Page 7 of The Pucking Grump

SPARKS ON THE SIDELINES

This is not how I imagined I would be spending my wedding night.

We have been in this car for about six hours, and the man who is helping me—Blake—has been driving the entire time. We have passed the city, fields of stunning greenery, and are now coursing down a road hedged by low, hilly grounds.

I cast a sidelong glance at him. Once again, I feel a small shock at how handsome he is. I’ve been around pretty boys in my life, but Blake is in another category altogether. With his blond hair, clear blue eyes, and over six-foot frame, he looks like he could give any catalog model a run for their money.

But there’s something else different about him.

My breath catches in my throat as I allow my gaze to trail down his body for a split second. I still remember what it felt like, him holding me against his chest as we hit the ground.

It felt . . . good. Safe. Exciting.

Even in my confusion, the huge arms wrapped around my waist had made my stomach fold in half. For a brief moment, I wanted him to go lower, to put his hands on my hips and . . .

“Almost there.”

I jump, perhaps because we have not spoken much in the past six hours. Which was fine by me. I’ve been a nervous wreck the whole time, imagining what was going on back at the hotel with the wedding, and what moment my dad realized I’d made a run for it. Every single second I spent dwelling on what happened wound my anxiety to an even higher pitch. And a couple of hours later, I was too spent to summon any emotion except one of calm dread.

Inhaling deeply, I attempt to anchor myself in the here and now, concentrating intently on Blake’s words. “Almost where?”

He keeps his gaze locked on the road, his lips pursed. He’s looked like that for six whole hours. I wonder if he’s regretting helping me.

But then, who wouldn’t?

His lips grow thinner. “My cabin. It’s off the grid and out in the middle of nowhere. I go there to relax before the start of the hockey season.”

Yeah, he definitely regrets helping me.

A twinge of self-reproach rises in me. But I don’t feel as guilty as I should.

Maybe because I’m still concerned about what’s happening back at the wedding venue.

It’s six hours after I should have gotten married. I’m certain the news has spread over social media, confusing my fans. My belly flutters as I think of what people are saying online, what they are writing about me, the damage that’s being done to my career in this moment.

Again, for what feels like the hundredth time, I wish I’d thought to bring my cell phone. It’s probably good I didn’t because my dad would be blowing it up with calls by now. But then, having a cell phone means access to the internet. I could check and know what’s going on.

I close my eyes and rest against the seat, urging myself to think only good thoughts. My father is still a great manager. Yeah, he wanted me to marry Ben, and he’s probably raging about the fact that I ran off, but he’s still my dad. No doubt he has gotten in front of the cameras and delivered a statement that will protect my public reputation. I know he isn’t exactly the most paternal father, but he would do anything to save my career.

I decide I cannot take any more of the uncertainty. Glancing at Blake’s handsome profile again, I ask, “Do you have a cellphone?”

He looks at me for the first time in six hours. “Why? You regretting your decision already?”

I squint at him, confused. Why would he think that? It reminds me of what he said back at the venue, when he was convinced that I was upset over a torn veil.

I’m tempted to deliver a rude one-liner, but I force myself to rein it in. He’s helping me out, after all. Risking his reputation for a total stranger. I can overlook a few peculiarities.

“I want to see what the internet is saying about my grand exit.”

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “No way. You’re not doing that.”

“What? Why?”

He gives me another glance, focusing on my wedding dress. “You’re in a fragile enough state right now. Reading the posts of a million haters is not going to put you in a better mood.”

My chest rises with panic. I know he’s only trying to help, but his words frighten me more than anything else. Does he really think everyone on the internet is currently hating me?

I’m scared to ask that question, but I don’t need to, because he’s already pulling off the main road, onto a smaller one bordered by a thicket of trees. He cruises down the uneven, sloping path, finally stopping a little further down.

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