Mend (Waters Book 2)

by Kivrin Wilson

  “I'm done for the day,” Stuart announces unceremoniously, unhooking his stainless-steel water bottle from his backpack and taking a drink. “We can wrap things up tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Paige says hesitantly, eyeing Caroline, who just shrugs. Like she's saying, It is what it is.

  Which I suppose might be the only way to deal with Stuart Garnett and keep your sanity. Not that Caroline herself is any kind of model for mental stability.

  “You two can head back if you want,” Stu continues, recapping his bottle.

  It takes me a second to grasp that he means me and Paige, not Paige and Caroline.

  My wife throws her client a worried look. “That's probably not the best idea. Maybe we should all turn around.”

  “I promised I’d hike to the peak with him,” Caroline says with a shake of her head, “like we always do. We’ll talk later.”

  Wow. Paige looks as taken aback as I feel as we watch our clients take off across the clearing toward the pines and the next uphill portion.

  “Are you going on?” she asks me, sounding apprehensive.

  I snort. “I’d rather pull out my toenails.”

  Still, she wavers. “If they kill each other, can we be blamed?”

  With a grim smile, I say, “It'd be our word against nobody’s that we had any idea there might be any violence.”

  Paige is silent for a couple of heartbeats. Then she says, “Cool.”

  And we start our hike back down the mountain.

  Chapter 15

  Paige

  Can this day get any worse? is the chorus on repeat in my head as I tread steadily back down the mountainside.

  Actually, there are countless ways that it can. Which is why that question should always be treated as rhetorical.

  But seriously. First of all, I don’t like hiking. I just don’t trust nature. The bugs, the wild animals, the filth, and all the ways you could injure yourself or even die out here… What’s the attraction?

  Secondly, who’d’ve thought that wildly successful power couple Stuart Garnett and Caroline Carne are hands down, certifiably batshit crazy? Until today, I definitely hadn’t.

  My only lifeline at this point is fantasizing about the invoice I’ll get to send to Caroline when I’m done with this madness. Which we’re close to now. So close—though, of course, all we’ve got so far are verbal agreements from Stu. The show isn’t over until he signs the final divorce documents. Which I have to assume he’s not planning on doing, that his goal is still to get his wife to change her mind. Why else drag her with him to the top of that godforsaken peak?

  The worst part, though, is that here I am, making my way back down a mountain I didn’t want to climb in the first place…with my ex at my side.

  We’ve been hiking the first ten minutes or so in silence. Going downhill is quicker than going up, but it’s hell on your knees and quads. I’m going to be in so much pain tomorrow I want to weep at the thought.

  The most annoying part is that Logan has been walking about half a step behind me, and since there’s no trail to follow, that leaves me in charge of figuring out what path to take. It was easy at first with the uphill climb fresh in my mind. But now everything is starting to look the same, and with no landmarks to help me orientate myself, I’m ready to admit I might be getting us lost.

  To myself, at least. I’m not ready to admit it to the man beside me. “Do you care if we go back the same way we came?” I ask him casually.

  A snort-chuckle comes from his throat.

  I shoot a sharp, sideways look at him. “What?”

  “You have no idea where to go.”

  “Of course I do. I was just looking for input.” Even though he’s right, it takes no effort to look and sound offended. Guess it’s become a habit around him.

  “Because you’re not sure if we’re going the right way,” he insists with that smirk of his, the one that can attract and repel me all at once. “You want me to take the lead?”

  Compressing my lips, I ignore the question and keep walking. I’m pretty sure we passed that pair of rocks on the way up. Almost sure. Kind of, sort of sure?

  Dammit.

  “I just don’t understand why we’re not on a trail,” I say. “You’re not even supposed to go off trail, are you? To preserve nature and all that.”

  “It’s not that hard to be respectful and leave little or no impact.” As the path shrinks in width, the woods thickening on either side, Logan falls into step behind me. “Stu and Caroline are experienced hikers. Last time I represented him, he gave me a long and impressive list of mountains they’ve hiked.”

