Vow of Devotion (Vow Series Book 4) Read online

  Vow of Devotion

  Emma Renshaw

  Vow of Devotion

  Copyright © 2019 by Emma Renshaw. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editor: Razor Sharp Editing, Elizabeth Nover

  http://www.razorsharpediting.com/

  Interior Formatting: Stacey Blake

  Champagne Book Design

  www.champagnebookdesign.com

  Cover Design: Hang Le

  By Hang Le

  www.byhangle.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Visit my website: www.emmarenshaw.com

  Created with Vellum

  To my dad,

  Thank you for loving the three of us girls fiercely. You taught me what a strong man is and how to work relentlessly for the things you want. I’m honored to be your daughter. I’ll be forever grateful for your unrelenting love and support. I love you, Dad.

  Also, for my father-in-law,

  Thank you for raising the love of my life and loving me as your own daughter. We’ll forever miss you and cherish your memory. I love you.

  And, as always, for my husband,

  Every one of my heroes has pieces of you. You swooped into my life and showed me a love I didn’t even know existed. Thank you for inspiring me and caring for me through all of our seasons. I’ll love you every second of every day.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Enjoy Vow of Devotion?

  Acknowledgments

  About Emma Renshaw

  Connect with Emma

  Books by Emma Renshaw

  Chapter 1

  Ava

  Rrrrrrrip.

  Oh, no. Please, please, please, don’t rip. The shiny, brown front door to my brand new apartment comes into view as my foot lands on the next step. Only a few more steps until I make it to the door.

  “No,” I plead when the bottom flaps of the box start to open as another rip echoes in the stairway. “A few more steps.”

  My fingers press into the cardboard, holding it together by sheer will. The cardboard is soft and too flexible. That’s what I get for using boxes that have been used in more moves than I can count. Sweat rolls down my spine as I release a huge breath. My foot finally hits the landing. I waddle as fast as I can under the weight of the box. Using the toe of my shoe, I tap against the door. “Lilly. It’s Mommy. Open the door, sweetie.” Each word comes out as something between a gasp and a pant.

  My knee comes up, putting pressure against the box as I wait for her to come to the door. I fall to the side but manage to keep my knee up. A half-assed weekly yoga session in my living room isn’t cutting it. My lungs are on fire and every muscle in my body is quivering.

  I close my eyes, imagining my perfectly made bed. Fluffy, white euro pillows with the perfect karate chop in the middle. A bedspread so decadent it’s like lying on a cloud. The silky sheets would be cool as I slide between them and the pillow would cradle my head perfectly.

  That bed is my happy place, my happy place that will get me through this move in one piece and my reward at the end of the day. Unfortunately, my real bed is not that fancy, my throw pillows are from TJ Maxx, and my sheets aren’t a high thread count, but it will do.

  “What’s the password?” Lilly asks through the door. My eyes pop open. This morning I declared myself a genius as I set her up in our empty living room with its faint odor of fresh paint. I gave her some snacks, a couple juice boxes, and my laptop to watch movies. Every time I went down the one flight of stairs to my car to grab another box, I’d lock the door behind me and instruct her to only open it after I said the password.

  I’m not claiming the title of genius anymore.

  Right now, under the weight of this box, with sweat pooling in places where sweat shouldn’t be and trying to find enough air to speak the password, I’m more of a bad joke than a genius.

  Why is the last box always the heaviest? Why do the last few steps take the longest? I’ve been at this all day. Actually for a few days, considering I boxed everything up and cleaned our old apartment from top to bottom. A clean so thorough there’s no way they could deny me the deposit.

  “Sni—Snicklefritz,” I manage to say on what surely is the last breath of air in my lungs. Lilly’s soft giggles come through the door right before the lock turns with a snick.

  The door flies open, the knob cracking against the drywall. I wince as the door bounces back. Day one in our new apartment and my six-year-old is already causing damage.

  “Move out of the way, sweetie.”

  Lilly steps to the side, plastering herself against the wall. As soon as my knee leaves the bottom of the box, the flaps fall open, and everything inside spills to the ground. The shattering of glass makes my eyes close.

  Dammit.

  Deep breath in.

  Deep breath out.

  Breathe in the good.

  Exhale the bad.

  I open my eyes, and my gaze meets Lilly’s. Her mouth is a round little O with her dark blue eyes just as wide and round.

  “Go to the living room. Be careful of the glass.” I give her the best smile I can manage. My trembling hands are still clutching the now-empty box.

  “I can help, Mommy,” Lilly says, moving to bend down. Panic swells in my chest.

