A Game Of Brides (Montana Born Brides)

by Megan Crane

They weren’t touching. The man was tall and blonde and had the sort of powerfully rugged athleticism that only a dead woman would fail to notice. Emmy definitely wasn’t dead. He had his arms crossed over his chest and a small smile on his face as he listened to whatever the small blonde woman was saying to him, as if he found every grand, illustrative gesture she made with her hands a kind of poetry.

  It was one of the most intimate things Emmy had ever seen, private and perfect, and she didn’t understand why she felt so shaken when she turned away again. She swallowed, hard, then looked around as much to blink back the odd swell of emotion that threatened to spill from her eyes as anything else, and that was when she saw him.

  She knew it was Griffin even though he stood in shadows further along the tracks, turned away from her, his gaze somewhere high on Copper Mountain, which thrust up into the sky above the town looking moody and indigo in the evening light. That punch she’d suffered inside FlintWorks still shook through her and she hurt, like she’d sustained a serious bruising from something that hadn’t even happened, and she walked toward him anyway.

  Because she didn’t seem to know how to do anything else. Because he felt like home, too, and that was the most dangerous thing she’d thought yet.

  He didn’t acknowledge her when she came to a stop at his elbow. He didn’t look away from the mountain. She had a brief and vicious fight with herself, but common sense won. Only a crazy psycho would confront a man about his past a mere ten days into whatever their thing was. Because only a crazy psycho, a boiler of bunnies extraordinaire, would fail to recognize that doing so was an expression of pure, unearned jealousy.

  And Emmy might have spent some time detailing for Margery how far behind her she’d left her teenage years, but that didn’t mean she was unaware that when it came to things like this, it was always, always better to play it cool. It had been true in the seventh grade and it was true now.

  So it came as a great surprise when she opened her mouth to make a witty observation about something like the weather and that wasn’t what came out at all.

  “I hope you and your apparently not-so-ex-fiancée win the Great Wedding Giveaway, Griffin,” she heard herself say instead, with a biting sort of mock cheerfulness that would have made her flinch if it hadn’t been coming out of her own mouth. “You two lovebirds definitely have my vote.”

  “Perfect,” Griffin bit out into the blue night air surrounding them, shaking his head at the brooding mountain in the distance that didn’t give a single shit what was happening to what was supposed to be his quiet, peaceful life. “That’s fucking perfect.”

  Emmy stood next to him, every inch of her practically vibrating with tension, and he’d been standing out here for too long already. He had to go back inside and continue his painful dinner with Gran Martha whether he wanted to or not, because a man did not abandon his grandmother no matter how irritating the conversation. And he should have been deeply alarmed by the fact Emmy had mentioned the wedding contest thing at all, especially in that tone. Where was that siren that always went off inside of him when women got the wrong idea? When it was made clear that intentions had veered off in directions he didn’t want to go? Where was his sense of self-preservation?

  When did you become someone things simply happened to? Gran Martha had asked, and he still couldn’t answer the damned question. Because he still didn’t know.

  But Emmy, by God, was not one of those things. He’d wanted her for a decade. She was a choice, not a consolation prize.

  “If you want to ask me a question, Bug, you should go ahead and ask it. I don’t do too well with the mind games and passive aggressive bullshit.”

  He felt more than saw her bristle beside him.

  “I thought I was pretty clear,” she said in the same sharp tone that despite himself, he didn’t hate the way he knew he should, because it was such a novelty to have someone come at him directly. No tiptoeing around him. No placating him. Emmy and Gran Martha were the only ones who had in years. “I’m accusing you of lying to me. Of pretending to have broken up with your fiancée so I’d sleep with you when really, you’re hoping to win a grand wedding at the Graff Hotel with her before you ride off into a great big Montana-flavored happily-ever-after.” She shifted so she could glare at him. “I’m surprised you didn’t pick up on that. What with the pointed sarcasm.”