  Good for them.

  Less good for me.

  “Seems safer to stay on a trail, is all,” I point out.

  “Bears don’t care if you’re on a trail or not.”

  Bears? What?

  Pausing, I half twist my body back to stare at my husband. “There are bears?”

  He arches his eyebrows theatrically. “Of course there are bears. And when you go in the ocean, there are sharks.”

  “Uh-huh. This is why I stay away from nature. I like the statistical likelihood of bear and shark attacks to be a perfect zero.”

  As I continue leading the way, Logan asks, “What about the statistical likelihood of being killed in your car by people who are drunk or high or looking at their phones while driving eighty miles per hour?”

  Even though he can’t see it, I roll my eyes. “I’d take dying in a car crash over being eaten alive any day, actually.”

  “We’re not talking about preferable method of death, though,” he argues. “It’s about how likely it is to actually happen.”

  As I pinch my lips together again, it strikes me all of a sudden how familiar this is—and how easy and comfortable it feels to have a friendly argument with him. How long has it been since our discussions have been about good-natured ribbing rather than the nasty, vicious sniping that’s been dominating our conversations for the past couple of years?

  I’ve missed him. The realization momentarily sucks all the air out of my chest. I’ve missed the man I married. He’s been gone for so long.

  “Well,” I respond after a short pause, swallowing against the sudden thickness in my throat, “I’d say, here and now, a bear attack is more likely than getting hit by a drunk driver.”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “No, it’s exactly my point.”

  He lets out a snort-laugh. “Pretty sure bears are especially attracted to people who keep arguing even after they know they’ve lost.”

  “Really?” I cast a glare over my shoulder. “I heard they prefer smug bastards.”

  He laughs again. Because of course he does.

  I’ve missed his laughter, too. Despair curls in my stomach.

  “It’s gonna rain,” Logan comments suddenly.

  “Oh, great.” I look up and see nothing but a ceiling of dark, ominous clouds. “Will Stu and Caroline be okay?”

  “They’ll be prepared for it.”

  I twist my lips. I’m not prepared for it. All the more reason to get back to the cabin as quickly as possible. Assuming Logan will tell me if I’m heading in the wrong direction, I pick up my pace.

  About five minutes pass before the first raindrop plops down on my hair, and I immediately yank the hood up over my head. Hopefully it’ll remain just a light sprinkle. Hopefully we don’t have far to go now.

  “You know,” he observes after we’ve been trudging along for a while, “Stu told me years ago that they were saving climbing Everest for their twentieth anniversary. Guess that’s not happening now.”

  “Life sucks sometimes.” Stu didn’t cause a fuss about Caroline’s dogs out of anything but spite, so if I didn’t already think he was an asshole unworthy of sympathy, I definitely do now.

  “Right,” Logan replies from behind me. And then he says nothing more, which has me frowning and tensing up in anticipation of what might come next. I’ve never experienced him at
a loss for words, and I doubt I ever will.

  He doesn’t keep me waiting long. Flatly, he continues with, “You think you’re going to spend the rest of your life with someone, and you have all these plans and all these milestones to look forward to. Then poof, it’s all gone.”

  My gut clenches and coils. Yup, there it is. Really, it’s just surprising it took him this long to start down that path.

  I could just ignore him. Pretend he’s still talking about our clients. That’s what I should do. Would do, if I could let the rational part of my brain stay in charge.

  Oh, who am I kidding? Can’t have him assuming my silence means I think he’s right.

  “And sometimes,” I retort, “the reason it’s all gone is because you tried fixing a mistake by making an even bigger mistake.”

  There’s a short, heavy silence behind me, and then his voice whips at my back. “Bullshit, Paige. That’s not the reason.”

  Yeah, right. I slant him a dark scowl over my shoulder, letting my eyes communicate what I refuse to put into words—that he’s the one who’s full of shit, that we’ve had this conversation countless times before, and that he’s not going to bait me into having it again.

