Unexpectedly Hers (Sterling Canyon Book 3)

by Jamie Beck

  “I’d rather not talk about it.” She pulled the blanket up to cover herself, and he could feel her withdrawing into that hard shell she’d hidden behind when they’d first met.

  He wriggled back down to get closer to her. “Is this about whatever it is you’re afraid of?”

  She fell silent. His heart pounded, demanding more of an answer, but he waited.

  “The important thing, the only thing that matters, is that you leave here knowing this month has been wonderful for me.” Her eyes watered, just like this morning. “You’ve made me see a lot of things differently. But before you came, I made some choices that might inadvertently hurt some people, and I haven’t yet figured out how to untangle it all and go forward.”

  “You could never hurt anyone.” He kissed her forehead.

  “Not intentionally.” She snuggled closer. “Until I’m able to sort it all out, I don’t want to make promises.”

  Her serious voice caught him by surprise. It almost sounded like a warning, although he couldn’t envision any scenario where she’d disappoint or hurt him, unless—“Is there someone else?”

  “No!”

  “Good.” He pulled her back into his arms and stroked her hair. “I hear you, but think about coming. I’d love for you to be there cheering me on.”

  “I’ll be cheering you on wherever I am.”

  He stroked her arm and continued down her hip until he cupped her ass in his hand. “The celebration would be much better in person.”

  “Then maybe we should celebrate right now.” She kissed his neck.

  “I suppose there’s no such thing as too much celebrating.” He glanced at the corner of the bed. “Gimme that sash back. I still owe you a fantasy.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emma lit the gold candles on the table, which she’d decorated with a magnolia-leaf garland, persimmons, and white roses. Eggplant-colored napkins lent a pop of unexpected, rich color, while the candlelight caused the pale green water glasses to sparkle. Mari, who’d been treating her with tempered disdain lately, had already turned on the blasted cameras. At least these shots of the inn would be flattering, pleasing Emma’s mother.

  The house smelled of turkey and stuffing. She’d baked homemade rolls. Butternut squash soup simmered on the stove. She’d glazed the turkey and made mashed potatoes and her Grammy’s gravy. To top it off, spicy pumpkin pies with homemade whipped cream. A smile bubbled up, knowing Wyatt might have special plans for the leftover whipped cream later.

  The murmur of conversation coming from the parlor drew her attention. Throughout the day, she’d witnessed a slow thawing between Wyatt and his mother. God willing, her suggestion to gather his family would have a lasting, positive effect. But families were dynamic things, and one never knew what new challenges might crop up in the future.

  Her recent conversation with her father still replayed in her mind. She’d asked him whether he might do things differently now that he’d had the benefit of hindsight. He’d admitted to some regrets, mostly about their relationship, but said he couldn’t have lived his whole life pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He couldn’t have set aside all his dreams just to make her mother happy. He believed he would’ve become a resentful, bitter man if he’d stayed, even though he’d been torn about leaving. Even though he never achieved the success he’d dreamed of.

  She knew exactly how it felt to stifle herself in order to be someone people—her mother in particular—expected her to be. Already, at thirty-one, tendrils of resentment had begun to twist through her thoughts, causing discomfort and unhappiness. Not that she admitted any of this to him.

  Emma fingered the locket she’d dug out of the corner of her dresser drawer yesterday. She’d never worn it before then. It would’ve upset her mother, but that wasn’t an issue today. Right now it made her feel a little closer to the stranger she called Dad. A man she wanted to know better.

  She’d stopped short of sharing her own dilemma with him, having not known him well enough to trust him with explosive information. But hearing her father say, No decision is ever perfect—everything in life comes at some cost—had given her something to chew on when deciding how to handle her future.

  She could choose to write something less erotic down the road, or to come clean with everyone instead of acting ashamed of writing the kind of fiction that people devoured. That second option still made her stomach clench, but she needn’t make a choice this minute. Only Wyatt’s departure loomed in the foreground, tempting her to lay everything on the table and hope he understood why she’d kept quiet.

  She blew out the match and glanced at the clock. Her mom and Aunt Vera had attended the parade and were probably enjoying the final course at La Pecora Bianca, a restaurant that “re-envisioned the traditional Thanksgiving menu,” according to Aunt Vera’s research.

