Page 112 of No Vow Broken

Lexi

Sunday morning—the day after the wedding

It was after eleven in the morning before Slash and I dragged ourselves out of bed and down to the dining room for brunch.

The dining room was mostly empty except for a few other late risers like Stefan, Alessa, Hands, and Gray, who sat around a table drinking coffee and chatting. They waved us over when they spotted us, so we pulled up a couple of chairs.

“How do the newlyweds feel this morning?” Stefan asked.

“Can you lower your voice?” I said, reaching for the coffee carafe and a mug. “Seriously.”

Stefan laughed and shoved a copy of theWashington Postand a couple other newspapers at us. “Thought you might want to see this. You’re famous. Sort of.”

I sighed. Before I looked at the papers, I poured myself a cup of coffee and added a lot of cream, passing the carafe to Slash. I took a sip of coffee and then picked up thePost, scanning the headline and looking at the photo.

There, on the first page of the Washington Post, was a leaked photo showing me running away from the church toward the SUV with my wedding gown streaming behind me, my shoes in my hand, and Slash in hot pursuit. The headline read, “Left at the Altar?”

The article was all nonsense and speculation about me being a runaway bride. They still didn’t know my name, which provided a little relief. Lower on the page were a few more articles titled “Bride Starts New Fashion Trend with Cleverly Tied Veil,” “Persuaded by the Groom to Return,” and “The Secret Service Brought Her Back.”

Ugh.

But it wasn’t until I turned the page and went farther into the paper that I found a more interesting article titled “Rumors Swirl About Bride Foiling Another Assassination Attempt.” Again, the article was mostly innuendo and speculation, but the media was already trying to piece it together.

While sipping his coffee, Slash picked up another newspaper and pointed out the headline that read “Who Are These People? DC’s Mysterious Power Couple.” The photo was blurry and grainy, since the photographer had apparently tried to shoot it through the tinted windows of the SUV.

I looked at the photo, then back at Slash with a worried expression. “I just hope they never find out who we are. That’s the last thing we need.”

“Agreed,” Slash said.

Gray gave us a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, guys, your secret is safe with us. Although I don’t know how much longer you’ll be able to go incognito with the press on your heels like bloodhounds.”

“But don’t worry about that now,” Hands said, shooting Gray a warning look. “You just got married and have more important and exciting things to think about. Like what are you going to do next? Save the world again? Go on a honeymoon?”

Slash and I exchanged a glance before we set our coffee cups down.

“A honeymoon would be nice,” I said. “But I don’t see how we can take a honeymoon when my little black cloud refuses to ever take a day off.”

Slash shrugged, taking another sip of his coffee. “We’ll learn to live with it or figure out a way to contain it…eventually.”

Hands laughed. “Good luck. That cloud has to be the most tenacious thing I’ve ever seen…or not seen. You know what I mean.”

We all laughed—sort of—and chatted a bit more as we ordered food. I was on my second cup of coffee when Finn strolled into the dining room, sunglasses hooked on the front of his T-shirt, and looking no worse for wear after the long night’s activities. He spotted me and made a beeline in my direction.

“There you are.” He shook a bunch of papers he held fisted in one hand. “I have a formal complaint to lodge with you.”

“Uh, oh. Did I forget to do something at work?” I asked.

“Absolutely not. Your performance at work is beyond impeccable and always stellar. This is far more serious than that.”

There was a scowl on his face, but there was something else there, too. A twinkle in his eye, perhaps, and his tone held a bit of humor. I was getting better at spotting those things.

“Was there a problem with the hotel, Finn?” I asked. “Were your hall mates a bit too noisy?”

“Good God, lass. I’m an Irishman. If nothing else, I was noisier than most. It’s about your wedding reception. It went off without a hitch. Not a single crisis occurred or had to be mitigated.”

I stared at him for a moment, having no idea where he was going with this. “And that’s bad because…?”

“Because the rest of the week leading up to the reception involved assassination attempts, drone attacks, wild driving scenarios, a barf fest, and lots of police and Secret Service interviews regarding people who were trying to kill us. But the reception went flawlessly. No one got food poisoning, you didn’t knock the punch bowl over or spill wine on the pope’s white robes, no one got so drunk they had to be carried to their room, and you didn’t even destroy the wedding cake or skewer Slash with the cake knife.”

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