Page 3 of Runaway Bride’s Husband

H sighed. “Come on, Maggie Pembroke. We practically grew up with the Pembroke kids until Dad went and ruined our lives.”

Maggie. Maggie. Maggie. Usually, I was pretty good with names and I never forgot a face, but this must’ve been one I’d buried. Maggie Pembroke. Maggie⁠—

A memory suddenly flickered in my mind. It started with a whole lot of pink taffeta and my mother’s voice sending me on a mission to find the birthday girl. She’s going to miss her grand entrance to her very own thirteenth, Ryan. Find her.

I’d been maybe sixteen. Or seventeen. Somewhere around there.

The details came back in pieces first, then suddenly streamed in like an unstoppable tide. Yeah, I remember her now.

“She’s the girl who bit my hand.”

Holden frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” I said, slamming back in my seat. “This is just great. That’s what.”

The wedding I’d agree to help with only because of my mother’s involvement was for none other than the little demon who’d once nearly bitten through my finger. I’d gone after her that day, alright. Annoyed to have been tasked with finding the runaway birthday girl, I’d stomped around the entire venue until I’d finally found her hiding under a table in the back of her own party.

The caterers had been setting up this perfect princess dessert spread and I’d seen her slipper sticking out, but when I’d tried pulling the tablecloth back, there had been a flash of teeth and searing pain. I still had the damn scar she’d left on me for my efforts.

None of which boded well for the fact that I’d once again been tasked with doing something that involved her. My eyes dropped to the faint silver line on my hand. I hadn’t thought about that day—or those people—for years, but my chest squeezed as all those repressed memories of Maggie Pembroke threatened to flood past the meticulous Thayer-Steel wall I’d built in my mind over the last decade. She’d been a child too afraid to do what was being asked of her.

Although in fairness to her, her thirteenth birthday was way more about her parents showing her off to all the elite in their social circles, not about Maggie herself. I would have understood if she bit one of her parents’ fingers. I might have even felt sympathetic toward her. But there had been no reason to lash out at me and scar me for life.

“Why is Mom emailing you about her wedding?” Holden asked.

I shook my head, not wanting to talk about this. “I was trying to be nice and now I’m being punished for it. Let’s leave it at that.”

CHAPTER 2

MAGGIE

Over the last week, I had been painted, powdered, polished, plucked, and sprayed until I looked like Hamptons Barbie. At this point, I could happily go the rest of my life without seeing the inside of another salon, but in two weeks, I would be doing it all over again for the big show.

The bridal shower was just a trial run.

As far as I was concerned, this kind of thing was the very definition of cruel and unusual punishment, but people kept telling me I must be enjoying all the pampering. Why anyone thought wax, tweezers, and spray paint applied directly to skin counted as being pampered, I didn’t know.

It felt more like being smothered.

Meanwhile, my friend and maid of honor, Cathy Cavendash, seemed to be taking great pleasure in my miraculous transformation. Or rather, she enjoyed holding a position of wedding-related authority and being able to boss everyone around.

“More pink on the eyelids,” she barked at the makeup artist she’d personally hand selected. “Actually, no. Let’s redo the eyeshadow entirely. Coral washes her out. It needs to be pink. Did any of you bother to study the color wheel?”

I stared at myself in the mirror, not particularly feeling the coral either, but I didn’t say anything about it, so used to letting others craft me into a shining example of what every high-bred, former debutante heiress should be that I just sat back and allowed it to happen.

Coral aside, the woman staring back at me in the reflection of the mirror genuinely did look beautiful. She also didn’t look anything like me, but that was hardly important. My highlights were fresh, my spray tan was perfection, and my eyebrows had been wrestled into glorious submission.

That was what mattered.

I had to look the part and I did, but on the inside, it was a different story.

As Cathy started snapping at the rest of the bridal party about the difference between sparkling wine and champagne, I glanced down at the white dress I hadn’t chosen. At least the dress was pretty. I had to give it that. Flowing but fitted, it accentuated my curves without making me look like a stuffed sausage, but even so, I never would have picked it for myself. It was way too dainty with all the lace and sparkly beads.

The same could be said about my shoes. They were squeezing the bejesus out of my toes, but they were pretty too. Everything was.

It was raining outside, but so far, that was the only thing about the day that felt even remotely fitting. I would’ve sighed if I could, but frankly, the dress didn’t allow my lungs quite that much leeway.

“Maggie?” my mother cried from the doorway. “Oh, darling, you look perfect!”