Page 66 of The Trouble with Runaway Brides

Why is it so quiet?

My mom isn’t known for tiptoeing around the house while people sleep in. She doesn’t like anyone sleeping through the day.

I look at the pillow. Huh? I don’t remember the pillowcase being blue. I sit up and my head pounds. This isn’t the room I’ve been staying in at my parents’ rental. And it’s definitely not a Glacier Point hotel room. What the hell?

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Remember. Remember.

Bar with Brinley. Shots. Pool. Lance. Easton.

The sound of coffee beans grinding downstairs.

I lift the covers to find that I’m in my bra and underwear. Shit. Unless Will arrived early and somehow found me at the bar and rented a house, I am not where I should be. I climb out of the cozy bed and inspect the room to try to figure out where the hell I am.

It isn’t until I spot the watch on the dresser that I know I’m at Lance’s. Which doesn’t make this situation any better. Panic and anxiety tighten my chest.

I walk into the adjoining bathroom to find a stack of clothes with a note on top.

* * *

Your clothes are drying.

* * *

Why did my clothes have to be washed?

Then I look at my reflection in the mirror and cringe. Black mascara is smeared down my face and my hair is all over the place. Quickly, I scrub my eyes and dig around in his drawers for a brush.

I put on the clothes—his clothes—and try to ignore the way my belly flutters at having Lance’s belongings on my body. I have to roll the shorts a bunch of times and they’re still way too big and won’t stay up. The T-shirt is long enough to cover me and I have underwear on, so I decide to ditch the shorts.

I peek out of the bedroom. There’s a long hallway and staircase that’ll lead me right to him. That’ll lead to me confronting head-on whatever happened last night.

God, did I get drunk and make yet another terrible, life-altering decision?

My heartbeat picks up as though there’s a drumline in my chest.

I don’t feel like I had sex last night, but maybe we fooled around? Please tell me we didn’t do anything last night. We were just getting to the point of being friends again and I don’t want to fuck that up when I’m marrying another man.

From what I can tell, Lance’s house is quite nice. It has natural wood floors and white trim throughout. I tiptoe down the stairs, surprised that it leads me right into the kitchen.

Lance stands there in sweatpants with no shirt and a smile. His gaze roams my body and now I wish I would’ve put on the shorts because his smile widens when he notices I’m not wearing them.

Oh my God, I did it. I’m officially a cheater.

“Good morning. Sorry, did I wake you? I didn’t realize I didn’t have any ground beans left and figured you’d need some coffee when you woke up.” He points to the breakfast area. “Ibuprofen and water for you.”

How can he be so calm about this?

“Thanks,” I murmur and sit on the stool. I take the pain medicine and drink the water.

“I cleaned your dress as best I could, but you’ll probably have to take it to the dry cleaners.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” I keep my back to him, unable to face what I’ve done—or a bare-chested Lance, without wanting to drink in my fill.

God, I’m such a terrible person. I never would have thought I’d ever do something like this, even if the lead-up to the wedding has been especially hard on my relationship with Will.

A phone buzzes from somewhere. The next thing I know, Lance is beside me and handing me my phone.

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