Emily (Daughters, Book #4) (Daughters Series) Read online

  He sits across from me. “Just don’t ask any questions. About jobs, backgrounds… I’m sure you get the gist.”

  “Well, it’s not like I’d ask you if you were here legally. Or if you sold drugs. Or… or whatever you’re implying I should not speak of.”

  “No? You just did.” His smile is small. “And no, to answer you.”

  “I meant it rhetorically. And what are you saying no to? The drugs?”

  “And my legal status.” He smiles more easily.

  I’m confused why he’d say such a thing to me. A complete stranger. I’m definitely no one to him. “Well, shouldn’t you avoid saying things like that?”

  “What are you going to do? Call ICE on your knight in shining armor? No, snowflake, I don’t think so.” He shrugs. “But then again, I could be wrong.”

  He flashes that smile again. He is so quick. And he makes me smile even though I’m annoyed. His nonchalance, casualness, and ease in telling me surprises me. I don’t get it, or him, at all. Then again, why should I?

  “So, snowflake, what now?”

  I have absolutely no idea. I am sitting in my wedding dress with a complete stranger and we’re at the absolute last place on Earth I ever dreamed this day, my wedding day, would end at. I can’t call my parents. Or my sisters. Or even my fiancé. Crap. My ex-fiancé. All I have right now is Ramiro Vasquez. No cell phone, money, or identification, let alone a car or any other means of transportation. I swallow, my gaze finding his and something weird bubbles in my stomach. It’s like he touched my skin, when he didn’t. I’m all tingly and hyper-aware, which is plain stupid. I’m wearing a wedding dress that was meant for another man.

  I drop my gaze in shame. What have I done? What should I do now? He’s right, I have no idea. But the heavy guilt of what I’ve done to Harrison hits me hard. I feel as if someone has just socked me in the gut unexpectedly.

  “He doesn’t deserve this,” I whisper out loud. I don’t know why I say it. I don’t want to talk about it. Not with this stranger. Or my own father. Or anyone else. I know I will have to eventually. But for some reason, here I am, with a stranger and I feel the need to tell him.

  ~Ramiro~

  She looks like a rose set in the middle of a gravel pit. She doesn’t belong at all. The gravel pit is dry and chunky with rocks and little water. No frills are needed there. Like this trailer, and my life even, there are also no pretty, wedding-clad damsels.

  Emily Hendricks. What are the damn chances I would see her, of all the women in the entire world, sneaking out of the church? Of course I know who she is. I was at that church strictly because of her. I read the marriage announcement in the local newspaper and knew that Emily Hendricks was getting married today at the Presbyterian Church. I don’t know what I intended to find out by going there. Perhaps just to catch a glimpse of the famous Will Hendricks. It wasn’t about Emily. No, not at all. I didn’t even glance at his daughter. What the hell do I care about her? But Will Hendricks is someone I have an abiding interest in. I have no concern about her, until I spot her sneaking out. And oddly enough, I follow her and offer her a ride. What the hell do I hope to accomplish? I don’t know. But the opportunity offers me a unique chance to have contact with someone who is directly involved with Will Hendricks.

  I nearly rub my hands together like Snidely Whiplash in a Dudley Do-Right cartoon. Here she is, right inside my lair. There’s no way I could have planned for this opportunity, and yet, she’s making it happen like clockwork.

  I stare at her, seeing much of her father’s features in her face. Their eye color, hair color, and the way their eyebrows arch, as well as the structure of their jaws, are similar. And here she is, at my mercy and disposal. What the hell should I do to capitalize on that?

  Right now, the guilt over her jilted groom is hitting her hard.

  “What’s the deal with you anyway? Is he some kind of jerk? Lazy? A player? Violent? Why humiliate him like that? Why not just say no before all your loved ones go to so much trouble and expense? I’m sure your dad is pissed.”

  She stares down at her hands, which are plucking the soft white material of her dress. My gaze follows the line of the dress. Wow, her skin seems so soft and seductive, like it’s calling to me. But I raise my eyes when hers meet mine. Gotta show some respect. And get her to trust me. Keep her thinking I’m just a benign, poor immigrant who happened upon her.

