Page 39 of Working for the Runaway Bride

“Better than you?”

“Better than me or Carter.”

“You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”

“I know what I am.”

“So do I.”

The finality in his voice leaves me cold. Outside the office, distant voices echo through the hallway. Someone calls my name. We’re running out of time.

Grayson looks toward the door. “If you want to leave,” he says, “I’ll drive you home.”

“Home?”

“Wherever that is.”

“I don’t have one anymore.”

“Then the hotel.”

I stare at him. “And after that?”

“You figure out what you want your life to look like without Carter.”

“Without you too.”

His mouth tightens. “Yes.”

Another voice calls for me. Closer now. Grayson walks to the door and listens.

“There’s an exit at the end of this hall,” he says. “My car is parked near it.”

“The Chevelle?”

He looks at me. “Yes.”

The knowledge makes everything hurt more. He’s going to drive me away in the car that taught him how to rebuild his life, only to leave me alone with the ruins of mine.

We leave the room and reach the exit without anyone seeing us. We get to the car and Grayson opens the passenger door and helps me gather the dress inside. His hands brush my ankle as he lifts the hem over the threshold. The touch sends heat through me.

Grayson pulls out of the parking lot. The chapel disappears behind us. No one runs into the road to stop us. No one even notices the car carrying the missing bride away from her wedding.

I rest my forehead against the cool window and close my eyes. The silence inside the car stretches between us, filled with everything we can’t say. This morning, I thought the worst thing that could happen was losing my groom. I was wrong.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

GRAYSON—THREE DAYS AFTER THE WEDDING

I make it three days without seeing Molly. Three days without calling. Three days of staring at her name in my phone and reminding myself that leaving her alone is the right thing to do. It doesn’t feel right. It feels like someone has reached inside my chest and slowly twisted everything until breathing hurts.

I look at the clock. Two forty-five. Molly’s school day ends at three. Not that I’m keeping track. I wipe my hands on a rag and return to the brake job. At three ten, I check the clock again. At three fifteen, I strip off my gloves. This is ridiculous.

I grab my keys and leave. The drive to Sunnybrook takes seventeen minutes. I tell myself that if her car isn’t in the parking lot, I’ll turn around. If she has already gone, that means I’m not supposed to see her today.

Her blue sedan is parked near the staff entrance. Relief moves through me. I park beside it and hold the ice cream. The ice cream begins to soften in my hand. This is a mistake.