Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 60342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60342 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
“Maybe I should just go through with it,” I say, a chill prickling my skin. “The ramifications of this—”
“It’s ten years from now, and you’re on a beach.”
“Can we talk about vacations later?”
“And you look to your left, and there’s Tom,” she says. “How do you feel?”
Sick.
Uneasiness stirs in my stomach. Instead of imagining Tom gazing adoringly back at me, I instantly notice the angry lines around his eyes. His voice sweeps through my head.
“There are calories in those drinks, you know.”
“We’re going to have to talk about you easing up on the music thing when I start filming my next project in the winter.”
“Can’t you choose more conservative costumes? You’re a grown woman, for fuck’s sake. I don’t want my wife out there looking like a whore.”
I grapple with how to phrase that, but Stephanie saves me the trouble.
“Now imagine that you look to the left, and he’s gone,” she says. “How do you feel now?”
Peaceful.
Relief eases the tension in my shoulders and quells the knot in my stomach. I don’t try to answer her this time; it’s unnecessary.
“The ramifications of going back in that church and marrying Tom are far worse than the inconvenience it will cause everyone else if you don’t,” she says. “I’ll support you either way. But your father was just in here looking for you, and while I can stall him for a little bit, you need to decide.”
A shiver runs the length of my spine. A flush stings my cheeks. My heart somehow lodges in my throat, and each beat reminds me of the seconds ticking by.
I can’t do it. I can’t return to that church and walk out as Mrs. Tom Waverly. The thought makes me want to hurl.
“The media will have a heyday with this,” I say, my back pressed against the shed. “I can see the headlines already.”
“Ignore all of that. You’re going to wake up married or not. What’s it going to be?”
My breath quickens. “I’m not.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
A door closes in the background. “Okay, this is the plan.”
A smile tugs at my lips.
“I could borrow a car and pick you up, but someone has to be here to head off your parents and Tom until you’ve made your exit,” she says. “The security team is our best bet, I think. They’re under an NDA, and you hired them, right? Not Tom?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Okay. Let me find one of them and get them to pick you up. You stay put. I’m going to bide you some time with your father. Who should I contact on your team?”
“My agent. Anjelica Grace at Mason Music,” I say. “Tell her I’ll call her as soon as I can.”
“I’m on it. Do you need me to do anything else?”
I take a long breath. “Don’t be the one to tell Tom. Let someone else do it.”
“Got it. Now, hold tight. I’ll have a car there as fast as I can.”
“I love you, Steph.”
“Love you more.”
“Oh! And my engagement ring is in your purse.”
“Got it.”
The call ends. I drop my arm to the side and avoid looking at the phone screen. People are probably already sending texts and looking for me. I can’t deal with it. Not yet.
I’m really doing this. I’m really running away from my wedding.
My head begins to spin with all the immediate decisions I must make. I have to get my things from the hotel before it’s taken over by the wedding party again. Can anyone track my phone? How will I get out of here without alerting the media and bystanders?
Is that even possible?
Before I can go too far down the rabbit hole, a black SUV rolls up perilously close to the shed. The windows are jet black, making it impossible to see inside. Nerves ripple low in my stomach as a man in one of those tailored suits slips alongside the vehicle.
He takes his glasses off so I can see his gray eyes. Troy Castelli. Thank God.
“Ms. Kelley, I heard you’d like a ride.”
A chuckle escapes me. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, Troy.”
“I’m happy to take you wherever you want.”
“I just want to get out of here without my picture being splashed on social media. Can you pull that off?”
He opens the back door. “Absolutely.” He turns to offer me a hand and then sees, for what seems like the first time, the tulle that must also go in the SUV. “How do we get all of … that in there?”
“It’s tulle.” I bunch as much of the fabric in the front as I can. “I hate it.”
“Then why did you choose it?”
The question makes me pause. Why did I choose tulle over lace? Surf-n-turf over chicken strips and sliders for the reception? The diet drink over the full sugar soda at the rehearsal dinner?
“Troy, it seems I’m a bit of a pushover.”