Page 13 of Free

Davis levels a cool glare in my direction. “This doesn’t concern you.”

I straighten to my full height and stare the man down. “If it concerns Charlie, it concerns me.”

“Not anymore,” Davis growls while Charlie hits me with a questioning glance.

I hold up my hands to concede his point. He’s not wrong.

Or at least he wasn’t, not until he grabs Charlie by the arm, dragging her a few steps away.

She stumbles but yanks free, and he has the audacity to look shocked. “So, what?” he barks at her. “You’re just gonna walk away?”

“Gee, let me think about that...” Charlie pretends to bite her nails and look concerned before dropping her hands and cocking her head. “You’re damn straight I’m gonna walk away. I’ve beengoing on about how marriage is compromise. Quitting my job. Drowning in this damn dress you love so much. Suffocating in the pastel palace because you wanted a traditional wedding. Only to find out you couldn’t be bothered to break up with even one of the girlfriends I’m not supposed to find out about? I deserve so much better than anything you have to offer.”

Davis scoffs. One look at the guy says it never occurred to him that someone better than him might exist.

Charlie turns to me. “Nick? Will you please get me the hell out of here?”

My chest tightens again. My heart speeds. My fingers are tingling. I haven’t spent time alone with Charlie since the accident and my therapist would be telling me I need to find a quiet space and focus on my breathing rather than abscond with a bride.

But there’s only one right answer to her question.

“It would be an honor.”

SEVEN

Charlie

Nick puts a firm hand on my back and leads me towards the exit. His touch is steady, grounding. My bare feet slap against the cold, polished floor, the sound echoing in the empty hallway like the heartbeat I can’t control. My skirt is bunched in one arm to keep from tripping, the layers of tulle and silk heavy and constricting. My heels dangle uselessly from my other hand, a symbol of everything I thought today would be and everything it isn’t. My future feels like it’s disintegrating before my eyes, one jagged piece at a time.

“You’ll regret this, Charlotte! I’ll—” Davis’s voice follows us, sharp and venomous, but the heavy slam of the church door behind me swallows his words.

The air outside is thick, humid, pressing against my skin like a crowd jeering at my stupidity as we step into the parking lot. Two hundred people are inside, waiting for me to walk down the aisle in less than an hour. Two hundred pairs of eyes expecting a perfect bride, a radiant smile, and a promise of forever. Instead,here I am, running barefoot from the latest man to break my heart—guided by the man who broke it first.

Nick’s legs are long, and his pace is relentless. My breath comes fast, uneven, as I try to keep up. The gravel digs into my soles, sharp and grounding, a painful reminder of how real this is. He stops abruptly beside a pickup truck, and I slam into his back, the collision forcing a sharp exhale from my lungs.

“You keep doing that, I’m gonna think it’s on purpose,” he says, throwing a glance over his shoulder. The corner of his mouth lifts in that crooked, familiar smile—the one that used to send butterflies flitting through my belly.

It still does. Though that might just be the adrenaline.

Nick looks different now. His dark hair is longer, almost shaggy, curling slightly at the ends. It suits him in a brooding, complicated way that makes my chest ache. His eyes, once clear and bright like the summer sky, are different too—charged, electric, like the crackle of lightning before it strikes. There’s an energy between us, alive and buzzing, and I can’t catch my breath.

Though again, it could be the adrenaline.

Instead of his dress blues, he’s wearing a suit, and though he looks good—God, he looks good—the sight makes me sad. Nick Hutton was supposed to be a Marine until the day he died. I guess part of him already did.

I force a laugh, short and brittle. “You keep putting yourself in my way, Marine. That’s on you, not me.”

The banter feels surreal. Instantly comfortable, but so out of place. Like slipping into an old song you haven’t sung in years, the words on the tip of your tongue but too heavy to say. Nick promised me “after” when he should have said “never.” And now, instead of marrying Davis, I’m standing in a parking lot, cracking jokes, like I haven’t just discovered I have the worst taste in men.

Nick hauls open the passenger door and offers me a hand. His palm is warm, steady, a stark contrast to the chaos swirling inside me. I heft my skirts with one arm, fighting against the stupid fairy-wing sleeves that tangle at every turn. As I settle into the seat, the familiar scent of old leather and faint cologne surrounds me, pulling at memories I’ve tried to bury.

I put a hand on the door to stop him from closing it. My voice wavers. “Is leaving the right choice?”

Nick doesn’t flinch. His gaze holds mine, steady and sure. “Did you hear what you heard?”

I nod.

“Then it’s the only choice.”

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