Page 18 of Working for the Runaway Bride

“You’re proving my point,” he says. “The second things get difficult, you run.”

I put the suitcase on the bed and unzip it. “The second I catch you with another woman, I leave.”

I finish packing and wheel my suitcase onto the porch and close the door behind me. I choose a hotel twenty minutes away. It isn’t particularly nice, but it’s clean and anonymous. The woman at the front desk hands me the key and a slouch into my room. I lie in my bed, the room dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight slipping through the curtains. I should be thinking about lesson plans or the meeting with Principal Hargrove. Or my impending doomed nuptials. Instead, my mind keeps drifting back to the parking lot. To Grayson.

My hand slides slowly down my stomach as I close my eyes and let the fantasy take over.

I’m pressed against the car again, but this time there’s no principal, no risk of being seen. Just Grayson’s big, solid body pinning me from behind. His chest is hard and warm against my back, his hips rocking slowly into me so I can feel every thick inch of his cock straining against his jeans, grinding right where I need him most. A soft moan escapes my lips in the quiet bedroom as my fingers dip lower, slipping beneath the waistband of my panties.

In my mind, his rough mechanic’s hands are everywhere. One large palm slides up under my blouse, calluses scraping deliciously over my ribs until he cups my breast, squeezing, thumb circling my nipple until it tightens into a hard peak. I arch into my own touch, imagining the heat of his breath on my neck as he growls my name.

“Molly…”

His other hand trails down my hip. Those strong fingers glide over my bare thigh, then higher, teasing the edge of my panties before slipping inside. I gasp aloud in the empty room, my real fingers moving in the same rhythm—stroking through my slick folds as I picture his thick digits parting me, rubbing my swollen clit with firm, confident strokes.

I’m so wet. Wetter than I’ve been in months. The guilt twists sharp in my chest—he’s my fiancé’s father—but it only makes the fantasy burn hotter. I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t be imagining his mouth on my neck, sucking and biting while his hands explore every inch of me. One hand kneading my breast, the other plunging two fingers deep inside me as he presses me harder against the car, his massive erection rocking against my ass.

I whimper, legs spreading wider on the mattress as I fuck myself with my fingers faster, chasing the pleasure. In my head, Grayson’s voice is low and filthy in my ear: “You feel how hard you make me, baby? Been thinking about this tight little body since the second I touched you.”

My free hand pinches my nipple, tugging just hard enough to send sparks straight to my core. I’m close already, hips bucking off the bed, the fantasy so vivid I can almost smell the mix of oil and man on his skin, feel the powerful flex of his arms caging me in while he grinds against me.

I come hard with his name on my lips, thighs trembling, my body clenching around my fingers as waves of forbidden pleasure crash through me. For a few blissful seconds there’s only Grayson—his hands, his heat, his cock pressed so perfectly against me.

Then the guilt settles back in, heavy and cold. I pull my hand away, staring at the ceiling with flushed cheeks and a racing heart. This can never happen. But even as I tell myself that, my body still hums with the aftershocks, already craving more.

CHAPTER

THREE

GRAYSON

Molly’s car is ready by four the next day. It should have taken longer.

The ignition coil is bad, two spark plugs are fouled, and the valve-cover gasket is leaking enough oil to explain the smell. None of it is catastrophic. None of it requires an engine rebuild or a conversation about whether repairing the car will cost more than it’s worth.

I replace the coil, change the plugs, install a new gasket, and top off the oil. Then I check the brakes. The tires. The battery. Every belt and hose beneath the hood.

I tell myself I’m being thorough because she’s going to be my daughter-in-law next week. Family doesn’t leave my garage in a car that’s anything less than safe.

That’s the only reason.

It has nothing to do with her green eyes, her yellow dress, or the way her fingertips felt when they brushed my palm. It has nothing to do with the strained smile she gave me when she asked whether Carter was with me. By five thirty, I’ve driven the car twice and parked it in the spot beside my office. The engine is quiet. The warning light is gone. It accelerates smoothly, and there isn’t a drop of oil beneath it.

Molly should have picked it up two hours ago. I stand inside the open bay with my arms crossed, watching the road. Each time a car turns into the industrial park, I straighten. Each time it passes the garage, irritation tightens inside my chest.

She’s a teacher. Things come up. Parents arrive late. Children forget backpacks. End-of-year meetings drag on longer than expected. There are a dozen reasonable explanations for why she isn’t here. Unfortunately, none of them explain why she hasn’t answered my calls.

I called her at three fifteen to tell her the car would be ready by the time she finished work.

No answer.

I called again at four thirty.

Still nothing.

At five, I sent a text.

Your car is ready. Let me know when you’re coming. The message says it was delivered, but she hasn’t responded. I look through the windshield at the paper chain hanging from her rearview mirror. The yellow link with I LOVE YOU written across it sways in the faint breeze from the open window.