  Although Emma’d enjoyed her freedom this month, Thanksgiving felt odd without her mother. How could it not, when they’d been so bound together for so many years? For all of her rigidity, her mother had also been loving, proud, and steadfastly in Emma’s corner. How many hours had her mom spent drinking tea while keeping Emma company in the kitchen, or snuggling under a shared blanket while watching their favorite shows?

  “Emma,” Ryder interrupted her musings. She looked up to find him standing near her with a tall paper bag in his hand. She assumed it might be a bottle of wine until he said, “I made you something at the studio. A thank you for helping me, and for being there for Wyatt, too.”

  A small lump lodged in her throat as she accepted his gift. She removed a twelve-inch-high clay cylinder from the bag—a smoky-merlot glazed vase with deep, horizontal grooves and an intentionally imperfect column. “Ryder! Did you come up with this design, or did you copy something you’d seen?”

  “A little of both. I altered some c-concepts I’d seen in other people’s work.” A touch of color invaded his cheeks.

  Emma set the vase on the table and grabbed him into a hug. “I absolutely love it.” Stepping back, she lifted it again, her hands caressing the grooves and unique shape. “I wish I had some long-stemmed, fresh-cut flowers. For now, I suppose I’ll just set it here on the buffet for everyone to admire, like a sculpture.”

  Wyatt and his mother came into the room, followed by Mari, Buddy, and Jim. Wyatt nodded at the clock. “You said six o’clock. It smells so good, I’m starving.”

  “Did you all see Ryder’s work?” Emma gestured toward the vase, still astounded by its quality, and the spirit with which it had been given.

  Wyatt’s brows rose. He crossed to the buffet and raised the vase for a closer inspection. “You did this?”

  Ryder nodded, but Emma could see tension in the firm set of his mouth.

  “In just a couple of weeks you learned to do this?” Wyatt’s incredulous expression seemed to annoy his brother.

  “I told you the instructor said I had natural t-talent.” Ryder crossed his arms.

  “Hell, yeah, you do. This is awesome.” Wyatt set it down and smiled. “What’d you make for me?”

  “Nada,” Ryder snorted, then he softened. “Not yet, anyway.”

  Wyatt cocked a brow over a playful grin. “I expect something when I’m done with this year’s competition circuit. But right now, I just want to eat.”

  “Emma, do you have a preference for seating, or should we select for ourselves?” Mari asked, angling for the head of the table.

  “No preference.” Emma waved at the table. “Seat yourselves while I set up the buffet and serve the soup.”

  “Aren’t you eating with us?” Wyatt asked as he pulled out a chair for his mother, whom he sat between himself and his brother.

  “I’ll join you all once I get everything else set.” She smiled.

  Wyatt pointed at the empty seat on his right. “Sit here, then.”

  Mari shot Emma an arch look. Wyatt had grown increasingly less guarded this past week.

  “Thank you.” A flush rose up Emma’s neck. “I will
.”

  It took several minutes before Emma finally sat down, at which point Mari spoke again: “If you’d all indulge me, I grew up with a Thanksgiving tradition where all of us share something we’ve been grateful for during the preceding year. May we do that this evening?”

  “That’s lovely, Mari.” Mrs. Lawson piped up. “Why don’t you start us off?”

  “Certainly, and then we can go clockwise.” Mari sipped her wine. “I’m always grateful that I earn my living doing what I love. This year my job has given me the chance to watch a gold medalist in training. We’ve butted heads now and then, but it’s been a privilege to see Wyatt’s discipline in action. More than that, he’s shown himself to be someone capable of deep passion and commitment, to his family, his sport, and others. Someone deserving of success, and of being surrounded by honest people worthy of calling him a friend.” Her gaze skidded to Emma before settling back on Wyatt. “I’m grateful to play some small role in helping you achieve your goals this year.”

  Emma had never seen Wyatt blush before, and the sight stole her breath. More importantly, Mari’s speech momentarily caused his mother to look at him through fresh eyes. At least, it appeared that way, judging by the way they glistened now.

