Peyton
Sorry, I can’t do it
I plonk the phone into my bodice and cross the room. I flip the latch on the French windows and push them open. Chilly November air hits my face—cool, clean, smelling of wet grass and freedom.
I gather my skirts in both fists, hike the fabric above my knees, and step through the doors onto the garden path.
Then I run.
35
PEYTON
The pavement bites through the thin soles of my sneakers, each stride sending a jolt up from my heels to my teeth. The train of my skirt billows behind me like a sail, catching the wind and dragging me backward instead of propelling me forward. I gather the skirts higher and push my legs harder. My lungs burn. My eyes sting. I have no idea where I’m going. I only know that I can’t go back.
The private road that leads to the Rockwood family home stretches out in front of me, a ribbon of smooth asphalt lined with tall, dark cedars and the occasional oak holding on to its last rust-colored leaves. Through the breaks in the timber, the sun is sinking behind the hills, casting a warm amber glow across the water.
Ten minutes into my mad sprint running away from my second wedding in a month, the guttural rumble of a motorcycle chases me.
I falter and glance backward, just as Liam clears the turn behind me on his Ducati. He eats up the distance that still separates us in a blink.
I catch my breath, ready to apologize. To explain, to beg for forgiveness, to accept whatever anger he’s going to direct at me for embarrassing him in front of his family.
He pulls up beside me. Liam is sitting astride the flaming-red bike without a helmet, his dark hair raked back by the wind. His jaw is set. His gray eyes sweep over me. Over the bridal gown, the roses crowning my head, the flush on my cheeks.
And he smirks.
“You know”—he holds out my jacket, letting it dangle from two fingers—“you should stop running away from your weddings without a coat.”
The relief that cracks through me is so sharp it hurts.
His gaze lowers. It traces the gathered skirts bunched in my fists, the bare expanse of leg between the hiked-up hem and my sneakers. The path of his eyes is like a fingertip dragged along my skin. A burning caress.
“At least the footwear is more practical this time,” he adds.
I snatch the jacket from his outstretched hand. Despite having been running, I’m shivering. The sleeveless gown left my upper body exposed to the quickly chilling November day, and sweat is cooling fast against my skin, turning each gust of wind into a razor. This is not the moment to be prideful.
I shove my arms into the coat and wrap the heavy fabric tight around my body, the lining warm from where it’s been pressed against his torso on the ride over.
“Liam, I’m sorry.” I sound ragged and breathless. “I didn’t mean to?—”
He stops me with a raised hand. Palm flat. “Hold on, we can do all that later. Now, hop on.”
I blink. “What?”
“Get on the bike.”
“Why?”
“To get the hell away from here faster.”
He says it with the same matter-of-fact ease he uses to order breakfast. Like fleeing a surprise vow renewal on the back of a Ducati is a perfectly normal Saturday afternoon activity and my running away didn’t ruin everything.
Tears prick behind my eyes, hot and sudden, and I press my lips together to keep them from spilling.
He must see the tremor in my chin.
“Hey, hey.” His voice drops, loses its edge. The commanding tone softens into a lilt I’ve only heard in the dark, when we’re curled under the covers and the masks are off. “It’s okay. This wasn’t your fault.”
