Page 9 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

Morgan rolls her eyes. “No. That you of all people should not be googling. You’ll end up in a death spiral. You’re supposed to callmeinstead. Now, what’s up?”

I twist Mom’s ring on my finger. So much smaller than the diamond Drew gave me, which feels like a shiny, weighty anchor.

“Dad gave me this,” I say, holding out my hand to show her the ring.

Morgan softens. “Your mom’s?”

“Yep.”

“Aw, my sweet little Milly. Bring it in.” Morgan draws me into a hug, and I giggle. “Shh—there, there. Shut up, boy.”

This is a quote fromThe Simpsons, Morgan’s favorite show. I never quite understood the appeal, but I know her most-used quotes from it, which include this one and something about being a Viking in your sleep.

Her hug does make me feel better. Sort of. It doesn’t take away the weird, sinking feeling, but I don’t feel so alone and panicked.

For about five seconds. Then my eyes start to burn, and I have trouble breathing.

Morgan’s eyes narrow, and she waves Becky toward the door. “Out.”

“You can’t kick me out. I’m the maid of honor!”

“Seven minutes past,” the wedding coordinator says. We all ignore her.

“Stop trying to pull that trump card like it’s anything more than a title for today,” Morgan snaps at Becky. “I need to talk to mybest friend. Alone. Now.”

My cousin, for whatever reason, seems ready to put up a fight, wringing her hands and not moving even an inch away. “I think?—”

But before Becky can finish whatever she was going to say, the door bursts open again. Even harder than the dramatic entrance Morgan made minutes ago.

If she was a cyclone on speed, this is a typhoon on bath salts.

The door actually crashes into the wall behind it, making all three of us jump and stare at the two figures entering the room, one of whom isn’t coming willingly.

“Drew?”

My fiancé is being dragged by a dark-haired man at least six inches taller and so broad he barely fits through the doorway.When he looks up and our eyes catch, I’m too stunned to speak. I know that face.

Robbie—a man I’ve met only once but couldn’t forget.

Hard to do when you have a great conversation with a stranger, the sparks flew so hard they almost singed the roof off the building, and then the guy heads to the bathroom and … never returns.

Not that I’ve been harboring bitterness about it for the past year or anything.

Last night when I saw Robbie at the rehearsal dinner and realized he’s one of my dad’s players, it only left me with more questions.

Like … did Robbie know who I was the whole time we were talking?

Or maybe hedidn’tknow, saw my dad come into the restaurant, and then bailed.

If I had to guess, I’d go with the second one. My dad has always kept me from the teams he coached in a sort of no-crossing-the-streams situation. Dad might not be above murder or maybe just some light mutilation if one of his players so much as touched me. I’m sure he’s made this known to them. He’s been doing it with every team he’s ever coached. It’s never bothered me as I’m not into athletes.

Or, I didn’tthinkI was. But I liked Robbie. A lot.

Until he ghosted me. I met Drew a few weeks later and, well, did my best not to think about the one who got away.

Now, though, I havenewquestions.

Why is Robbiehere?And why is he dragging Drew by his jacket?

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