If I call Dante, he probably has acquaintances in Vegas. They’ll be waiting for Harper long before we get there.
I’m angry with her, but I don’t want anything happening to her or Zeke.
“Good,” Ashton says and leans back, making himself comfortable.
I glare at him as I’m driving.
“What?” he asks, glancing at me. “You keep staring at me like I’m to blame for all this happening.”
“You’re not innocent.”
“Whatever. Her running away isn’t my fault.” Ashton folds his arms across his chest.
“You kept throwing yourself at her, I’m sure that didn’t help the situation.”
Ashton unfolds the crinkled letter, reading it silently.
“It doesn’t say anything about me in here.”
I reach for the letter, but he plays keep away with it. If I weren’t driving, I’d have it out of his hands in seconds.
“Fuck off, Ashton,” I growl and elbow him in the side as I attempt to keep my hands on the steering wheel, mostly.
“For a guy not in love, you’re a bit tense. And I know you were getting laid. So, it can’t be that. Everyone in the house could hear the two of you clawing at each other like wild animals.”
“You’re an asshole, and I never said I didn’t love her. Harper is the one making that assumption.” Clearly, she doesn’t know how I really feel, because reading that letter tore me up inside.
Ashton chuckles.
“You better be prepared to tell her those three words or this trip is a huge waste of time.”
Two
Harper
At every turn, I feel like I’m being watched.
Am I paranoid? Probably, but it’s hard not to be when I’m running away from my wedding and I’m supposed to marry Luca, who is mafia born and bred.
Which is my fault. At least in part.
Luca had disowned his father until I screwed things up and forced him to propose, to keep me and Zeke safe.
I kiss Zeke’s forehead. He’s seated in his car seat, and he’s been restless for the past two hours.
He’s also burning up.
I thought it was from the heat pumping into the bus and his winter coat making him overheated. Now, I’m thinking it might actually be a fever.
His cheeks are rosy, and he’s been crying and fussy for most of the trip. I remove him from his car seat and cuddle him, trying to settle him down.
He’s warm, sweaty, and still fidgety.
I kiss his forehead, and I’m certain he’s running a temperature.
Another ten hours on the bus to Vegas is out of the question.
The driver announces that the next stop is a small town and we’ll be there for half an hour if anyone wants to grab food before we get back on the road.
