Page 45 of All Tied Down

But times like these make me want to fight for more because there was nothing fake about the chemistry that sparked and ignited in Vegas.

And there’s nothing fake about the way I’m feeling about her now.

Now is not the time.

Pushing every other thought from my mind, I turn toward Gene Andrews and extend my hand and smile. “It’s great to see you, sir.”

“We’re happy to have you, son.”

18

EMERSON

Son.

My father called my not-so-fake husband son.

For fuck’s sake.

Swallowing back the panic, I let Mrs. Dominic wrap me in a hug, the smell of her lotion exactly the same as always, under the layers of cooking that permeates your clothes the second you walk in the door.

Pulling back, she cups my face in her wrinkled hands. “You look good; you’ve been sleeping,” she says with a frown. “New husband should be keeping you up.”

She raises an accusatory brow at Garrett whose eyes are as wide as saucers, his hand still mid-shake with my father.

Oh boy.

“Who’s ready to eat?” I manage, stepping out of her hold as she chuckles and motions toward our table, the piece still a little wobbly no matter how many coasters we shove under the legs.

It’s perfect.

“You might have to drive home,” Garrett says as plates and bowls of food are placed in the center of the table.

Family style.

Manicotti, spaghetti and meatballs, and bricole, along with bread and a salad and freshly grated cheese.

My father laughs and raises his glass. “To new traditions. Not to replace the memories but to enhance them and remind us that life continues in the most beautiful and unexpected ways.”

We toast as Garrett’s hand finds my leg under the table, his grip strong as I try not to choke on my very expensive wine.

Can a girl catch a break?

I can’t wrap my head around Garrett’s presence making me emotionally unhinged. I like him here, by my side, but that scares the hell out of me. He’s temporary and yes, he fits right now, but that’s because we’re both making sacrifices we can’t sustain long-term.

My life cannot exist solely in Ironwood.

And he likes the quiet life too much to uproot and move with me to Chicago.

It could never work.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want it right now.

“What have you been working on, Garrett?” my father asks, pulling me from my spiral as I accept the serving utensils and add pasta to Garrett’s plate before my own.

Who am I?

“I’m working on some new music. Things with the band are tense right now and we’re trying to figure out the best way to move forward.”