Page 7 of The Billionaire's Runaway Bride

Halfway into Breckenridge, my right heel snaps off. I pause to go off the road and bang the left shoe against a boulder to make them even. Still hobbling with the lousy footwear, I carry on.

Before I can worry that I’ll never make it, I reach the bed-and-breakfast.

I think.

I stand on the sidewalk, eyeing the large, rough-looking building. A once-brightly painted sign hangs crookedly from the roof.

“Goldfinch Ridge Bed and Breakfast,” I read aloud. Yep, that’s it. I glance down at the pamphlet in my hand to make sure. The pictures on the glossy paper don’t match up to reality, but I see a resemblance, enough to trick me into thinking I’m really going to try to stay here.

I’m not sure if the older pictures in the pamphlet are a way to manipulate people into staying here. It’s deceiving, using outdated images to lure travelers in, but who am I to judge? I just need a place to stop.

But here?

I peer at it again, trying to find a hidden charm beneath the neglect. The large three-story house isn’t dilapidated and crumbling, but…

“Wow.”

It needs work before it starts to look more like a haunted-house attraction. Weeds stand tall in the overgrown front yard. Windows shine like they’ve been cleaned, but the frames and shutters around them look lopsided and weathered. Paint has faded and chipped off—from the steps, the porch, the walls, even the curlicue woodwork lining the arches on the porch’s roof.

“Well…” I mutter. “Maybe it’s something like not judging a book by its cover.”

A breeze picks up and the tall weeds along the path droop over, obscuring a way toward the porch.

“Or…maybe a reminder beauty is only skin-deep?” I cringe, trying to imagine the inside looking vastly cleaner and better than the exterior does. For the sake of my tired butt and aching feet, not to mention my almost empty wallet, I draw a deep breath and hope it’s cozy and clean inside.

I head toward the porch. It takes me a hot minute, bundling my dress to yank it clear of the burrs from the tall weeds bowing toward the cracked path. The steps creak and moan as I climb, and once I’m at the front door, I do my best to ignore the flaking paint that sits everywhere.

I knock. Three times, loud and clear.

Is anyone even here? Worry renews as I wonder if it looks so rough because it’s abandoned.

Before I repeat the knocking, I hear the telltale clicks of locks being opened.

Please, please don’t be out of business. I’m so desperate. Now that I stand here so close to what I hope is a chance to sleep and think, I can’t bear the thought of having to walk—or ride—anywhere else.

A frazzled, older woman opens the door. Her graying blonde hair is tugged back in a low braid. Errant frizzy strands pop out here and there, but it’s her eyes that stop me. Clear blue and wise. I can tell right away, just as I notice the shock in them, too.

Her thin lips part and her mouth hangs open as she stares at me. Slowly, she drops her gaze and drags it back up, taking in my disheveled, ridiculous appearance. She holds a bowl in her hands, flour dotting her apron. I hold two cracked-off heels, dirt, grime, and regret smothering my ruined wedding gown.

But when she meets my gaze again, I see nothing but gentle concern. Kindness. It’s been so long since someone’s looked at me, rather than through me, that I’ve forgotten how special it feels. To be seen. And, by the soft press of her lips as she tries to smile past her shock, to matter enough that someone is concerned.

“Are you all—”

The sweet, gentle tone of whatever she’s about to ask me does it. I snap. I break. I crumble and cry right there on the spot. I’m so stressed and tired, I just cannot keep my composure. As she stares at me wide-eyed in alarm, I burst into tears and give in. I give up. I’ve reached the end of my wits, and I just can’t.

“—not all right, then.” She reaches out to pat my arm, and her cool, soft hand soothes me. “There. It’s all right.”

I shake my head. “No. No. It’s not all right.”

“Well, it will be. What’s your name?” she asks as she ushers me inside.

I cross over the threshold without even looking if my hopes came true, if the inside was better than the outside. Through my tears, I can hardly see. Everything is a blur, but with the soft pressure of her hand on my arm, I feel grounded. For once, with this stranger’s welcome, I feel safe and secure.

“I’m Marian,” she tells me as she guides me inside. “Marian Kelly.”

“L-Lauren,” I reply. “I’m Lauren Hendrickson.” Sniffles and another louder cry breaks my surname into something shorter, but she doesn’t seem to care. “I was hoping you might have a room available.”

“Here,” she says, leading me to a table. “I’m making tea. Have a cup and take a deep breath.”

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