Page 11 of Working for the Runaway Bride

“I’m fine.”

I climb out, sling the tote bag over my shoulder, and shut the door. Jessica remains in the driveway until I reach the porch. I wave through the windshield, then unlock the front door.

The house is strangely quiet.

“Carter?”

There’s no answer. I step inside and set my tote bag on the narrow table beside the door. Carter’s shoes are in the middle of the hallway, one lying on its side. Next to them is a pair of bright pink high heels.

I stare at the shoes. They aren’t mine.

My mind produces explanations faster than I can reject them. Maybe his mother stopped by. Except those aren’t shoes she would wear. Maybe one of the bridesmaids came to drop something off. Except none of them would take off their shoes at the door.

Maybe I’m confused. Maybe they’ve been here for days, and I simply never noticed them. A laugh floats in from the living room.

My heart stops.

I follow the hallway slowly. Every step feels detached from the one before it, as though I’m watching someone else walk through my house. When I reach the living-room entrance, I stop. A woman stands beside my couch.

She’s tall and blonde, with long, tanned legs and a tiny red dress that barely reaches the tops of her thighs. One strap hangs off her shoulder. She’s holding her lipstick in one hand and searching through a shiny purse with the other.

Her lipstick is smeared. So is the front of Carter’s white shirt. He stands near the fireplace fastening his belt. For a moment, no one moves. The woman notices me first.

Her eyes widen. “Oh.”

Carter turns. All the color drains from his face. “Molly.”

The world narrows to that one word. My name in his mouth. My name said with irritation instead of shame.

“What happened?” I ask. My voice sounds small and distant.

Carter glances at the woman. “What do you mean?”

I stare at him. Then at his unfastened shirt. Then at the woman whose dress looks as if it has been dragged hurriedly back into place. A pressure builds in my chest, hot and suffocating.

“What happened?” I scream.

The woman flinches.

Carter’s expression hardens. “Keep your voice down.”

“You’re in my house with another woman!”

“Our house,” he corrects.

I almost laugh. Instead, a broken sound comes from my throat.

The blonde woman slips on one shoe, wobbling as she reaches for the back of the couch. “I should probably go.”

“Yes,” I say. “You should.”

Carter glares at me. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

I turn toward him so quickly that the room tilts. “Don’t talk to her like that?”

“You don’t need to be rude.”

“She’s standing in our living room half-naked!”