  Ryder cleared his throat, knowing his turn had come. “This time last year, I still needed a wheelchair and walker to get around. I’m walking and talking better now, and I owe a lot of that p-progress to Wyatt. He left competition at the height of his game to be by my side. That cost him medals, fame, and money, and even though he’d never admit it, it had to be a h-hard choice. I’m grateful for that, and for him now letting me choose my own future without making me feel obligated to repay him.”

  Emma watched Wyatt shift uncomfortably in his chair. “Let’s not make this the ‘Praise Wyatt Hour.’ You’re making me feel like you’re boosting me up ’cause you think I’m doomed to fail, or worse.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” his mother muttered. She clasped both of her sons’ hands. “I’m grateful to my boys for bringing me here for the holiday. And for being there for each other all these years. Life was never easy for our family, but you’re both strong, strong boys with big hearts, so I must’ve done some things right.”

  Wyatt slipped his arm around his mother’s shoulder and kissed her head. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Emma’s eyes watered, and she held her breath, waiting to hear what Wyatt would add to this discussion.

  He swallowed a spoonful of the soup first and flashed a satisfied smile. “I’m grateful for Emma’s awesome cooking all month.”

  Buddy interrupted with a quick, “Me, too!” and the others chuckled.

  Wyatt then reached for her hand. “I’m grateful for the way she’s been like the calm in the middle of a storm. For the kindness she showed Ryder right from the start, to the way she’s helped me accept certain things beyond my control. And for organizing all of this tonight. I’ve never met anyone who gives so much to so many people and doesn’t ask for anything in return. If anyone here deserves a medal, it’s her, not me.”

  Now tears spilled down her cheeks. Her skin flashed hot and cold, and her voice cracked a bit when she said, “Thank you, and you’re welcome.”

  She fell silent, overwhelmed by a rush of mixed emotions and the six pairs of eyes staring at her.

  “Your turn. What are you grateful for, Emma?” Wyatt asked, squeezing her hand.

  “I have a guess,” Mari said in a lighthearted tone Emma knew couldn’t match the woman’s feelings.

  “Oh, that’s a fun twist,” Mrs. Lawson added, oblivious to the alarm coursing through Emma’s veins.

  “Isn’t it?” Mari’s mouth curled into its slick, city-girl smile. “Of course, perhaps I should frame my guess as more of a congratulatory comment.”

  “Well, now I’m curious.” Wyatt’s eyes darted from Emma to Mari, apparently unaware that Emma’s blood had run cold, freezing her in place. “Don’t leave us in suspense.”

  “Emma here is about to become a published author. I know that’s a highly competitive industry, so she must be very grateful to have a publisher’s support.” Mari raised her wineglass as if she were toasting Emma.

  Bile rose in Emma’s throat. Perspiration broke out along her hairline. She couldn’t look at Wyatt or anyone, her gaze fixed somewhere over Mari’s shoulder.

  “What?” She heard Wyatt’s voice as if she was hearing it under water. “Is it true?”

  Mari tsked. “I’m surprised she didn’t share it with you, Wyatt, considering what close friends you’ve become. I’ll admit, I was surprised. Not by the pen name, of course, considering the subject matter. But the sample pages are quite titillating. I preordered a copy last night.”

  “What’s it about?” Mrs. Lawson asked, her interest clearly piqued.

  Emma couldn’t move. Her mouth wouldn’t work. Words wouldn’t form. She closed her eyes like a two-year-old playing hide-and-go-seek, wishing herself invisible simply because she could no longer see anything.

  “It’s a super-sexy erotic romance.” Mari grinned. “I like the pen name. Alexa Aspen. Rolls off the tongue. Perfect for the genre.”

  Emma felt Wyatt lean closer. “Is this what you’ve been afraid of? You’re embarrassed because you wrote a sexy book?”

  She opened her eyes and saw him still smiling. He hadn’t put it together yet, thankfully. Maybe she could salvage this if she could get her body to respond. If she could stand up and get him to follow her so she could explain it all in private.

