by R. S. Lively
Marriage Mistake
R.S. Lively
Copyright © 2018 by R.S. Lively
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Keeping Up With R.S. Lively
Not Over You (Sample)
Also by R.S. Lively
About the Author
Description
How did I end up accidentally married to this arrogant jerk?
My memory is a bit hazy, maybe you can tell me...
I had a crush. He's the boy from the other side of town.
Way out of my league.
Rich as sin, and breathtakingly gorgeous.
No way he would ever notice me.
Turns out he did.
The boy I wanted is now a man.
And nothing like the charmer of my teenage fantasies.
He's ruggedly handsome, hot as hell, and knows exactly
how to drive me wild.
I can’t control myself around him.
If only I'd listened to reason.
Now, I’m knocked up and married to this domineering billionaire.
Can you tell me how we ended up here?
Prologue
Grant
I push him back further, forcing my body between him and Emma so he can't see her. He doesn't deserve to even look at her. He tries to hold his ground, but he's no match for my size, not to mention the righteous anger coursing through me. I take another step forward, driving him back until he's at the door. One shove pushes the storm door open and sends him stumbling backward onto the porch. The impact seems to snap him out of the shock of my arrival, and he scrambles to his feet to face me. I don't hesitate to step through the door after him. He's out of the house, but I want to make sure he understands he is never welcome back here.
Reaching forward, I grab a handful of his shirt and yank him close to me.
"Get away from here, asshole," I growl.
He hesitates for a moment.
"No," he spits back, shifting his weight to force me down the steps and onto my knees on the sidewalk.
He jumps down the steps behind him, and I turn around just in time to stop him from burying his elbow into the back of my neck. Surging forward, I catch him by his legs, toppling him to the ground.
"Stop it!" Emma shouts from the door.
I ignore her, crawling over to the prone figure on the ground in front of me, and burying my knee in his protruding gut as I pull my fist back and smash it into his face. There's a satisfying crunching sound accompanied by a deep groan, but an instant later, he forces his shoulders up and sends me onto my side. He returns my punch, and finds just enough energy to kick out, hitting me square in the stomach. Suddenly he's on his feet, rushing back to the porch. The wet grass is slippery beneath my feet, but I dig my shoes into the mud and push myself up. I've only taken one step forward when I hear Emma's blood-chilling scream.
Chapter One
Emma
Thirteen years earlier…
The blue is a nice shade, but somehow, I don't think many people in pre-World War Two Russia were spending a lot of time at the hardware store picking out paint samples. Maybe brown. But everything else is so brown.
I let out a sigh and look at the row of colored pencils in front of me, totally uninspired. Finally, I pick up the boring brown shade and use it to start filling in the sketch on the pad in front of me.
"What are you up to in here?"
Turning, I see my mother standing at the door. She rests her head on the door frame as she gazes in at me. She looks exhausted, as usual. Her thick dark blonde hair, pulled back into a ponytail, is starting to slide out of its elastic band, and strands tumble down around her heart-shaped face. She's amazing at her job as a caregiver, and loves being there for the people who need her, but sometimes there's a hint of some untold emotion behind her blue gaze. Sometimes when I see her at the end of the day, and she doesn't know I'm looking at her, it looks like regret.
"I'm just working on some set designs for the play," I say. "I'm supposed to go over to Dean Laurence's house tonight to finalize the designs and start working on them." I glance at my watch to check the time, and realize I somehow lost an hour staring at the colored pencils. "Actually," I say, starting to gather up everything from the desk, "I should probably get going."
I shove everything into my satchel and throw it over my shoulder.
"Will you be back in time for dinner?" my mother asks.
I shake my head.
"Probably not," I answer. "I'm sorry, Mom. The play is coming up fast, and the sets have to be amazing."
She nods, looking sad. I know she's disappointed I won't be able to eat with the rest of the family, but I think taking a long bath and getting to bed early will probably do her some good.
"Have you seen Carina?" she asks.
"Not since getting home from school," I say.
My older sister is now Mom's only shot at some companionship this evening. My father left for work almost an hour ago, and won't be home until the early hours of the morning. If Carina doesn't get home soon, Mom will probably take advantage of the empty house by warming up a frozen dinner, throwing on a pair of sweatpants, and melting into the living room couch for a few hours of mindless TV.
"You said you're going over to the Laurence house?" she asks.
I nod.
"Yeah," I say. "Dean and I are in charge of the sets.”
"How are you getting there?"
"I'm just going to walk," I say.
"I hate when you walk across the island like that."