  “My dad?” she groans, burying her face in her hands. “I can’t even worry about that yet. And Harrison is none of those things. He’s kind and nice and hardworking and he loves me.”

  “And yet… here you are,” I point out. My tone is mild, and I wave my hands around to show off the trailer. “Here you are with me, not honeymooning with Harrison.”

  Her expression crumbles as she glances around. “I just… I couldn’t do it. It’s like they were crushing me and I had to escape just to breathe. All I could see was”—she waves her hand around—“that church ceremony was about to end my entire life. I saw my family and every friend I ever knew. Every damn acquaintance even. There we all were, and here I was, trapped in forever. Stuck in this town. The very town I was born and raised in, and would surely die in. I’d live here and run my errands, seeing both of my sisters, who also live here with their significant others, along with my parents. I’d find a decent job here, raise my kids here, and they would go to the schools I went to, and then we’d all start over, and their lives would be exactly like mine. Meanwhile, I could never leave, or do any of the things I always dreamed of. All I would ever be was from here.”

  I sigh, leaning forward. “Sounds like your own slice of heaven.”

  Her head tips up. “That’s why I ran.”

  “I wasn’t being sarcastic,” I counter and shake my head. “Getting married to the person I love at a big party, with all my family there, happy to witness it, and then getting to work, live, and raise my kids in the same town, all together, as healthy and safe citizens? To me, that sounds like my very own prescription for everything I could ever want from life.”

  I shouldn’t shame her, not right now. Not when I want her to stay here. But it is impossible not to. Everything that makes her feel trapped is everything I have always dreamed about. If I could have one wish, that’d be all I would ever ask for.

  Her neck is blushing and it rises clear to her forehead. “I—I didn’t mean it like that. I’m, I mean… you’re right. I didn’t… think.” Her voice fades off and she bites her lip as her eyes grow wider with visible distress.

  I sigh. I don’t need to do this. There is nothing to gain. Trying to understand each other’s lives and circumstances is like comparing hell to heaven. I fake a gentle smile. “Hey, don’t listen to me. It won’t work if you marry the wrong person. You probably saved him and yourself a lot of grief and boredom.”

  She shakes her head.

  I get up. “How about a change of clothes? It can’t help to be sitting around in yards of white fabric.”

  She glances down. “No, it doesn’t.” Plus, I can’t wait for her to get out of it. She looks like a white angel and I don’t need any romanticized ideals when it comes to Will Hendricks’s daughter. No! Oh, hell no!

  Imagine having the hots for the daughter of the man who ruined your father’s life.

  I harden my heart and chill my gaze. No. There is no forgetting that. She is my enemy at worst and a means to an end at best.

  But she does have a nice smile. She gives me a grin and nods as I turn around to go find some extra clothes for her to wear. I just have to figure out what to do with this odd twist of events. Having Will Hendricks’s daughter in my house is a godsend and I must decide how best to exploit that.

  Because that’s the entire reason I am here, isn’t it?

  Chapter Two

  ~Emily~

  I stand as Ramiro disappears down a dark, narrow hallway. I wait in the kitchen and fidget from one foot to the next. I’m suddenly aware of what I’ve done, now that all my adrenaline is spent.
Running kept me from feeling. My guilt rips through me. I can’t believe I’ve done this, or that I’m standing in my wedding dress, on my wedding day in a stranger’s cramped kitchen. My thoughts are filtering in rapid succession through my brain like a shuffling deck of cards. Luckily, he comes out in mere minutes with a wad of clothes in his arms. I take them, grateful for the chance to ditch this albatross of a wedding dress.

  “You can change in there.”

  I step towards the door he indicates. It’s a tiny bathroom with a stand-up shower and just room enough to turn around. My skirt touches the wall and sink cabinet at the same time. I so carefully kept this dress wrapped up in the plastic provided by the store. Then today, we diligently hung it in my parent’s huge bathroom to let the steam from hot showers relax the material. Hanging up, it was impeccably clean. Now? I sigh. The hemline has been dragged through a parking lot and the dirty truck floor where I cowered has smudged it in spots. There’s no way I can return it now or get my parents’ money back. Why couldn’t my grand revelation have happened even two hours sooner, when I was still at home? Not after putting on this dress. Not before running away to nowhere.