  “No! Don’t touch the glass. Just go to the living room, sweetie. I’ll pick this up.”

  Lilly nods and walks to the living room. I close my eyes again, turning my face toward the ceiling and count to ten.

  I square my shoulders and straighten my spine as I open my eyes. I can do this. Just a small bump in the move. If this one box is all that breaks, I’m going to call that a win.

  I toss the box into the entryway and look down at the shattered glass around my feet. Casserole dishes. It could be so much worse. Casserole dishes are replaceable. I can pick one up at TJ Maxx for a steal.

  After my paychecks start coming in, of course.

  I lean the box against the wall, then hop over the broken glass and make my way into the kitchen. Before I started bringing our belongings into the apartment, I left some necessitie
s in the kitchen—a broom, trash bags, paper towels, toilet paper, and a few other items. I grab two trash bags and the broom propped against the wall.

  I sweep after cleaning up the broken shards, I double-bag the wreckage and leave it outside next to the front door. We’ll have a lot more trash when I start unpacking boxes, so I’ll take it to the Dumpster when I have more. Besides, I’m not sure I could make another trip up and down the stairs. I’d have to beg one of my new neighbors to drag me up the stairs behind them. It wouldn’t be the most appropriate introduction.

  My phone dings with a message from my back pocket.

  Lone Star Movers: We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.

  Finally. The movers are almost here. I scoured the internet for the best deal and snapped up a limited-time offer—fifty percent off of a move, an anniversary sale. If I hadn’t found that deal, I’d have had to beg some boys from campus to let me use their muscles and their trucks.

  I don’t exactly have friends I can call. I spent my college years either pregnant or as an overtired single mom. I kept my head down and focused so I could finish and start teaching as soon as possible. Spending the last few years at the front of the class, wholly focused on the teacher, and living off campus with my daughter hadn’t allowed for much of a social life.

  My body aches from all the boxes I lugged up the stairs, but the day isn’t over yet. I could only afford to hire the movers for the large items, like our furniture. The hourly rate plus the mileage from San Antonio to Austin is already putting a huge dent in my bank account—and that’s with the discount.

  Fifteen minutes is just enough time to throw together a sandwich for Lilly and myself. The only food stuff in the kitchen are snacks for Lilly and all the fixings for a ham and cheese sandwich.

  My lips turn up as I cut Lilly’s into a heart shape and wrap it up in a napkin.

  “Lunch,” I say, delivering the sandwich.

  She unwraps it and swivels toward me. The grin spreading across her face soothes my aching muscles and resupplies my energy level. I reach my finger out, tapping her on the end of her button nose.

  All of this is for her.

  Years of working, going to school, and raising her alone are finally going to pay off. In just two weeks I’m starting my first year as an elementary school teacher. Our lives are going to change for the better.

  This is the nicest apartment we’ve ever lived in. It’s fairly new and modern. The living room has a white shiplap wall with a fake fireplace and cedar wood mantel. There’s a nook for a TV and entertainment center. It’s a major step up from the places we’ve lived in the past. Family housing for students isn’t exactly luxurious.

  No more jobs with hardly any pay. No more late nights studying and early mornings taking care of Lilly. I’ll be able to sleep now. Actually sleep. Starting tonight. I only have to get through today and tonight, then I’ll sleep. Tomorrow I’ll transform this space into a home.

  There’s a knock on the door as I’m chewing the last bite of my sandwich. I rush to the door, flinging it open for the movers. When they’re paid by the hour, every second counts.

  “Hi,” I say, moving out of the way to allow the first mover inside.

  John is embroidered on his red shirt, above the company logo. “Are you ready to get started?”

  “Yes.” I wave him inside—a subtle hint to get moving. The clock started when they arrived at our apartment in San Antonio. I have money set aside for this with a tiny bit of wiggle room, but if we cut into that cushion money, I’ll probably break out in hives.

  John nods, looking down at this clipboard, and begins to list each item they removed from our old place and brought to our new apartment.

  “Yep, that’s it,” I state as he finishes listing our furniture.

  “Your contract has us only dropping off the furniture, not assembling anything.” He claps the clipboard against his thigh.

  “That’s right.” I curl a strand of my hair behind my ear before crossing my arms over my stomach, using my foot to keep the door open. When I hired the company I hoped they could move the beds fully assembled, but that wasn’t the case, they had to be taken apart.

  “I’m supposed to charge a flat fee of one thousand dollars for that, but I can do it for five hundred. Off the books.” The clipboard hits his thigh in a faster rhythm.