"It's not that far," I say. "Besides, I like it. I enjoy the solitude. I think better when I'm by myself, out in the fresh air."
"You're by yourself here," she says.
"It's different," I reply. "Being able to look around and see the sky, and the people, and just experiencing everything around me gives me so many ideas. It's not like I've never taken the walk before," I say.
"That's for sure," Mom says. "It seems like you’re spending more and more time over there."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
She shrugs and glances at her feet.
"I just worry about you getting wrapped up in them, that's all."
"What do you mean, wrapped up in them?"
She looks at me with her tired eyes. Mom looks sad in a distant way, and I know what she's thinking. It’s always the same whenever we end up talking about Dean.
"They aren't like us, Emma. You know that."
"Why not, Mom? Just because they have money? That doesn't make them a different species, you know. It just means they have a big house and can buy more things than we can."
"It means a lot more than that. They think differently. They see the world differently. They have opportunities and possibilities we wouldn’t dare to dream
about. I don't want you getting entrenched in that and start worrying about who you are, and the life you have ahead of you."
I don't know if that was supposed to be encouraging or not. The truth is, saying the Laurence family “has money” is one of the biggest understatements I might have ever made. The family is exorbitantly wealthy. They could own all of Magnolia Falls if they wanted to. They might already, for all I know. As it is, the sprawling home they live in, its expansive grounds, and the several smaller properties that accommodate offshoots of the main family tree, take up almost half of the island. I'll admit I'm impressed by the luxury, but it's never changed the way I look at Dean. He never acts like his money makes him special, or different from me, even though he is. I understand what Mom's saying, but I don't want to tell her that. She's already convinced I'm either going to become so obsessed with the Laurence family and their wealth that I'll destroy myself in pursuit of that type of life, or get myself pregnant and snare one of the brothers.
That would be a feat. I've never even kissed a guy. I spend all my time studying, working on extracurricular activities for my college applications, and working at the little ice cream shop in town. I don't have time for anything else, especially not dating. The time I spend with Dean on projects for the theater department is the closest thing I have to fun most of the time. I met him on my first day in the theater department when he introduced himself as the student assistant to our teacher, and we've been friends ever since – even though he’s two years older than me. My eyes slide across the room to the pennant pinned on my wall. It's for my dream school – Duke – and I've had it pinned there since I was old enough to start thinking about going to college. That's why I work as hard as I do. Even as a freshman in high school, I devote every possible second of my time to making myself into a more appealing candidate for the application process. Unlike the Laurence family, who can easily send all five of their sons to their respective Ivy-league schools, I'm on my own when it comes to financing college. My sister, Carina, has never been interested in school beyond graduation. Like a lot of the people born and raised in Magnolia Falls, Carina thinks her future is here.
That's not me. I love Magnolia Falls, but I know there's so much more to the world than this little place, and I want to see it. I look forward to leaving home, going to college, and experiencing life on my own. If I'm going to do that, though, it's up to me. My family can't contribute anything to the cost of me going to school, and even though I tuck away almost everything I make at the ice cream shop, my modest savings don’t even come close to covering the cost of tuition, housing, and the necessities. I have to get a scholarship, and that means working my ass off every day to make myself as appealing to Duke as possible.
"I'm not going to lose sight of the life I have in front of me," I reassure her. "Speaking of which, I have to get going. We’ll need all the time we can get if there’s any chance of finishing this by tomorrow."
Mom steps out of my way, and I pause in the hallway to kiss her cheek. "If it makes you feel better, I’ll ask Dean to give me a ride home when we're finished."
"That will make me feel better. You work way too hard, you know," she says with a slight smile that tells me she's proud, but also wishes I didn't have to push myself this much.
"No such thing as working too hard," I say.
Even as I say it, I know it isn’t true. Of all people I could say it to, Mom knows that better than anyone. She's done it for as long as I remember.
I can smell rain in the air as I make my way down my street, making sure to wave at the neighbors out in the lawns. People take lawn care very seriously here, and many of the waves I receive in return are with floral-pattern gloves, and behind various landscaping implements.
As I make my way into the village, the smell of the bay mixes with the rain in the air to create a fresh, bracing saltiness. Tugging my sweater closer around me, I look down at the gray water. It's a pristine image, broken only by the houseboat slowly gliding by. On that boat is Carson Boon. He lives almost exclusively on the Oh My Damn, and only occasionally comes ashore for the supplies he can't order. I've often wondered about the story behind the name of his boat, but that, much like Carson, is an enigma.
