Page 69 of The Wrong Brother

Not the balcony, but enjoying being in bed with her. She’s right, I was restless, but not for the reason she thinks. And not because I wanted to peel the ridiculously prim pajamas off her body.

It was something more than that. I haven’t slept in the same bed with a woman for…longer than I want to admit. The warmth, the intimacy. I forgot that exists.

For some people.Not me.

“You wanted me out of the hotel,” I continue, watching in satisfaction as her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “Congratulations. You are now accompanying me.”

Emma huffs. “This feels vaguely hostage-adjacent.”

“Well, I am aPakhan.”

That earns a glare. I hold out my hand anyway, but Emma crosses her arms.

“I’m just not sure this is a good idea.” There’s a flicker of apprehension across her pretty features.

Why?the dark voice in me wonders.What has she been thinking of? Is she as tempted as I am?

“You calm me down.” The admission slips out before I can stop it, and I clear my throat, stumbling on: “I’d like you to accompany me, to take my mind off of everything, and get back on track.”

Emma stills. Her eyes soften, just slightly, before she looks away and scoffs, “That’s not healthy, Ruslan. Sounds like reverse Stockholm Syndrome.”

That earns her a smirk, because I couldn’t agree more. For whatever reason, Emma Pierce is becoming more distracting than I anticipated when I formed this plan. She doesn’t take my hand, but slips by me to the bedroom and closes the door softly.

* * *

When the car pulls up outside the botanical gardens, Emma turns and looks at me in surprise.

“Quieter than I anticipated,” I murmur, looking past her, through the window.

Late summer hangs over Denver in fading gold, the warmth lingering in the sunlight while the shadows already carry autumn’s chill. Flowers still bloom in rich bursts of color, but there are hints of decay beneath the beauty now. Leaves beginning to curl. Petals browning at the edges.

Endings disguised as elegance.

Emma walks beside me along a stone path lined with roses, her sunglasses pushed up into her hair. For once, she isn’t tense from being watched. There are no cameras here, no need to perform.

“You like this place,” she says after a while. “You seem to know your way around.”

I glance toward the greenhouse ahead of us, sunlight reflecting gold against the glass panels. “My father used to bring me here,but it’s changed a lot in the last ten years. There are new paths, new,” I gesture, “sculptures.”

Emma’s lips are parted, and I realize that I’ve talked about something entirely off-limits: the past. Up until now, our relationship has been focused on the future.

“When you were little?”

“Yes.” There’s no going back now. Even I’m not that cold of a man. She won this information fair and square, by distracting me with those weather eyes and the cinched jumpsuit that draws my eyes to her waist, her curves. She looks beautiful among the last of the flowers.

I shove my hands into my pockets and keep walking. “He was a florist before…everything else.”

“Really?”

A quiet laugh escapes me. “You sound disappointed.”

“No, I just…” She hesitates. “I don’t know. I guess I imagined your family business being something more terrifying. You didn’t take over from him?”

“Oh, it became terrifying eventually. But no; that was my creation. My father was a simple man of simple pleasures.”

That earns a reluctant smile. I find myself wanting to keep it there.

“He liked beautiful things,” I continue after a moment. “Flowers. Gardens. Fabrics. He taught me that softness is not weakness.”