  It took my two sisters, Christina and Melissa, as well as my mom to help me into my dress. The back has thirty tiny, mother-of-pearl buttons. And they’re not the kind that are sewn on to cover an actual zipper. Oh no. Each one has to be buttoned individually. I sigh again, realizing I can’t do it alone. I twist and turn, growing desperate. Trying to grip the material in my hands, I lift upwards, intending to somehow pull it over my head. But duh! It doesn’t even budge. I scowl in the small, oval mirror above the sink. The sink is scratched and stained by the yellow residue of iron stains, but it’s all surprisingly clean. Suddenly, my anxiety to get the dress off twists me all around in a panic. I start to sweat and have to give up, breathing even harder now. I can’t manage it. Leaning my hands on the sink, hot tears begin to fill my eyes as the admission of defeat is imminent. Not because of the stupid dress. There is nothing about the dress that would make me start crying. It’s a stupid, lavish, way too expensive dress that isn’t even my taste. Actually, it’s so totally not me. I’m casual, informal, and athletic. Dressing up to me is a sundress and canvas espadrilles. I don’t like heels or anything that feels tight or constricting. And yet, here I am, all trussed up in a super traditional bridal dress, including pearls on the bodice with lace and tulle covering the bell-shaped skirt and a long train flowing behind me. Why didn’t I choose something more… me? This dress was something Christina would wear, maybe even Melissa. But me? No, and I shouldn’t have picked it. No one’s fault but my own of course, but I didn’t even choose a dress that I wanted.

  It’s so symbolic, as false as my desire to get married. I must have realized it at the gut level, and yet, I didn’t acknowledge it. So my escape from it all was to run away? That’s why I cry, and not because I can’t get out of the stupid dress.

  There’s a knock on the door. Of course, he can hear my sobs through the cheap particle board that’s supposed to pass for a door. I’d hate to use the bathroom in there. Anyone sitting in the living room could hear it all.

  “Emily?”

  I jerk the door open, startling him. He is standing close to the door and we are face to face. He steps back. At least, so far, his gestures towards me don’t seem aggressive.

  I sniffle. “I can’t reach the back of it.”

  His weight shifts and he’s instantly on his feet. “Do you want me to—?”

  “No. But here we are.”

  His gaze finds mine and his mouth turns down. “Uh, what’s wrong with your eye? Are you okay?”

  Lifting my hand to my cheek, I start feeling around, grasping something like a caterpillar before I glance in the mirror. I have to laugh out loud. “It’s a false eyelash unpeeling. I forgot I was wearing them.” I turn towards the sink and rip it off, wincing as the residual glue clings desperately. Tearing the other fake eyelash off, I can hear Ramiro grunt and flinch behind me.

  “Girls. That’s some odd shit to be sticking on your eyes, snowflake.”

  I elbow him. “Quit referring to me by that insipid name. I’m Emily. Just call me by my damn name.” Ironically, his irritating nicknames manage to keep me from crying, replacing my sadness with a mild anger that detracts from the more serious thoughts on my mind.

  “Emily? That’s kind of boring to call you. You’re just like a snowflake in all your whiteness and purity.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Quit it. I’m not trying to be anything. I just—”

  “Want me to undress you?”

  “Yes!” I exclaim. Only then does his smile and the goading rise of his eyebrows register in my head, along with the proposal to which I so enthusiastically agreed. I grind my teeth. He still stands right outside the bathroom. Shaking my head with resignation, I reply softly, “Yes, I just want to get out of this stupid dress.”

  “Hey, okay, okay. I’ll undo your dress. No need to cry over it.” He steps behind me and I flip him off, turning my back to the door and him. I glance at the mirror and wince. I am buried under four times as much makeup as I usually wear. That’s hideous enough, but with the trails of my tears, I’m a dismal mess.