The wind whips up around me, and I quicken my steps. The Laurence house is on the other side of the island from mine, and I’d really like to get there before the sky opens up, and not make the final part of the trek in the pouring rain. It's spring, but the temperatures aren’t high enough to take the chill out of rain this late in the day, and it will be miserable if I get caught out in it. I duck my head into the wind, pushing myself to go a little faster. I’ve just made it onto the winding stone pathway that leads up to Dean's house when the first sharp droplets of water begin to hit. Clutching the sketches and my bag closer to me, I run up the walkway and hop up onto the porch under the overhang protecting the front door. It opens before I'm even able to ring the doorbell, and Dean looks out at me with his wide, friendly smile. He must have been watching through the window.
"If you wanted to take a swim instead, you could have just told me," he jokes.
I roll my eyes at him as he steps back to let me inside.
"Hilarious," I say. I look down at myself. I'm soaked.
"Why don't you go into the bathroom and grab a towel to dry off? I'll meet you in the living room."
"Thanks," I say.
I hand him everything I brought with me, and start up the steps toward the bathroom he indicated. I've only been to the second floor of the house a few times, and I always feel underdressed when climbing the stairs. This is the type of staircase that should be reserved for ball gowns and debutantes making their first appearance into society. An awkward teenager, soaked down to her plain white bra and panties, definitely doesn’t belong on these steps. I would feel more comfortable shuffled back to the hidden servants' staircase I'm positive is around here somewhere.
Once I'm at the top of the steps, I hear a voice drifting down the hallway toward me. He’s singing a song I don't recognize, and curiosity tugs me. I shouldn't follow it. I should mind my own business.
I look toward the bathroom. That's where I should be going, but I'm not. Instead, I creep my way slowly down the hallway, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. The singing gets louder as I turn the corner and see a room several feet ahead of me, the door hanging open halfway. I move a little faster toward the door and press myself against the wall, my heart pounding nervously in my chest. This feels nowhere near as smooth and seamless as it seems in the movies. I hear my own breath, and my wet clothes are making me shiver wildly. I turn my head just enough to look through the gap and into the room. Inside is Dean's oldest brother. A senior, Grant Laurence is basically the Golden Boy of the school. Everyone looks up to Grant, and all the teachers dote on him. Athletic, brilliant, gorgeous, involved in everything, and “going places” straight from the womb, Grant is what the faculty refers to as "impressive."
He's what I refer to as mmm.
That's especially true now as he stands just a few feet away from me, shirtless, his muscles flexing as he does curls with a barbell and sings a nameless tune. His dark, inky hair falls just long enough to curl at the base of his long neck, and around his ears. I can envision his dark, simmering eyes even though I can't see them.
He stops and glances down at a stack of papers on his bed, and I realize he must be rehearsing.
How long have I been standing here?
I gasp at the realization that I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here, enraptured by him, and Grant lifts his head away from the papers.
Oh, shit!
I scramble away from the door, and back down the hallway toward the bathroom. Dipping into the spa-like room, I grab a towel from the shelf and start rubbing my hair with it frantically.
Did he see me?
No one is in the bathroom with me to be convinced of the eagerness behind my drying, but soon my blonde hair is standing on end, and I've rubbed my arms un
til they’re pink and stinging. Suddenly, I hear footsteps coming down the hallway toward me, and my stomach drops. Grant’s coming after me. He’s going to call me out for being the weird little freshman standing outside his door, watching him rehearse shirtless. And on top of it all, I look like a blow-dried rat, which will only make being judged for my creepiness all the more uncomfortable.
The sound of knocking on the door makes my heart feel like it’s standing still. At least he has the decency not to just bound through the door after me. Did I even lock it? Probably not. I’m not great with the whole concept of common-sense self-protection. A serial killer could burst into the house, and instead of trying to protect myself, I’d probably just gasp and reveal all my vulnerable spots.
“Yes?” I manage to croak out.
“Emma?” It’s Dean. I sag in relief. “I brought you some clothes to change in to. They might be more comfortable.”
“Thank you,” I say as I open the door a few inches and reach out for the sweatpants and T-shirt he pokes in toward me.
“I’ll see you in a minute,” he says.
I make a purposeful movement to lock the door before stripping down. Just because that was Dean doesn’t mean Grant isn’t lurking out there somewhere. I’d prefer not to get lambasted while bare-assed. That’s a humiliation I’m not in the headspace to take.
I slip into the warm, dry clothes, roll the waistband of the pants, so they don’t slide down, and fold up my wet outfit. I’ve managed to dry off and change, and it seems Grant isn’t coming. Now I'm just in the uncomfortable position of standing in the middle of the bathroom with a towel I don't know what to do with.