  “Here’s the crazy part,” Mari continued. “The premise of the story involves a champion snowboarder. Obviously it was written long before you two met, but it’s quite a coincidence. Starts off with a wild one-night stand in Aspen. Guess I’ll have to wait a couple of weeks to read past chapter one.”

  Emma’s gaze now fixed on Wyatt. He’d been looking at her, but then his eyes wandered off, brow drawn in thought.

  “Alexa Aspen.” He faced her again, this time his gaze traveled her features, starting and ending with her hair. “Alexa . . . Aspen.” He sat back, clearly off-balance. “Was it you? Was she you?”

  “Wyatt . . .” Emma trailed off. What could she say? She wouldn’t now add to her sins by denying the truth. Thankfully she hadn’t eaten yet, because if she had, it would come right back up. She’d deal with Mari and this stupid film later, but first she had to talk to Wyatt.

  “Was. She. You?” Gone was the playful grin she’d known all month. His eyes had cooled, his mouth grim, like Ryder’s.

  “Yes.” Emma reached for his hand, but he withdrew it. “Wyatt, it’s not what you think.”

  “Isn’t it?” His jaw clenched. “So that wasn’t you in my hotel room? Wasn’t you who snuck off without a word? Wasn’t you who exploited me to make money off some book?”

  A beat or two of razor-sharp silence settled in the room, defying anyone to breathe, much less talk.

  “Oh, Emma, you’re not at all who you seem to be, are you?” Mari interjected. “At least now we know why you didn’t want to be part of this film.”

  The tension in the room had become unbearable, pressing in on Emma from all sides, finally propelling her from her chair. She could barely see clearly from the tears clogging her eyes. “Excuse me.”

  The words came out choked, but she managed to cross the dining room without stumbling. As soon as she was out of sight, she fumbled toward the stairs quickly, panting as she groped the railing for support on her way up to her room.

  She locked the door and flung herself across her bed, muffling her tears in her pillow. She could blame Mari, that vicious bitch. Surely this news would do nothing to help Wyatt’s state of mind or his comeback. Its primary goal had been to humiliate Emma, but even Mari hadn’t realized the full scope of the truth. Hadn’t known about her and Wyatt’s past.

  No, as much as Emma wanted to scratch that woman’s eyes from her face, she had only herself to blame for the web of lies and omissions that had led to the look of disdain
on Wyatt’s face.

  She curled into a tight ball on her bed, clutching her pillow, unable to stop the tears from flowing, or the remorse from consuming her.

  A heavy knock rattled her door.

  “Emma, let me in,” Wyatt ordered.

  She bolted upright and wiped her face, sniffling.

  “Emma!” he hollered. “You owe me an explanation, dammit.”

  Reluctantly, she slid off the bed and unlocked the door, then crossed to her sofa, sat down, and hugged her legs to her chest. “I’m sorry.”

  “For which part? For lying to me when I first showed up here?”

  “Why would I humiliate myself and remind you of who I was?” Emma glanced up. “Imagine how I felt to have been so completely unmemorable. You can’t blame me for not saying something. You should be grateful I didn’t hold it against you.”

  At least he had the grace to look away for a minute. “Even so, you didn’t have to spend that first week treating me like there was something wrong with me. And once we got together again, you couldn’t find a way to be honest about that, or warn me you’d written a damn book about me?”

  “It’s not about you,” she defended. “It’s fiction.”

  “Sounds like this fiction has an awful lot in common with reality.” Color had returned to his face.

  “It doesn’t. I spun a story around the night we met. Dallas is nothing like you, though. Aside from the snowboarding stuff, at least.”

  “Dallas?” Wyatt rolled his eyes. “You named me Dallas?”

  “It’s not you.”

  “Was it my face you saw when you wrote about him? Did you use things I did and said to fill in some of the blanks in this fiction?”

  “I was there, too. I’m entitled to use my own experience as inspiration for a story. This wasn’t a conspiracy to get you, Wyatt. Your name is never mentioned in anything connected to this book.”

  “Neither is yours, apparently.”

  “No, neither is mine.”

  “Who are you, Emma? Not the person you pretend to be—not Saint Emma. My God, I honestly can’t believe you’re the same woman I met in Aspen. Was that just some big game to you?”