Page 111 of All Tied Down

After I get my husband back.

Because I will.

Like my father said, I’m Emerson Fucking Andrews.

I’m the woman in the song.

I’m Garrett’s wife.

And I think it’s about time I ask my husband to marry me.

For real.

44

GARRETT

It’s quiet as I lean my head against the back of the wicker chair, my feet kicked up on the side of the firepit as the flames lick into the air. I’ve ignored calls from Roan and Colt, making Theo run interference because I just can’t do it today.

There’d been a small part of me leaving Emerson’s office today that thought she might follow me out—that she’d shove my ring back on my finger and tell me to stop being an asshole for even considering going through with the divorce. But my ring finger is bare, the weight of the band noticeably absent as I rub my thumb over the spot where it should be.

I liked being married.

But there was never anything temporary about it—not if I’m being honest. I fell hard and fast for Emerson. Her strength and passion were so incredibly addictive it feels like I’m going through withdrawals—and that’s not even including the sex.

Fuck, the sex was amazing.

Wild and out of control and more intimate than I ever thought possible. She changed me—took little pieces of me over time, so small I didn’t even notice.

Until she was gone and I’m left with this gaping hole inside me that will never be mended. It’s a hell of a realization as I sit alone with only the light from the fire to keep me company.

“The sign out front says you’re looking for a wife.” The voice is smoky and familiar, the ache in my chest widening as Emerson appears beside me. “But according to this,”—she gently waves the stack of papers in her hand before tossing them into the fire, the flames dampened for only a moment before the pages ignite and smoke billows into the sky—“you already have one.”

“Em, what⁠—”

“I didn’t sign them.”

“I’m not sure it would’ve mattered if you did.” My lips twitch but I need her to come to me.

All the way.

“Could have been a stack of spreadsheets.”

“Was it?”

“No.” Slowly, she moves to stand before me still dressed in her work clothes, a blouse and slacks. “But you broke one of the rules.”

“I wrote you a song,” I confirm, looking up to meet her gaze.

“You wrote me a song,” she parrots, straddling my lap and flipping her dark hair over one shoulder, the light from the fire reflecting off something in her hand. “It was a good song.”

“Yeah?” My Adam’s apple bobs, my response barely a rasp as my heart beats wildly in my chest.

“I think it’s only fair that you should know I also broke one of the rules.” She tilts her head from side to side, her expression not giving anything away. “You broke one and I broke one…”

She trails off like she’s not giving me heart palpitations sitting on my lap, her perfume teasing me with every inhale and her mouth a breath away from mine.

It’s almost too much—having her this close and not being sure if I can touch her.