Page 29 of Snowbound
She glances at me, just for a moment, and then her eyes dart away. She bites her lip—not embarrassed, just… resigned.
"I got pregnant," she whispers. “That was… why we got married.”
I go completely still.
What?
She doesn’t have any kids. I would know.
Her lip trembles, but she holds my gaze for a beat. "It felt like the right thing to do at the time. I was pregnant and not even in college yet. My mom and your dad and their old-fashioned ways…" She trails off.
I sit up straighter, every muscle pulled taut. "You were? How the hell did I not know that? How did that get past me? Was I really that fucked up in my own head that I didn’t even see it?"
Does Emma have achild?
Her voice is thinner now, breaking. "I lost the baby, Owen.” She sighs. “But by then… it was too late. We were already married."
A violent, hot fury twists in my gut. Jesus fucking Christ.I remember those wedding photos plastered all over social media. My stepmother’s smug face, dripping pearls and pride. I couldn’t eat for two weeks. Couldn’t think straight for longer.
"Your mother was thrilled," I mutter, bitterness thick as tar. "Marrying into money. Fancy new son-in-law. She didn’t have to worry about you anymore."
Emma lets out a dry, hollow laugh. "Joke’s on her. Wasn’t even his money—it was his parents’. He blew through every cent the second he got it."
She tucks herself into my side, and her voice dips low. "We lived on credit cards. Some weeks, we barely ate. The only thing that saved us was when my first book got published."
I feel the rage harden inside me, deep and unmoving.
"But we were still in debt," she adds.
"I’m gonna find that fucking bastard." My fists clench. I breathe slowly, trying to keep the storm inside.
"And to thinkthat’swho your mother wanted you with," I say. "And she sure as hell didn’t want you withme. What would that have looked like at church, huh? With her little Bible study group? What would she have said when that news came out?"
Emma blinks up at me, something raw in her gaze.
"Of course," she says, like she’s realizing it all again. "That’s exactly it. Our parents met in the goddamn choir. Wednesday night practice. Matching casseroles on Christmas Eve. It was always about the image. Always about control. About what people would think."
"And we fell for it," I say.
"But that was then," she murmurs. "And this is now."
The fire in the hearth has died down to embers, soft and low. I rise, still naked, and wrap the blanket tighter around her.
"Come on," I say, my voice rough, thick with everything I can’t say yet. "We’re making s’mores."
She sits up slowly, blinking. "What? Are you serious? We’re still—” She gestures wildly at our naked, sweat-slicked bodies.
"Dead serious." I grin a little. "I fucking love s’mores. Don’t you?"
She shrugs, rubbing her eyes. "I mean… who doesn’t love s’mores? I just didn’t know we had that stuff."
"Well, I was the one who did the grocery shopping," I say, grinning at her.
A few minutes later, we’re sitting by the fire, marshmallows speared onto skewers, the ends blackened from the last round.
She’s naked, swaddled in a blanket that clings to her. I’ve managed to pull on my damn sweats, if only to give myself an illusion of control. We hold the marshmallows over the flames, watching them toast to a perfect golden brown. Then she loses one.
It drops straight into the fire, hissing and bursting into flame.