  One thousand three hundred thirty-six dollars. That’s all I have in my bank account until my first paycheck. Our expenses for the apartment are paid. The next rent check is due two days after I’ll receive my first check. One thousand three hundred thirty-six dollars needs to stretch for the next few weeks. It’ll have to feed us and entertain Lilly until school starts.

  My body begs me to take the man up on his offer, even if he offered out of pity. My mind slams the brakes on the idea though. Spending five hundred dollars would only leave me with a little over half of all my money.

  I plaster a fake smile on my face. “No, thank you.”

  “Okay, we’ll get started.”

  I hold open the door and direct as the movers bring in all of our furniture. There’s not much so it doesn’t take them long, thankfully. They’re in and out with every piece of furniture in just under an hour.

  Emotion and panic clog my throat as I swipe my card before they leave. I’m in a better spot now than I was right after Lilly was born, but the humiliation and fear that come with sliding a credit card through a machine hasn’t left me. My card has been denied too many times at too many places. Even when I know the money is in my bank account, I stare at the monitor with bated breath until approved flashes.

  I sag against the door when they leave. I reserved enough money for the move without having to tap into the extra cushion. I can now add the three hundred dollars back into my account, bringing the sum total up to $1,636.

  My goal for the day is to get Lilly settled and her room ready. The rest can wait until tomorrow. Lilly’s moved from the box she was perched on to the couch that was brought in first.

  “After I finish putting your bed together, I’ll need your help putting away your things.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  Without instructions, it takes a while to set up Lilly’s bed, but I manage to get it done just in time for a lame dinner of sandwiches and apple slices. My small trooper doesn’t complain though. She munches on her apples and chatters away. My brain barely processes any of her words, but I manage to nod and hum in the right spots.

  Once we finish dinner, we unpack her entire room. All of her clothes are put away, the toys are in her trunk, and the curtains are hung. I tuck her in when everything is settled and put away. She’s dead to the world by the time I plant a kiss on her forehead and exit the room.

  When I make it to my room, I want to fall to my knees and cry when I see the pieces of my bed leaning against the wall. It’s already late and I don’t think I can do one more minute of work.

  I push the mattress, cringing when it thuds against the floor. I wait for Lilly to come in wondering what the noise was, but I don’t hear any movement. My shoulders slump in relief.

  The sheets I washed earlier are in a crumbled pile on top of my dresser. I shake out of the flat sheet and place it on the bare mattress. I grab my pillow and a blanket and fall on top of the bed.

  Chapter 2

  Hudson

  My tongue laps at the quickly melting snow cone in my hand. Red, sticky liquid is overflowing the sides of the white, triangular cup and coating my fingers, but it doesn’t stop me from licking the cold treat.

  I close my lips around the edge of the cup, sucking up some of the liquid. A dollop of bright red ice falls from the other side, plopping down on my thigh.

  “Shit.”

  I let go of the steering wheel with my clean hand and use the edge of my hand holding the snow cone to keep the wheel steady. My fingers scrape along my worn denim, picking up the ball of ice from my jeans. I jab my elbow against the button for the window and toss the ice into the street. The s
corching air flowing inside glues my sticky hand to the steering wheel. I roll the window back up and go back in for another a lick.

  Every family barbecue, my job is to bring the ice and only the ice. None of them trust me enough to bring any kind of food. I’ve attempted to a few times over the years. None have turned out well.

  The first incident could’ve happened to anyone. I’m still not sure what exactly went wrong. I followed my friend Harper’s directions to a T. But my family cursed my name for three days after trying my buffalo chicken dip. If anyone mentions that dip anywhere near someone in my family, they shudder.

  Again, it could’ve happened to anyone.

  Every time I brought something after that, Mom would drop a place card in front of it labeled Hudson. And the dish would go untouched. A few times Mom even threw out the entire thing because it started to “make my kitchen smell.”

  Now, my job is ice.

  Last time, my brother Camden arrived with an entire brisket he’d paid some fucking grill master to teach him how to smoke. He hoisted that thing in the air as if presenting Simba to the fucking kingdom.

  It’s not easy to be the one who brings the best thing to the barbecue when the assigned item is ice.

  Here’s the thing about my family—we’re competitive. Very competitive. It’s the only reason I tried to make something. I don’t cook. I don’t even like to cook. But my brothers and I try to show each other up in every way possible, whether it’s food, chugging a beer the fastest, or completing a job before deadline and under budget. There are five of us. We’ve been competing our entire lives, competing to be the best. To be the favorite. To be the tallest. The strongest. The fastest.