  “Gran Martha just spent the better part of the last half hour eating my fries and ripping into me in her own, inimitable way,” Griffin commented, returning Emmy’s glare without bothering to hold himself back at all. It occurred to him that there was no one else on earth he was so completely himself with. That had been true when he’d been sixteen and that self had been seventy-five percent conceited jerk and it was true now. He didn’t know how to feel about that, so he kept going. “You think you can follow her act? She’s had a couple of decades more practice.”

  “I think the point I’m trying to make is that I don’t mind following anyone,” Emmy said after a moment of scowling at him. “It’s the being involved with cheating when only one of us is aware I’m doing it that I find problematic, you asshole.”

  “Reality check.”

  He didn’t know when he moved or even that he meant to move, but there he was, backing her into the wall of the depot, deeper into the shadows. Far away from any watchful eyes—not that at the moment, he gave a shit who might see them.

  “I’m not trying to win anything,” he told her when her back was to the wall and she was scowling up at him ferociously, her hands in fists he knew he’d feel if he dared call them what they were. Adorable. He had to fight himself to keep his own hands at his sides, because he was already so used to touching her when he was this close to her that not touching her felt like a punishment. When had that happened? “And I don’t cheat.”

  “Are you or are you not a finalist in the wedding contest currently sweeping the town? About which I read two articles in the Copper Mountain Courier this very morning?”

  He shook his head at her, and he didn’t understand a goddamn thing. Not this storm in him that his grandmother had unleashed. Not this growing, gaping thing in his chest that he was beginning to worry was specifically Emmy-shaped. Not his fascination with her mouth, which felt a whole lot more like an addiction. Not any of it.

  Griffin only knew he had to touch her, that he needed it, so he did. He slid his hands over her jaw and up to cradle her soft cheeks, holding her face still and furious, right where he wanted it.

  “Gran Martha signed me and Celia up for the fucking contest,” he told her, very quietly, because everything inside of him was loud. Much too loud. Chaotic and wild. Everything but her. “Even though she knows perfectly well we broke up.”

  Emmy blinked. Griffin felt her breathe, and he thought he loved the way her dark eyes moved over him then. The same way he loved the way she settled into his grip, her hands—unfisted—moving to hold on to him at his waist. Because he didn’t have to explain the long and torturous history of his meddling grandmother and her various schemes to Emmy. He didn’t have to assure her that yes, it was entirely possible that Gran Martha could do something like this for her own mysterious reasons and who cared how much trouble it caused him?

  “What’s her endgame?” she asked instead, because she’d known Gran Martha all her life. She already knew what it was like to find herself in the crosshairs of the Grans when they’d decided events should proceed in a certain manner and their troublesome offspring weren’t cooperating as they’d like.

  It had never really occurred to Griffin how deeply satisfying it could be to not have to explain something that had always been so self-evident in their families. Like reverting to his native language when he’d spent his entire adult life speaking in a new one.

  He moved his thumbs gently from her temples to the edge of her lips, then back, and there was no particular reason he should feel that touch inside him as if she was the one soothing him, caressing him.

  “I don’t know,�
� he said. “She was never a fan of Celia’s. It was always the raised eyebrows and the high-pitched, too polite voice when Celia was around, like she was waiting for Celia to steal the silver or run off with the mailman.”

  “I guess she really is psychic,” Emmy teased him. “Just as she’s always claimed.”

  Griffin was amazed that he smiled then, but he did. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

  He felt Emmy mimic the motion of his thumbs with hers, there at his waist, like little licks of comfort and fire.

  “She must want something. Do you know what?”

  “She wants me to choose,” he said gruffly. “To act, not react.”

  Emmy studied him for a moment, while the shadows seemed to cool all around them and the sky turned a deeper blue above. He heard traffic from the street out front and the slam of car doors as Marietta readied itself for a Thursday night in good weather after so many months of snow and ice and gloom.

  “Isn’t that what you do?” she asked. Her voice was soft. “I mean, that’s your job, isn’t it? Making money and throwing yourself down remote mountains and whatever else it is you do and claim is fun?”

  “Not that you read that article in Outside magazine.”

