My hopes are dwindling that I’ll be able to get out of here before Craig catches up to me and begs for a second chance. A chance he’s never going to get.
The sound of loud laughter distracts me.
The dark-haired, sexy guy I stared at earlier is walking away from his pickup truck. His two friends are with him. All three are well-built and athletic-looking. None of them notice me lurking behind the tree, a fact I’m immensely grateful for.
I’ve never had any game with men. And right now, I’m starting to think that’s how I ended up here.
But now is not the time to psychoanalyze my issues with the opposite sex. I’ll have plenty of time for that later.
I stare at the now-unattended pickup truck for a second longer. I take a quick glance around. Not surprising for L.A., no one’s looking twice—or even once—at the non-famous person in a wedding dress hiding behind a bush. Once I’m sure nobody’s watching, I dash over to the truck and struggle to climb up into the back, cursing when my wedding dress snags on the bumper. I pull the bottom of my train loose, and I can hear the tear as I tumble into the truck bed.
Well, it’s not like I’m going to be wearing this dress ever again. I crawl forward along the truck bed, relieved to find it filled with several large duffle bags and boxes tucked under a tarp. I squirm between a couple of the boxes up against the back wall and dry my eyes while I wait for my getaway driver to return.
Chapter Six
Maverick
Chance calls my cell as I’m at the coffee shop.
“Are you still in town?” he asks me. “I’ve got something for you.”
“I’m about to leave,” I say. “I’m downtown by the courthouse.”
“See you in a few.” He clicks off before I can respond.
I pay for my drink at the register and wait for Colt and Dylan to get their orders before we walk out the door.
“Hey, mates!” Chance’s hand flies out the open window as he drives past us and pulls into the parking lot across from the courthouse.
The three of us are still waiting for the walk signal. By the time we make it across the street, Chance is walking toward the truck with his damn goat on a leash.
“Christ, Chance. You brought Pixy with you?” I say incredulously.
Chance shakes hands with Colton and Dylan then turns to me with that typical Chance grin. The kind that gets him pretty much whatever he wants.
My friend is too handsome for his own good, and he knows it, too. He’s also cocky as all hell. But he’s loyal to a fault, and I trust him. Those traits mean more than his little annoyances.
“He likes car rides,” he says to me in mock offense. “He wanted to get out for a bit.”
“Hey, Pixy.” Colton gives the goat a scratch behind the ears. “Are you freaked out by all the noise in the city?”
“Pixy’s calm as can be,” Chance says confidently.
As if in response, the damn goat “baas” and then tries to climb into the back of my truck.
“Here.” Chance opens the tailgate. “Take a rest in there,” he says to Pixy.
Rest is the exact opposite of what’s on Pixy’s mind. The damn goat nudges around the tent and my bags and tries to bury itself under the tarp like there’s a stash of oats hidden there.
“I know you’re on your way out.” Chance reaches into his sweatshirt pocket. “So I wanted to give you this.”
I stare down at what he’s holding in his hand. “A Tom Brady bobblehead?”
Colton and Dylan chuckle, and Chance grins as he hands it to me.
“Aubrey and I had some good luck with a bobblehead on our road trip,” he says. “So she asked me to bring you this. A football god will look good in your truck, and maybe it will even prove to be a good luck charm. Aubrey thought it might help with your hopeless love life.”
“Tell her, ‘Thank you, but I’m riding solo. Happily,’” I add.
