Page 9 of Rebel Bride
“Could you give me a ride?”
“You’re actually leaving Carter?” The full import of what I was doing had finally reached his puck-battered brain.
“Like I said, I’m not getting married today.” I spoke a little slower and enunciated each word.
His eyes narrowed, that gorgeous green gaze darkening in suspicion. “What’s going on here?”
Good grief, did he think I was pranking him? How many brides had he seen make their escape through a church bathroom window?
“What are you not getting? I need to leave.” I looked over his shoulder, expecting Mrs. Carter to appear any moment in a plume of Sulphur-accented smoke. “I told them I needed a moment in the bathroom, and now that moment has stretched from wedding day jitters to bride’s prerogative to holy-shit-this-ain’t-happenin’.”
Hatch glowered, and I was reminded that (a) my accent had slipped there, which inevitably occurred when I was stressed, and (b) this man was the worst person I could have landed on when I scrambled out that window.
“Oh, never mind!” I took a step around him, which was enough to remind me that I was toting one heel, a wedding dress, and an ever-increasing sense of dread about what I had just done. Maybe it wasn’t too late to change my mind. I would need a hike up and back through the window or I could call Rosie to meet me at a side door. All the reasons I had for going a little mad could be dealt with. AI vows … the worst in-laws on the planet … I gave up my job …
Sure, go back in there and lie your pretty little head off, Summer.
Screw you, Shelby Mae.
I turned back and gestured for the shoe he was still holding hostage. But instead of that, he delivered something unexpected.
His hand.
He wrapped it around mine, gave a gentle tug, and said, “Let’s go.”
If this was a fairytale or a rom-com, I would have bundled myself and my wedding dress into the front seat of a convertible and driven out of that parking lot to the tune of George Michael’s “Freedom.” My veil would have been whipped off my head by the wind, the perfect symbol to my new-found liberation. No more Mrs. Carter and her micro-management of everything, no more snooty, snarky comments from Dash’s awful family, and no more playing the little woman to my superstar fiancé.
But this wasn’t a fairytale. This was my life, and I’d just fucked it up.
They would come looking for me. The wedding cost a fortune, more money than I’d ever dreamed possible for a girl’s big day, and I had not upheld my end of the bargain. Dash would be pissed, and then he would be persuasive. After all, I’d cozied my cold feet against his warm ones several times over the last year and he’d always managed to allay my doubts.
It’s just nerves, babe.
You know this is meant to be.
Four years together. That’s a long time.
Hearing Dash talk about the “sunk costs” of our relationship had assured me he was right. I was an investment, both Dash in me, and me in myself. I had emerged from my sorry background, pulled up my knee-highs, and found a man worthy of the new me. I had a job I loved (once), friends I enjoyed (who knew zilch about me), a life I’d built from nothing (through blood, sweat, and lies), and this wedding was supposed to be the topper on that delicious cake I’d baked.
Turned out I’d used too much salt.
“Where to?”
Hatch had released my hand to open the passenger side door of his SUV, and now he stood with his hand on the open door, looking down on me. Familiar, that look. Still didn’t like me, though I was hard-pressed to know why. I suspected he saw right through me. Knew me for the impostor I was.
“I-I’m not sure.”
“Changed your mind, have you?”
Those sensuous lips curled in a sneer. It was hard to believe he was the son of the beloved captain of the Chicago Rebels. He looked like him, but in temperament they were so different. Where Theo was cheerful and sunny, Hatch was broody and closed off. Or maybe that was just with me.
Something about his attitude rankled. He didn’t like me, but he wasn’t a fan of Dash either. I thought Hatch would have liked if I returned to that church, leaving behind this fossilized evidence of my bad behavior, information he could lord over me.
“Can we just leave?”
“Fine.”
He slammed the door, catching my dress in it, but I didn’t care. It was so representative of my life right now. I unpocketed my phone and sent a text to Dash:
