Wanderlove - Rachel Blaufeld

by Rachel Blaufeld

  “If you’re thinking it, I know it’s a solid plan,” Bruce said, encouraging him.

  Now I was grinning, cheesing like the happy, proud girlfriend. Why? Because Price’s idea was stellar.

  “Well, let’s eat, and you can tell me if it’s any good,” Sarah teased.

  We sat down around their big farm table, and I’d never laughed or smiled as much as I did in that one hour. We finished with Sarah’s apple pie and my caramel crème brûlées.

  “I don’t know about the restaurant food, but the desserts are going to be fabulous,” Bruce said as he cleared the table.

  “I feel exactly the same,” Price said with a wink at me, and stood up to help Bruce.

  Price

  “Come on,” I said, helping Emerson up to the top of the water tower.

  We sat on the ledge in the darkness, nothing but stars above us. Our legs dangled in the air, her much smaller pair of shitkickers knocking with mine. With her head on my shoulder, it was a perfect moment.

  “It’s too quiet for me,” I admitted.

  “Ha, is that so?”

  “I need to hear an ambulance or a police siren.”

  “Thanks for bringing me,” she said, changing the subject.

  “Anytime. We can come anytime. My mom would love it. And I do like being here.”

  I pulled Emerson closer and breathed her in. I used to love the morning dew . . . that smell was how I knew I was home. Now I loved the smell of this girl.

  “You’re my home now,” I said into the night.

  “Do you think it’s too soon?”

  “I don’t. I hate to believe in crazy hoodoo-voodoo, but when we’re sitting here, looking at the stars, I have to believe there’s a greater plan. And we met as part of that plan. I was wandering through life, content with how I grew up, and then thrown into this new place, lost for the first time, looking for direction. You were also wandering, and looking for love. And we both found what we needed in each other.”

  “I did find love. You. Bev. Sheila. I wanted the love of my mom, but maybe what I found is better, or what I was supposed to find.”

  “I think so. I know so,” I told her, and then guided her mouth toward mine.

  We kissed on top of the water tower, and the place held new meaning for me.

  Emerson pulled away and glanced over the edge. “We’re going to fall off of here.”

  “Ha, come on.” I guided her back safely to the ground and took her hand in mine. “Where you grew up, it’s the sand dunes. Here, it’s the back of a truck.”

  “Oh, yes.” She skipped a step, getting my meaning.

  “You sure?” I stilled in the darkness on the way back to the truck.

  “I’m sure.”

  When we made it back to the spot in the field where I’d parked, I opened a blanket and set some music on my phone instead of the dash—I was mostly a New Yorker now.

  We lay facing each other for a while, kissing, running our hands down each other’s backs. Then Emerson’s hand was under my shirt, and she pinched my nipple. I moaned, and it was all over. My shirt came off, and so did hers.

  I pulled a second blanket over us and unhooked her bra. My mouth traveled the length of her neck, making its way toward her cleavage. In no rush, I took my time there, listening to Em’s soft whimpers.

  When she begged, “Please,” I slid down and took her jeans, panties, and boots with me. Nestling between her thighs, I made her go wilder until she declared she couldn’t take it anymore.

  Shucking off my own boots and jeans in a pile at our feet, I slid back in between us. With no barriers, I made love to Emerson, and decided it didn’t matter where I lived or what I did.

  I never had to wander anymore—except home to her.

  Emerson

  Three years later

  It was Friday, the last one in May, and the rain had finally stopped long enough for us to bolt from the parking lot into the assembly hall for Price’s graduation. The ceremony was a formality at this point, but I’d told him he had to go. I needed a picture of him in his cap and gown (duh), despite his current success.

  His dad sent congratulations via text, and of course, I had to make Price text back thanks in return. Their relationship remained strained, but I hoped it would improve. I think Price secretly wanted it to as well, but pride kept him from admitting it. That, and respect for his mom held him back. He didn’t want to betray her, even though she’d said he wasn’t doing that a million and one times.

  They’d never be super close. But his father truly had no one, and I believed somewhere deep down, Price cared for him. Together, they could support each other in some capacity. I had a feeling it would happen sooner rather than later . . . after I spoke with Price this evening.

  As for now, his mom and stepdad, along with my dad, weren’t coming today, but planned their trip to New York City the following day for a celebratory lunch at Emmy B’s. They’d all been a few times already, and had been amazed by the majestic big city and the small slice of rural paradise Price had built there.

  Sheila and Bev were coming tomorrow too. That was no surprise anymore. My dad and Sheila had an unnamed thing going on now that she was in remission. Bev and I didn’t get involved in the dynamics of it, other than saying we were sisters now. I’d certainly gone from having just a dad to having a big family . . . pretty quickly.

  As for Emmy B’s, the restaurant might have taken the West Village by surprise with its rooftop garden and farm-to-table cuisine, but it was no shock to me. Combining his two loves, Price built the place from the ground up. I expected nothing less from him. I always smiled when he talked about his inspiration for it: combining me and farm life.

  The seating around the rooftop garden looked out from its heavy foliage onto the concrete streets of New York. With lights strung above and tea lights around the edge of the roof, it was recently voted the most romantic spot in New York. Price was noted as bringing his love of everything small-town Pennsylvania to the big city. Pleasing the palates of the Big Apple was no easy task.

  “Look what it says here, Em.”

  Price knocked me out of my thoughts as we walked into the assembly hall. Of course, he’d been walking and reading on his phone. After all, he was a New Yorker now, but I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that. I let him think he was still only part hipster.

  “Completing the meal at Emmy B’s,” he read out loud, “were the in-house dessert creations of Bev Brantley and Emerson Bender. Bender, the namesake for Emmy B’s—and owner Price Barnes’s better half—has been with the restaurant since its inception. After eating her Caramel-Infused Apple Blondie smothered in homemade caramel drizzle and topped with fresh whipped cream and cherries, I’m in agreement—she is definitely the better half. Bender and Brantley met at the Lucky Artist Bakery, which they now co-own and run with the help of Seany Michaels, known to the New York food scene for his creations at the Coffee Bar.

  “Notably, Brantley dances on the side, and she recently starred in an off-Broadway show.

  “Now, it’s a well-known fact that Brantley and Bender are opening the Milk and Cookies Bar in the spot two doors down from Emmy B’s. I can’t say I’m not excited . . . the Boyfriend Cookie Sundae at Emmy B’s is triple sin in a dish.”

  “Okay, stop.” I ran my hand down Price’s arm and snatched his phone. “It’s your day.”

  “Did you hear what they said in the Times?”

  “Yes, I saw it this morning.”

  I’d gone to culinary school for some baking courses and then decided to just wing it. My dad and Price had both told me not to close any doors, that maybe I’d return to school one day.

  But I’m not going to lie. I loved what I did on a daily basis, and I had no desire to go back to school. At the restaurant and the Milk and Cookies Bar was where I was going to spend most of my time. The dessert bar would be my first baby, and I was in full-on nesting mode when it came to the grand opening.

  Seany was planning to b
uy the bakery from us and expand it into more of a funky luncheonette. Also, I’d turned twenty-two a month ago, and I didn’t think going back to school was in me. Price was a special breed who could go as a returning adult. It must be that farm-boy patience. Me, I was too impatient when it came to everything.

  Maybe that was something I got from Paula. I’d never know. I did know my dad loved me enough for two parents, even when I’d tried to find my mom. I’d been the one looking, and she’d been hiding. There was nothing else I could do for her or her situation, and I’d finally resigned myself to accepting that it had nothing to do with me. She had been in a bad way, and my heart always dipped when I thought about how troubled she must have been.

  “Now, go,” I told Price. “Go line up or sit down or whatever until they call your name.”

  I didn’t have time to dwell on things. It was go time for Price. My true love. I might have been young, too young, when we met, but it didn’t matter. When your heart is wandering and looking for love and you find it, you grab it and hold on to it.

  After Price became a college graduate at the age of twenty-six, we went to Emmy B’s for a celebratory drink. Of course, while he was there, he checked on every little detail. Thankfully, he didn’t notice the exchange between the bartender, Chuck, and me . . . it was nothing illicit, and he’d know soon enough.

  Once the restaurant closed for the night, we went home to the place Price found for us after he sold his apartment. Now we lived on the top floor of a loft in the Meatpacking District with a huge rooftop balcony, and plenty of room for Tuck to run around. It was more us, and we loved it there.

  The two of us lay in bed, twisted in the sheets, kissing like we did every night, Price running his hand down my back.

  “I love you,” he said into my back, his breath tickling the nape of my neck. “Turn around for a sec.”

  I rolled around in his arms, and he reached behind him, into the nightstand drawer.

  “What are you doing?” I asked as he rummaged in the drawer. “A condom? We don’t need it.”

  “You and your one-track mind. Sex, sex, sex.” He kissed my forehead and pulled back. When he raised his hand, something sparkly hung off his pinky. “Emerson Paige Bender, will you marry me?”

  Typical Price. He didn’t wait for the “perfect” time or plan something extravagant. He knew what he wanted, and he went for it.

  “Wow.” I had no words, hardly able to believe this was happening now.

  Now, of all times.

  “That ring,” I said, taking in the single gorgeous solitaire on a slender platinum band. It was perfect—huge—but the simple design was all me.

  “Well?” Price took the ring and slipped it onto my finger.

  “Yes! Of course. Ring or not, I planned to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Pretty much. I guess it’s a good time to tell you something else.”

  “What? Your name isn’t really Emerson? You’re a spy?”

  “Ha! I’m not exactly sure how to say this, so I’m just gonna come out with it. We’re going to have a baby.”

  “What?” He shot up in bed, his naked, muscular chest stealing my gaze like it always did.

  “A baby. Me. You. In November. Remember when I had the ear infection? We didn’t pay attention to the warning about the antibiotic possibly messing with the pill, and then our rendezvous in the storage closet in the Milk and Cookies Bar?”

  “Oh, I remember,” he said, smirking. “But you had a cocktail a few hours ago. You’ve been drinking vodka all month.”

  I shook my head. “Soda and cran. Chuck’s been in on the plan, and that’s all he serves me. Makes it look real.”

  “You little devil. What were you waiting for?” He pulled me close for a deep kiss.

  “For you to graduate, be everything I knew you could be. I was going to tell everyone tomorrow after lunch. I wanted today to be all about you. But now we’re engaged, and everyone will think you proposed because of the bun in the oven.”

  “Never. We both have been holding in a secret. Tomorrow was going to be a surprise engagement party. Chuck’s in on it too, the shit. He’s been playing both sides of this operation.”

  I pouted out my bottom lip. “I wanted you to have a party all about you.”

  “Em, nothing could make me happier. A baby, a wife. Now, be quiet and go back to your sexy thoughts.”

  Price

  Seven months later

  “Shhh,” I whispered to the little bundle in my arms. “Let Mommy sleep, deal?” I bargained with my three-week-old daughter as if I wouldn’t give her anything and everything she wanted.

  Rebecca Barnes came into the world a week early on a Thursday at two o’clock in the morning, and she’d been making herself known since the minute she arrived. I’d banked on her being a spitfire like her mom, and I wasn’t wrong. With thick jet-black hair and big blue eyes—we hoped they didn’t change—and olive skin from me, she was already a beauty queen.

  “We may need a Rottweiler too,” I told an extremely tired Tuck, who sat guard at my feet.

  His routine had been slightly upset after the baby’s birth, but Tuck didn’t care. With doting eyes, he watched Becca. At least he had a small yard to run around in now that we lived in a brownstone over in Brooklyn. The loft was fun, but not fit for a family.

  “Hey.”

  Emerson appeared in the doorway, looking sleepy but gorgeous in wrinkled pajamas, buttons askew, her hair a mess, and slippers on her feet.

  “Is she hungry?” she asked, stretching her neck from side to side.

  “Could be, but she’s quiet now in my arms. Let her be.”

  “You have that effect on girls.”

  She came close and took a now wide-eyed Becca from my arms, and I immediately stood, making room for her in the rocker.

  Of course, Tuck sat up and rested his chin on Em’s knee while she fed our daughter. According to him, no one—not even me—was allowed to disturb Mom and baby during mealtime.

  I leaned against the nursery wall, watching my beautiful wife, thinking about how I was a lucky dude.

  Catching the small painting on the far wall of three pairs of shitkickers—large, medium, and small, our names underneath a pair painted for each of us—I couldn’t help but smile. You could take the farm boy out of the farm and place him in the big city, where he could fall in love, build an empire, and move to Brooklyn, but you could never make him give up his shitkickers.

  Thankfully, I fell for a girl who didn’t make me.

  Read other books by Rachel Blaufeld

  Saying thanks is hard. I never know where to start and when to stop.

  This book makes it an even dozen, and I already have another one mostly baked . . . and I have the same team since day one.

  Thank you to my editor, Pam Berehulke, for her never-ending patience and not-so-gentle red pen. The jelly to my sun butter, one can’t go without the other. Truly!

  Much appreciation and admiration for Sarah Hansen on blowing me away with another stellar cover.

  To Virginia Carey, you’ve had a part in every single damn book . . . and you were the first person I met in the book world!

  Christy and Fab, we’ve been by one another’s virtual side since day one. We may be scattered at far ends of the world, but when we need one another, we are there. #soapythighs

  Jenn Watson, there’s not enough space. Same goes for you—Sarah, Brooke, and the rest of the Social Butterfly gang. Who else would deal with my robo-emailing and lunatic questions 24/7? Oh, and release my damn book!

  The amazing team at E.M. Tippetts, you have made every one of my books WORK! And look good!

  To all the bloggers . . . I get it. You work hard. AND it doesn’t go unnoticed. Thanks for making the book world go round.

  For my ELECTRIC READERS . . . yeah, you. You’re the freaking best, and don’t forget it.

  And to all the readers in the wide-wide-world, thank you.
>
  xo

  Rachel

  Rachel Blaufeld is a bestselling author of Romantic Suspense, New Adult, Coming-of-Age Romance, and Sports Romance. A recent poll of her readers described her as insightful, generous, articulate, and spunky. Originally a social worker, Rachel creates broken yet redeeming characters. She’s been known to turn up the angst like cranking up the heat in the dead of winter.

  A devout coffee drinker and doughnut eater, Rachel spends way too many hours in local coffee shops, downing the aforementioned goodies while she plots her ideas. Her tales may all come with a side of angst and naughtiness, but end as lusciously as her treats.

  As a side note, Blaufeld, also a long-time blogger and an advocate of woman-run anything, is fearless about sharing her opinion. To her, work/life/family balance is an urban legend, but she does her best.

  Rachel has also blogged for The Huffington Post, Modern Mom, and USA TODAY, where she shared conversations at “In Bed with a Romance Author” and reading recommendations at “Happy Ever After.”

  Rachel lives around the corner from her childhood home in Pennsylvania with her family and two beagles. Her obsessions include running, coffee, basketball, icing-filled doughnuts, antiheroes, and mighty fine epilogues.

  When she isn’t writing, she can be found courtside, tweeting about hoops as her son plays, or walking around the house wearing earplugs while her other son, the drummer, bangs away.

  To connect with Rachel, she’s most active in her private reading group, The Electric Readers, where she shares insider information and intimate conversation with her readers:

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