  Just as our gazes lock, I step on something hard and slippery—a twig. It rolls under my shoe, tips me off-balance, and then I’m flailing as my body falls backwards.

  Fuck, this is going to hurt.

  Hands lock around my arms, a light hold that supports me effortlessly, keeping me upright. It takes me a breathless, heart-fluttering second to realize they’re Logan’s hands, catching me. Logan’s hands, touching me for the first time in I don’t know how long.

  And I feel that touch as if my shirt and jacket don’t even exist, feel the warmth of his skin and the strength in his grip like my arms are bare. It's a dizzying sensation. It stings and burns.

  “Thanks.” The word tastes bitter on my tongue. Behind me, his body radiates heat, and having him this close is shaking me to my bones. I lurch to move forward and away from him, and it feels like a reflex.

  But his hands tighten, locking me in place. My heart immediately beats a hard, painful thump in my chest. No. No, we’re not doing this. We’re past this shit. Damn him.

  “We were not a mistake,” he growls near my ear. “The kids were not a mistake. I made a mistake. There’s a difference.”

  Raindrops are pelting my head now, soaking through and making my hood cling heavy and sticky to my hair. A shiver racking through me, I tear myself away from him, almost staggering as I put a safer distance between us.

  “Semantics,” I say, turning to face him.

  “No, it’s not fucking semantics,” Logan bites out. “It’s a big fucking deal.”

  I feel like I've got a jackhammer in my veins. “Why?”

  For a second, he looks stunned, as if he can’t fathom how I can even ask. His hair is drenched, and fat droplets of rain trickle down his face. Abruptly, he brushes his hand down that stark, handsome countenance of his, and I realize that just looking at him is painful. It’s an acute agony, like every inch of my body being stabbed by thousands of needles.

  “Because we had a great life.” He throws his arms out as if he’s saying something I should know already. “We were so good together. We were so right. Two halves of a whole. We have three amazing kids who need us both. We need us both.”

  My heart is pounding. I should be immune to those words, but I’m not. They fucking hurt.

  Is it because he’s right?

  Yeah. Partially.

  But that only makes it that much more devastating. Because we can’t go back in time.

  “This is pointless,” I pronounce, and then I turn on my heel and start stomping across rain-slicked ground, walking with an unfocused near-blindness, my head swimming with unwelcome emotions.

  I almost start crying because I feel like crying.

  So stupid.

  I’m getting drenched. The rain is coming down hard now, and over the noise of it, I can’t tell if Logan is following me. Instinctively, I know he is, though. And I’m not sure why he’s stopped talking.

  I hear the gurgling, rushing water before I see it, a deep and wide gash in the earth that crosses in front of us and stretches as far as I can see in each direction.

  What the hell? We didn’t pass a creek on the hike up. Seems like we didn’t even walk very far before we started going uphill.

  Which means Logan has allowed me to lead us astray, and not for a minute do I believe that he did it accidentally.

  “Okay,” I say loudly over the sound of the rain, stopping and whipping around to face him. “Which way is the hotel?”

  His hooded gaze fixed on me, he points past me toward the creek.

  I follow the direction he’s indicating, looking up and down for a spot where we can cross. There are none. Not without getting seriously soaked.

  “You’re kidding me,” I state, emphasizing each syllable. “How is this even possible?”

  “It went underneath an overgrown dirt arch that we crossed farther up,” he says. “I guess you didn’t notice.”

  I gape at him. “Why did you let me?”

  “You said you knew where you were going,” is his infuriatingly deadpan answer.

  Closing my eyes, I suck in a few deep breaths. It's pouring rain. I'm wet and cold, and my stomach is starting to remind me it's lunchtime. This is the point where I should tell my husband I need him to take over and get us back to the cabin.

  But I can't. I just can’t give him that satisfaction.

  Well. Guess we’ll just have to wade across then.

  The bank seems to be equally steep and muddy no matter how far up and down I look, so right here is as good a spot as any.

  “Careful—” Logan warns as I take the first tentative step over the edge.

