Page 8 of Rebel Bride
She looked down.
“The church is the other way,” I said.
“Well, I know that, don’t I?” She sounded different, more … country. Of course, she barely spoke to me, and I usually avoided her like the plague, so I probably hadn’t picked up on that before.
This should have been my cue to ask her why she was choosing to leave the church by a side window instead of through a door like a normal person. Either way, she appeared to be hightailing it out of her wedding.
I wasn’t the hero of this tale, so I made no move to help her.
At which point she jumped.
Summer Landry, all five foot three inches and 110 pounds even with a shit-ton of bridal fabric, landed on my chest, a hard-core check that took me down.
“Oh God, Hatch, are you okay?”
She stared down at me with those violet-blue eyes, her blonde hair falling like a wispy waterfall over my face. Splashes of color washed her cheeks, blushing through her bridal make-up. Her rouged lips parted in concern.
But not so much that she thought to climb off me. No, she remained where she was, her dress ridden up as she straddled me. All I could feel was the heat of her against my stomach. That, and the pain in my hip where it had hit the ground as I collapsed to break her fall.
“Maybe get off me so I can see.”
“Oh, right!” She clambered to her feet, pulling her dress down but not before I caught sight of her thigh, gift-wrapped with a garter. The bodice of the dress had slipped a little, giving hints of tempting cleavage while the floral garland holding the veil had been knocked askew.
She offered her hand. I ignored it and scrambled to a stand, mentally checking my body for injury. Other than what would likely be a bruise to my hip, I was in good shape.
My mind, however, was still reeling from what had just occurred.
A million questions duked it out, and the winner was, “Are you hurt?” I might have taken the brunt of that fall, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t sustained an injury.
“No, I-I’m fine.” She chewed on her lip, stepped forward, and looked around for the shoe she’d lost in her unorthodox exit.
Spotting it a few feet off, I moved to retrieve it. Before I could hand it off, she closed the gap and grasped my arm.
“I need your help.”
“I’ve got your shoe right here.” Though I knew that wasn’t what she meant.
“Hatch, I’m not getting married today.”
Chapter Three
Summer
* * *
Hatch Kershaw was the last person I expected to see as I made my great escape.
With one foot over the window sill, I’d asked for his help, and he ignored me. Just stood there, hands fisted on hips, looking every inch the hockey god in his tux. He didn’t like me—never had—but he was Theo Kershaw’s son, and I suspected a vein of decency within him that wouldn’t allow me to fall without some attempt to catch me.
His dark, wavy hair caught glints of sunlight, giving it copper tones. Perfectly bladed cheekbones angled down to meet full lips, almost too sensuous for a man. But his eyes were the real stars of the show. Like his sister Adeline, his were a jewel green with dark gold glints. Unlike her, those eyes had always held nothing but contempt for me, where the not-so-secret message was “I hate you, Summer Landry, and you’ll never know why.”
He held my shoe in one hand, and something about his demeanor told me I might have to bargain for it. Finally, he spoke. “What did you say?”
“I’m not getting married today.”
His dark brows slammed together, not, I suspected, in confusion, but in annoyance. Of course, the last thing he wanted to deal with was a bride who had changed her mind. I considered how far I’d have to walk to catch a taxi. I could call an Uber, but even then, I’d need to wait somewhere inconspicuous—namely, far from this church.
In a day of wild notions, I felt another one taking root. Hatch Kershaw despised me. Time to see how much.