  “Of course not. I don’t find you in the least bit interesting.”

  Griffin thought her smile then was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and far more dangerous than it should have been. It became his whole world. It swelled in him like a single note of music, played long and loud, then echoing on forever. It seemed bluer than the May evening all around them and soared higher than the mountain behind him and letting go of her was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But he did it anyway.

  Because they were standing outside in Marietta and it was still light. And this thing between them was supposed to be a secret for a thousand very good reasons neither one of them had needed to spell out, no matter how annoying he thought it was at times like this.

  And because he couldn’t be in love with Emmy Mathis.

  That couldn’t be what that stitch-like thing in his side and that hollowness higher up in his chest was, because that wasn’t the least bit reasonable or practical and it was past time he started acting like he was either one of those things again.

  Gran Martha was right, no matter how little he’d liked the words she’d chosen or the fact she’d called him out on it in the first place. He’d stormed out of Jackson Hole. He’d refused Celia’s calls. He only spoke to Henry about business when it couldn’t be avoided any longer, and preferred to use email and voicemail messages when possible. He’d pulled a disappearing act on his entire company and holed up here in Marietta instead, licking his wounds.

  It had been a long winter. But it was time he accepted the fact that spring was here. And that he wasn’t the man he’d been back in September.

  Especially now, looking down at this woman who’d known him before he was GriffinFlight. Who knew him in a way no one else could.

  “I like the art,” he said, and there was no possible way Emmy could know that it was a confession ripped straight out of the deepest, darkest part of him. There was no way that she could see how much this hurt to admit. “I like tattoos. I like incorporating them into places they don’t normally go. Clothes and equipment and the rest. I like tattoo culture and, yes, a whole lot of extreme sports. But I hate the business.” He let out a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I hate running the business.”

  I’m not having fun anymore, he’d said to Celia maybe a year ago, but he’d said it lightly and with a grin, so he could play it off as a joke if she reacted badly.

  Had he known she’d react badly? Was that why he’d said it at all—to test the waters?

  They’d been sitting in his office talking strategy for another big corporate meeting he hadn’t wanted to take. He hadn’t been able to remember the last time he’d given a shit what happened in one of these meetings—and the funny thing was, the less he’d cared, the more he’d dominated them. The more he wanted to bail on the whole thing, the more money he made and the less likely it seemed he’d ever escape the behemoth GriffinFlight had become.

  Celia had sighed the way she’d done when she’d thought Griffin needed handling. That had been what she and Henry had called it, like it had been a big joke the whole company was in on, or like Griffin had been a fractious toddler they had to appease as part of their daily duties. Not that it had seemed like she’d been joking that day.

  Grow up, Griffin, Celia had said with a quiet impatience that had looked a little too much like dislike, to his recollection. You’re not a ski bum anymore. You’re not selling a couple of t-shirts out of the trunk of your car and hoping for the best. This is work, not fun.

  Emmy’s mouth shifted into something wry and Griffin braced himself for more of the same. He was a man, after all. Wasn’t he supposed to want nothing more than to conquer the world? And revel in it once he did? Like some latter day Viking on an endless corporate rampage?

  “That’s funny,” she said, and there was a rich note in her voice, warm like laughter. Like there was nothing wrong with him after all. “I don’t think I’ve really thought about it in those terms before, but I’m so tired of the kind of writing I do. I’m tired of coming up with a thousand pithy lines of copy for other people to dismiss and then complain about. I spend most of my time trying to work around my idiot boss, correcting her mistakes and then biting my tongue while she takes credit for it. I’m so much better at managing teams and projects than I am at forcing myself to meet deadlines.” She smiled up at him. “We should switch. You be the talent. I’ll be the management. It would be fun.”

  His heart was pounding. He didn’t know what to make of her easy acceptance of him, or how much he wished he really could switch places with her and see what kind of fun they’d have, so he reached over and took her hand instead, threading her fingers through his. Letting their palms meet. Studying the delicate bones on the back of her hand and testing them against the pads of his fingers.

