Page 130 of Happily Never After

She nodded at the chauffeur, and he took off to the limo. Luke waved as he pulled out of the parking lot and turned left. With any luck, he’d find a way to the Getty. Mindy’s car was already gone. That left the rickshaw.

“Please forgive the informality,” Claire said, “but you’ll be taking an open-air rickshaw down the coast with beautiful views.”

Brad’s face immediately reddened. He looked ready to protest, but Karen spoke up.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to do one of these rickshaws! Did you plan this?” Karen nudged Brad. Her voice was throaty and a little raspier than Claire expected.

“Gotta have a Plan C,” Brad said with a strained smile.

“Climb on in,” Claire said, gesturing to the two seats at the back. She settled at the wheel. She could do this. It would be just like one super intense spin class, that was all. When this was all over and they were back at Luke’s tonight, she’d celebrate with a massive burger and fries from that place down the street.

The couple sat, and suddenly the pedicab felt much weightier. She pushed her feet on the pedals. It was startlingly heavy, but it did move.

She pulled a romantic playlist up on her phone and chucked it into the cup holder so the sound would amplify behind her. Straining with all her might, she inched the rickshaw forward. As it gained momentum, it became slightly less terrible.

She set her GPS on her watch to keep track of the miles so she could monitor their progress as she pedaled with everything she had, dragging them ever closer to Santa Monica. Despite the views Claire had promised, they had to get past a long stretch of small homes and businesses. They passed tiny parking lot aftertiny parking lot. They hit the traffic jam and rolled onto the shoulder. One of the wheels slipped off into the gravel, but she persisted.

One mile went by. The sun seemed to be laughing at her from its lofty position. Sweat formed behind her neck. Her lungs burned. Her side stitch had gotten worse. Had someone stabbed her with a chef’s knife while she wasn’t looking?

“This is so romantic,” Karen said behind them.

In spite of the sweat dribbling into her eye, Claire smiled. Things weren’t ruined. Not yet, anyway.

The line of cars stretched and wound over the serpentine highway. Two miles. Not that much time had passed. They were barely behind schedule at all. Finally, the long row of homes and businesses ended. The shoulder was even more narrow here, but at least the cars weren’t moving. The sun sparkled off the ocean. It was almost blinding.

Claire pedaled on, ignoring the intermittent honks from other drivers.

Three miles. They passed more homes, more businesses. Her thighs were screaming. Four miles. A public beach crawled by on their right. The road they needed to deviate onto would be coming up soon.

“Inceville,” Claire muttered under her breath as she finally took a left turn onto Sunset Boulevard. Thank god it was still open. Just a hundred yards or so down the highway, the traffic ended and the blockade began.

Sunset Boulevard was obnoxiously windy and far hillier than the highway had been. Nevertheless, she pushed on. Her legs wept. By the time she made it back to the highway, every part of her was drenched in sweat. The bridge of her nose was dry and tight. She was definitely sunburned. She needed electrolytes. Or a hospital.

It had been forty-five minutes since they had left the restaurant. The detour had wasted a big chunk of time, but the quartet was still booked for another hour and fifteen minutes. It was still possible. There was no way in hell she was going to be outdone by a stupid bomb threat and an unscheduled pedicab. All she had to do was get them there.

Breath burned in her lungs like fire as she slammed her legs against the pedals, urging it forward ever faster. Her side stitch was getting worse, but they were getting close now. They passed another beach, then a park. Finally, just ahead, the top of the Ferris Wheel rose majestically from the ocean. Thank friggen goodness.

Ten painful minutes later, they pulled up at the pier.

“Mr. Lux, would you like to take it from here?” There wasn’t a response. She glanced behind her. Both of them were sound asleep, mouths hanging open. He couldn’t have been too mad, then.

Claire stood and got off the bike. Her knees nearly buckled as she gently shook him awake. “We’re here. Sorry about the cart, there was a bomb threat.”

“I heard. Thanks for getting us here.” He blinked and wiped the sleep from his eyes.

“Head for the wheel,” she whispered as he gently shook his soon-to-be bride. They were going to have to skip the Skee-Ball portion if they wanted to get to the Getty in any kind of reasonable timeframe.

Once Brad and Karen had exited the rickshaw, Claire nearly cried in relief. She had done it. Nothing could stop true love—not a bomb threat, not a roadblock, not even a town with a stupid number of people in it. Surely the rest of the proposal would go smoothly.

CHAPTER FIFTY

To Do:

- Drink a five gallon bucket of Gatorade

- Murder whoever set that bomb threat

- Pray that Brad doesn’t have a pig farm to feed me to

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