Page 27 of Tangled Vows

“I didn’t realize this would feel so cathartic,” I admitted, blowing a rogue strand of hair out of my face. “I never realized how much I just needed to hit something.” The heavy weight of that truth settled on my shoulders and I gulped back the sudden rush of emotion clogging my throat.

Since the moment Mom told me about her cancer diagnosis, anger started to swell inside me. Anger that the cancer came back and could very well steal her from me. Anger that she would have to suffer through treatment again. And later, anger that my selfish prick of a father refused to doanythingto help her. All of that simmering rage rose to the surface as I thought about the injustice of it all.

Pinching my eyes closed, I heaved a deep breath to center myself. I would not cry in here in front of Easton Walker, not even angry tears.

Easton had gone perfectly still, but I ignored the heat of his gaze on the side of my face. I’d momentarily dropped the facade I usually kept firmly in place around him and let my vulnerability slip through.

Needing space, I moved further into the room and found a stack of plates. I brought the bat down on top of them. Fissures spread throughout the one on top, but they didn’t break. My lips turned down in a frown, and my brows pulled together. I brought the bat down again, this time breaking the top plate in half. The others proved more difficult, and I growled in frustration. These damn plates refused to crack, denying me the satisfaction of feeling them shatter beneath my blows. Just like my father denied me the satisfaction of knowing I could pay for my mother’s cancer treatment. Tension knotted in my shoulders, and I rolled my neck to relieve it. It didn’t work.

“Just fucking break already,” I muttered, flexing my fingers before curling them around the handle. Lifting the bat, I brought it down again, basking in the vibration that traveled up my arms from the impact. It was the good kind of hurt that distracted you from the pain in your soul. Swinging it down on the plates again and again, my face flushed with exertion. They shattered, chunks of porcelain breaking into smaller pieces.

That was when I felt them. Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over to track down my cheeks. My chest heaved with every ragged breath I took, and a sob broke loose as I pulverized the plates into dust. I moved to the next table and took out years of frustration and anger with each swing of my bat until I couldn’t raise my arms any longer. My legs crumpled beneath me, and I collapsed, my body spent and my tear-soaked face twisted in anguish. Before my knees could hit the floor, strong hands caught me, and a hard chest pressed against my cheek. I clung to him shamelessly, not caring that it was the one person to whom I never wanted to show any weakness.

21

EASTON

Icy claws of dread raked up my spine as Shayla swung her bat, hitting the already shattered plates with blow after blow. “Shayla,” I said, taking a cautious step toward her as she moved to the next set of items. She was unraveling. I had never seen her like this before, so out of control and blinded by rage. Or maybe that was pain.

I repeated her name but to no avail. She couldn’t hear me. Wherever her mind was, it was far from here, and I couldn’t reach her. A sob tore up her throat and shredded through my defenses. An ache settled in my chest watching her break apart. What could possibly be causing her this kind of pain?

Finally, she stopped, her chest heaving as she loosened her grip on the bat. It slipped from her fingers, clanging to the floor below. Her body swayed to the side, her footing unsteady. I was by her side in a flash, gripping her arms to hold her up.

“I’ve got you,” I promised as I slid an arm around her waist. Tears dampened my shirt as she clung to me. I stroked a soothing hand over her hair and held her, giving her a chance to get it all out, whateveritwas.

“Shayla.” Her name fell from my lips, a tender request to confide in me. “Talk to me,” I pleaded. And she did. The moment she opened her mouth, the dam broke loose.

“My mom is sick,” she admitted once we were seated and she regained her composure. “Her cancer is back, and the treatments will bankrupt us.” My chest cracked wide open at the anguish in her eyes and tears sliding down her face. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot, her nose red. The sight made something primal and protective flair to life inside me.

“I have an inheritance,” she blurted out, burying her head in her hands. “But I can’t touch it for several more years. It’s small, but my dad is in control of it, and he won’t let me access it early. He knows what I want to use it for, and he still won’t budge.” Fury blazed in those stormy gray eyes. They looked like the sky over the ocean moments before a storm, dangerous and ravaging.

“I could cover her surgery and all her treatments with that money and still have some left over. But I can’t wait years to access it. It will be too late, and I don’t want her taking out a second mortgage on the house.”

Shit. I had no idea she was dealing with all this. Guilt churned in my gut. If I’d known what she was going through, I wouldn’t have been so antagonizing. I wouldn’t have taunted and teased just to get a rise out of her, no matter how much I enjoyed it. Now I just felt like a straight-up asshole.

“And I’m certainly not getting married anytime soon.” She winced, and my head snapped up, taking in her pained expression.

“What does you getting married have to do with all this?”

“It’s one of the stipulations of my inheritance. I get it when I turn thirty or when I get married, whichever comes first.”

Possibilities niggled at the back of my mind. What if… No, it would never work. Would it?

A string of wins had cast our team in the spotlight recently, reigniting rumors about my departure from Boston. They were getting closer to the truth every day. And if that truth came to light, it could damage my career. I’d worked hard on my image the last couple months, but there was one thing that would solidify my transition to the reformed playboy.

A wife.

Marrying Shayla could solve both our problems. It would be in name only, of course, but it would allow Shayla to access the funds to help her mom and get the press to stop digging into the reason behind my trade. It was a win-win for everyone.

But would she go for it? Could I convince her that marrying me was the best—and quickest—way to get the money to pay for her mother’s treatment? We’d have to be convincing. Our relationship would have to look real to get the paps off my back, but could we pull it off?

There was only one way to find out, but I wouldn’t bring it up here, not now when her emotions were raw and she’d just exposed her vulnerable side to me. I’d have to come up with a plan to convince her our marriage would be advantageous to us both. I just hoped she’d go along with it.

Straightening her spine, Shayla wiped under her eyes, removing the last remnants of her mascara. “Sorry I kinda went a little crazy then dumped my problems on you.” She forced a sad smile before standing.

“It’s alright,” I assured her, empathy swirling in my chest. “Look, I’m?—”

Before I could finish my sentence, the door swung open, and one of the workers poked his head inside.

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