Page 82 of The Billionaire's Runaway Bride

He’s wide-eyed. His mouth hangs open. “Damn. Are you serious?”

I turn the screen around to face him.

“She sent that just now?” he checks.

I look again. “No. Dammit!” The time reads hours ago. “She sent it early this morning. No. Wait. She’s in Cali, so…Eight hours ago?”

“It just came in?”

“Yeah. Shit!” I stand, panicked. “I was using my phone as a hot spot. Then it died and I had to charge it. But then it was too hot from the hot spot crap and went into lock mode until it cooled down. And the Wi-Fi was off all day.”

I call her number and it goes straight to voicemail, like the device is off.

“Nothing?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Maybe she has it turned off so her asshole fiancé won’t know she’s contacting you.”

I go still, staring at him. “That doesn’t make me feel better.” What would Jeremy do if he caught her reaching out to me? I can’t go there, and I force the idea out of my mind.

“Well, come on. It can’t be too late.” He tosses bills to the table and stands. “It’s time to go get your girl.”

“From eight hours ago!”

He pats my back as I pull up my contacts.

“When’s the wedding?” he asks.

“No clue. What’s today? Thursday?”

“Wednesday.”

“Do people get married on Wednesdays?”

“How the hell should I know?” He’s on his phone too. “I’ll look for the wedding info.”

“I’m calling my pilot.”

Without having to ask him to help or that I need to hurry home and pack, Dalton hurries down the sidewalk with me.

I call my pilot, who is always more than gracious and helpful, but tonight, he’s the bearer of bad news. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the cold front coming in from the Great Lakes is causing a nasty storm. Half of Ohio is under tornado watches and three touched down in Indiana. The weather isn’t cooperating.”

I grip my hair, panicked. “Leo, I don’t know how else to word this, but I need to get to California now. Like, I needed to be there eight hours ago.”

“Hey, I hear ya, Caleb, but I can’t control the weather.”

Dalton overhears us since I put the call on speaker. “Well, when’s the earliest you can take off?”

I glance at him, hopeful.

“Give or take, since, again, I can’t control the weather, first thing in the morning?”

Dalton nods once and pockets his phone. “The wedding is tomorrow at eleven. You can make it.”

Just barely.

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