  I flash on all the time they spent curling my paper-straight blond hair. It hangs limply over my shoulders and falls down my back. I grab it into a fist and slide it over my right shoulder, moving it out of his way. His hands grasp the top of my dress and his knuckles feel warm against my bare skin. I stare straight ahead. Such an intimate act in the small bathroom with a complete stranger conspire to make the moment seem more intense, even awkward, and truthfully, almost more sensual than it is. Holding my breath, I feel his fingers hesitate for a moment before he slowly makes his way down the line of undersized buttons. An awkward silence falls between us. I cross my arms over my breasts to hold the gown in place. Under the strapless dress, I’m wearing a bustier instead of my usual modest sports bra.

  He doesn’t say a word and when I feel him touching just beyond my mid-back, I say, “That’s enough.”

  “Okay… can you, uh, get the thing under it?”

  I roll my eyes. “Just unhook it,” I snap.

  “Okay. No reason to get mad at me. I don’t know about shit like this. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen such an elaborate get-up. Didn’t know dressing could be so complicated.” He grumbles as his hands quickly undo the eyelet hooks on my bustier. He doesn’t stop talking the entire time that his hands are moving and I know all the grumbling from him is actually a way to distract me and take away some of my discomfort. The intimacy between us flashes through my mind again and I wonder what the moment could feel like under different circumstances. Circumstances where I’ve not just ditched my own wedding. He’s trying to distract me by taking attention off what his hands are doing. It’s a kindness I appreciate more than any actual words of pity or sympathy.

  This time, his knuckles touch my bare skin and continue brushing over it. They hardly graze over me but still manage to give me goose bumps. Almost like when a stylist washes your hair and it feels good, but not sensual. It’s odd for me and I take in a deep breath, becoming annoyed because I am so keenly aware of his contact. I am self-conscious as the pitiful dress falls forward, no longer clinging to my breasts, along with my undergarment. All that holds it up now are my arms. It’s… disconcerting. And almost hot. If these were different, completely different circumstances.

  “Thank you,” I softly whisper when his hands leave my back. I keep my dress securely placed over my chest.

  “Sure. You ever need more help with taking off your clothes…”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head, catching his grin before he turns and leaves. I don’t know how it’s possible, especially on this terrible day after doing such a mean-spirited deed, but Ramiro manages to make me laugh, of all things. I hate myself for it. But here I am. Laughing.

  Letting the top slide down, I gingerly step out of the gown and slip on the t-shirt and sw
eats Ramiro so generously provided for me. Way too loose and baggy. Being bra-less doesn’t matter, as the clothes are far from flattering. Going from crazy formal, looking the very best I’ve ever looked to a grungy, college co-ed makes me sigh. That’s all I am. What made me think I was ready to get married? Or become a wife? That’s what old people do. I’m not even remotely ready for that kind of commitment. Now? I don’t even have a pair of good socks. I leave my heels on and slip the flannel shirt over me, folding my arms over it as I walk out to join my impromptu host.

  He’s leaning forward, a beer in his hand, and glances my way as I emerge from the small room. Grabbing my huge dress with both arms, I begin dragging it across the room and bunch it up next to me on the couch. Ramiro tilts his bottle towards it as if he is honoring it with a toast. His gaze travels over to me and he watches my descent onto the couch. “Want a beer? As promised?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  Getting up, he opens the fridge, and grabs the bottle opener off the counter before popping the lid off and handing me the bottle. “I’m surprised you drink beer.”

  “Really? Why is that?” I ask, taking a gulp. “Because you know me so well? Or you think you know my type? Which is… what again? Oh yes, white.”

  He tilts his head. “Well, you are.” He smiles as if his reply were clever.

  I roll my eyes. “That means nothing.”

  He clears his throat. “I beg to differ. Means a lot. You’re white, so you don’t have to think so.”

  I drink more before I nod, my heart sinking. “You’re right. But I already hurt someone today. I’m not trying to hurt anyone else.”

  “I know you’re not. So tell me, now what?”

  I shift around, becoming more aware that I’m in borrowed clothes without even a sock or a coat or a dollar to my name. I drink all of the beer and he grins and points. “Want another?” he asks.