on the sofa, then kneels in front of me.
“What are you doing?” I choke out.
“Checking your ankle.” He pushes up the fabric of my gown, revealing my open-toe sandals with the delicate pearl detail across the straps. The shoes are perfect and painful and I need them off my feet about as much as I need to breathe.
When his fingers wrap around my ankle, a jolt of electricity shoots up my leg that has nothing to do with the swelling.
“I can handle it.”
“Let me look.” He undoes the ankle strap, and I’m amazed at how gentle his calloused hands are as they grip my leg. “I was a combat medic during my time in the Army.”
The pain has lessened slightly, or maybe I’ve become numb to it. “You wore your dress blues to your dad’s funeral.” It was the last time Ethan had been home, although I doubt he considers Foxridge his home any longer.
His broad shoulders go stiff, but he nods.
“Are you out of the Army now?”
Another slight nod.
I wince as he manipulates my ankle, rotating it gently to one side then the other. “Why did you leave?”
He glances up at me, his gaze both guarded and intense. “Why didn’t you marry my brother?”
“I already tol—”
“Blake did something, Emma.” He lowers my foot to the floor and sits back as he studies me. “Tell me what it was.”
“So you can slay my dragons?” I ask with a laugh, flipping my gown down over my knees. “Playing the hero isn’t exactly your deal.”
Something flashes in his gaze, but it’s gone before I can name it. “An understatement, especially coming from you.” He stands and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Your ankle should be fine when the swelling goes down. Take some ibuprofen to help with it and wear smarter shoes.”
I bend forward and undo the strap on my other heel. “It was my wedding day. The shoes were special.”
“Who gives a shit about the shoes?” he asks quietly. “Seems to me the only important part of a wedding is two people committing to loving each other for the rest of their lives.”
Emotion clogs my throat. “Blake and I love each other. We’ve been friends forever.”
Ethan raises a thick brow. “Then what are you doing here?”
A car door slams, saving me from answering.
“My family,” I whisper, glancing around wildly like I can find a place to hide. So stupid, because there’s no hiding from what I’ve done today. Not in Foxridge.
“I’ll go out the back, then circle around to get my car.” Ethan is already moving toward the hallway leading to the kitchen. “No one will want me here for this.”
I do, although I can’t figure out why. Ethan is nothing to me.
“Are you staying in town long?” I use the arm of the sofa to lever myself to standing. I need to be on my own two feet—or at least the one that isn’t screaming in pain—to face my grandmother.
Ethan looks over his shoulder, raking a hand through his already-tousled hair. The air goes tight and electric, and I forget how breathing works.
“Put some ice on that ankle,” he says instead of answering, then disappears down the hall.
A moment later the front door bursts open and my family floods through.
“Are you okay?” my father asks, tugging at his black bow tie.
“Have you lost your mind?” Eleanor Sullivan, my grandmother, pushes past her son. “You can’t call off the wedding, Emma. It isn’t done.”
“She just did.” My sister follows Grammy into the house, picks up the discarded train box from a wingback chair and sits down.
“No sass from you.” Grammy wags a finger at Riley.
My sixteen-year-old sister, the picture of teenage petulance, responds with an eye roll and a dismissive sigh. Grammy’s eyes narrow before her angry gaze switches to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking at each of my family members.
Ben, my fourteen-year-old brother, shrugs out of his rented tux jacket. “You should have seen how bad people were freaking out. Blake’s mom looked like she wanted to shank someone.”
“Definitely me,” I mutter.
“Jessa Fox wasn’t going to shank anyone,” our father says. “Of course she’s upset and confused.” He glances toward me and then away. “We all are.”
Ben doesn’t look convinced. “If someone handed her a rusty knife, she would have gutted Emma like—”
“Not helping, Ben.” Dad levels a glare at my brother.