  He told himself he didn’t notice that it felt like some kind of vow, because falling in love with Emmy Mathis had never been part of his plans. He thought maybe, if he ignored it, it would go away. Just like she would when her sister’s wedding was over, and much sooner than he wanted to think about.

  But then, because it felt sacred where they stood and something in him needed the rawness of total honesty, despite how little it had ever done for him in the past, he kept talking.

  “Sometimes I think the dumbest thing I ever did was make it big.”

  For a moment, he didn’t think he’d said that out loud. Only thought it, the way he had on all those nights he’d found himself sleepless and restless and lost in that last year before he’d left Jackson Hole and his company behind. Thought it so long and so hard he’d imagined it must have showed on his face, like another tattoo, but no one had ever seemed to see it. Not in Jackson Hole and not throughout the long, cold winter here. Why should tonight be any different?

  But then Emmy’s hand moved in his. She leaned forward, bringing his hand to her mouth and pressing a soft kiss in the center of his palm. He felt it like a lightning bolt. He felt it like a blessing. He felt it everywhere.

  “Then make something else instead, Griffin,” she said, and changed everything. “That’s what you do best.”

  Chapter Seven

  And then suddenly it was the week of the wedding, a fact which seemed to bear down on Emmy like a pile of very heavy stones as she sat in nothing but a soft robe in an upscale Bozeman spa on the Wednesday before the Big Day. Most of the other bridesmaids were already submerged in the hot tubs and cooler pools in the private area Margery had booked for their use. The champagne was flowing, there were trays of light snacks and chocolate-covered strawberries, and one by one they were all being led out for their various treatments. Manicures, pedicures, massages, and last minute hair consultations.

  It was all very pleasant. Luxurious, even. But if the Spa Day Margery had been talki
ng about forever had finally arrived, that meant Emmy had to face the fact that she only a very little bit of time left in Montana. Only a few days left with Griffin. She found she couldn’t bear thinking about it.

  Something had changed since that moment she and Griffin had shared outside the old depot the previous week. Neither one of them had discussed it. But it seemed as if every moment was fraught, somehow. Different. As if their gazes caught more, held longer. As if the way they tore each other into pieces whenever they got their hands on each other mattered more, somehow.

  Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, Emmy told herself sharply. You told him this was just a fling. And he didn’t argue.

  Outside of a few regrettable decisions in college that she didn’t think counted, because everyone was an idiot at age nineteen, Emmy hadn’t ever really had a fling. It was more than a little galling to realize that she wasn’t any good at them. Surely if she was the strong, independent, take-charge sort of woman she thought she ought to be, she could march her way through any number of love affairs and casual flings without a moment’s pause. Maybe there was something wrong with her, because she wasn’t at all sure she knew how to survive this.

  What’s wrong with you is very simple, that caustic voice inside of her chimed in then. It’s the same thing that’s been wrong with you for more than half your life. It’s the reason you stayed away from Montana for the last ten years. It was never an infatuation. You know exactly what it is.

  Emmy did know. Of course she did. But she didn’t see any point in admitting it, because what good would come of that? She was still leaving on Monday morning, whether she was in love with Griffin Hyatt or not.

  “Are you sulking?” Margery asked, flopping down next to Emmy on the plush white chaise, wearing nothing but an inadequately wrapped towel.

  “Is there something in particular that I should be sulking about?” Emmy asked mildly.

  Margery’s bodyweight made the cushion beneath them into an incline, and Emmy did nothing to stop it when they rolled into each other. She’d been sharing space with Margery her whole life. She might never quite see eye to eye with her flamboyant older sister, but there was a bone-deep comfort and ease in curling up somewhere with her, shoulder pressed to shoulder. It reminded her of long afternoons lying out in the sweet grass on Gran Harriet’s land or huddled together under a blanket beneath the exultation of the Milky Way on those late, late summer nights when the August sun finally deigned to set. Emmy adjusted her legs beneath her thick spa robe to spare the rest of the party a Starlet Exiting A Limo experience and smiled at her sister.