  The word is barely out of his mouth when I feel my feet slipping out from beneath me. A yelp escapes me as I flap and scramble to keep my balance, bending over and grappling for hold on the ground, but my shoes just slide down the slope. With a grunt and a splash, I land on my ass in the mud below. Pain slams into me and bursts where my body hits the ground.

  Squeezing my eyes shut and gritting my teeth, I hold my breath while intense waves of agony pulse and throb in the parts of me that took the fall—my butt, my hand, my elbow. Slowly, it subsides. Blowing out a harsh breath, I open my eyes again.

  Logan crouches one step back from the slippery edge, his face drawn tight. “You okay?”

  Am I okay? No, I’m not fucking okay! I’m drenched through to my skin, covered in mud, and now I’m pretty sure I’ll be beyond sore tomorrow. In fact, I might not be able to walk, and I have work to do here, God dammit.

  But that’s not even the worst part. He’s the worst. Him and his…emotional terrorism.

  “Shit!” I slap the disgusting, brown liquid I’m sitting here and wallowing in. Of course, that just makes me even dirtier, gobs of mud splattering my torso and a chunk of it even hitting my cheek. Not that it matters. The raindrops falling in rivulets down my face are washing it away.

  And my misery is officially complete. Angrily, I jerk off my backpack and fling it up toward the bank on the other side of the creek. It just barely makes it, landing precariously on the edge.

  Hearing a chuckle from above, I look up again to find amusement sparking in his eyes, his mouth dimpling. Apparently my outburst was answer enough, and since I’m “okay” by his standards, that means he can laugh at me.

  Well, fuck him.

  With narrowed eyes, I mentally flip through my options for wiping that smirk off his face. Then he reaches down, offering me a hand, and the opportunity is too obvious and too good to pass up.

  Hiding my intentions with a blank look, I lift my hand and let him clasp it. Before he has a chance to start pulling me up, I tighten my grip. The way he’s squatting, it’s easy to upset his balance, and as soon as I give his arm a sharp tug, he starts to slide. Over the edge he goes, and I let go of him
and scoot back and away as he tumbles down the slick incline. He hits the ground, brown sludge spraying everywhere.

  For a few seconds, he just sits there across from me with a slightly stunned expression, buried thigh-deep in mud. The disgusting liquid shot in streaks up his jacket, with small drops of it going as far as his forehead and hair.

  He recovers quickly, casting me a tight-lipped glare before taking his hands out of the mud and searching for dry parts of his jacket to wipe them on. “Feel better now?” he asks with calm that I feel is deceptive.

  Actually, I don’t. The satisfaction I should be experiencing isn’t there. Instead I just feel empty—weary and somewhat ashamed. Angry and embarrassed that I let him goad me into this…this childish spitefulness. It’s not me.

  But it does confirm that, despite his little “we were so good together” speech, we have a knack for bringing out the worst in each other. That’s not a good thing. I want it to end. I need it to end.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask through my teeth.

  The question arrests him briefly. Then, with raindrops falling down his face and his gaze locked intently on me, he says in an almost hoarse voice, “Because I want you back.”

  It’s as if all my breath and all my blood leave my body in a dizzying rush, draining me of strength and will.

  I knew that. Of course I knew. He’s been showing me since we arrived two days ago, with his eyes and his words and his body language. Has been telling me with the aggressive and confrontational behavior that’s suddenly replaced the aloof hostility I’ve come to expect from him over the past year.

  Still, it’s a shock to hear him say it so plainly.

  “Well, you can't have me back.” My voice sounds weak and shaky to my ears.

  “Why?” he demands—a simple question, seemingly matter-of-fact, but I can hear the raging river of his fervor and his determination, roaring in the distance.

  For a while, I can’t get any words out. They’re stuck in my throat. All I can do is breathe, inhaling and exhaling in harsh, heavy gulps.

  “Because you broke my heart,” I finally choke out. And after a few seconds of listening to my pulse pounding in my ears, I add, “You broke me.”