Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“Hey,” I say softly. She’s got to be hurting. “We’re here to help.”
“He just wants to be…buddies,” she says, east of deadpan, just south of dry, as she sketches air quotes.
Ah, fuck.
“He never deserved you.” I should have said something last night. She’s still in shock, but I do something now. I scoop her into my arms, stealing her out of the church in time to spare her all the embarrassment, racing to the waiting convertible where Ledger has his foot on the gas.
“We’ve got you,” I tell the bride as I set her down in the passenger seat. I hand her my own sunglasses from inside my jacket pocket and jump into the back seat.
“Step on it,” I tell Ledger.
“Done.” He floors the accelerator and the car races off.
We’re out of there.
3
HER GREAT ESCAPE
Ledger
Driving is easy.
Figuring out what to say to someone whose fiancé left her at the altar? Now that’s rocket science.
Seeing as my top two skill sets involve shooting pucks when the opponent least expects it and never overwatering my plants, I keep my mouth shut as I cruise along the winding country road away from the church.
As I maneuver this sweet ride onto the main drag in Duck Falls, there’s really no need for words either, since Aubrey’s staring at the side of the road, her gaze behind Dev’s aviator shades locked squarely on the sights whipping by—the signs for nearby vineyards, the busy shops, the bustling sidewalk. As the wind rustles her veil, she’s looking more pensive than I’d have expected.
But what did I expect?
I’ve never given any thought to how a jilted bride would behave post-jilt. Now that it’s top of my mind, my gut says tears streaming down her face, makeup ruined, and shoulders convulsing would be on the menu. Sure, her cheeks seem a little splotchy, like maybe she’s just cried, but there are no waterworks coming from the passenger next to me right now.
Just a stark sort of silence.
It’s eerie.
What the hell do I do with a broken-hearted bride’s silence? I barely knew how to handle the divorce papers Marla served me more than a year ago, along with a cup of her tears, lamenting how we’d grown apart, and how she needed to find someone more available.
I’d hated her crying too, so I’d shut up and signed the papers. Only to find out later they were crocodile tears.
Dev doesn’t break the silence either. That’s odd, since he’s a chatty one. But maybe he knows how to handle runaway brides and silence is the way? Wouldn’t be surprised if he read an article on it recently. Something his parents sent to him in one of their daily emails.
Mine don’t send me shit like that, so I keep my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel, stealing occasional glances at Aubrey.
She’s still unreadable, but she’s got to be seconds away from another round of tears. Doesn’t matter that she’s been tough when I’ve seen her at family events, like Garrett’s barbecues, where she was always asking if anyone needed another drink or scoop of potato salad, or a fresh set of bags for a round of cornhole. Or at the arena with him, when she’d taunt the opponents on the ice. Heckle queen, we’d called her.
But that toughness doesn’t matter now. Nobody wants to be dumped on their wedding day.
I focus on the mission Garrett gave me. Get her far away from that prick. I owe him the world, and helping his sister is the least I can do to help the guy who makes my career possible. I flash back to last night, wishing I’d seen the signs at the party. Only I was too caught up in the same swirl of thoughts that have been chasing me all summer—this fucking knee.
At least Aubrey learned the truth of Aiden’s cheating ways before she said I do.
As I slow at a light near the highway entrance, the electric motor in the car lulling to a space-age hum, the quiet still hangs over us, and really, it’s only polite to ask what’s next. I turn to Aubrey, a little wary of how she’ll take any kind of convo right now. But I’ve got to ask. “North or south?”
The question feels weighty too. More important than a simple “which way do I go” ought to feel. North means we’re cruising farther away from home. It means we’re spending the rest of the day together and I’ll need to take good care of her for several hours. South means returning her to the city, forty-five minutes from here. Both have their pros and cons. Especially since I have no clue if Aubrey wants me to be more emotionally available or less emotionally available, or something else entirely. I don’t fucking know at all, but one thing I’m certain of—given my history, I’m no good at relationship advice, so I sure hope there won’t be too much advice I need to dole out if Aubrey chooses door number one.