Page 6 of Charlie and Her Sweet Escape
Well,almostmy life.
I pulled my old SUV into the circular driveway and parked behind a line of luxury vehicles. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes,” I told Molly as I rolled down the windows and refilled her water. I kissed the top of her head and dashed toward the house.
The stone walkway up to the front door never ceased to make me feel like I was entering the scene of a movie—the protagonist with the fresh, glasses-free makeover preparing for her debut as irresistible and desirable. I didn’t wear glasses, but the fantasy was the fantasy.
I debated walking in, but it felt weird to me, even with the party going on. The Millers weren’t really a “just walk in” kind of family. I rang the doorbell and then tried to rub off as much mud as I could, leaving little speckles of brown near my feet. My shoes were even worse, and I kicked them off just as Greg’s mom, Mrs. Miller, opened the door.
Her eyes perused from my head to my bare toes, and her pert nose wrinkled. But, ever the gracious hostess, she forced a smile to her face. “Charlotte. My goodness, are you okay?”
I blew out a quick breath. This was my future mother-in-law. Not some stranger I was meeting for the first time. I kept waiting for the nerves to settle when I was around her, but so far, I was out of luck. “I’m okay.” I motioned downward at my dress. “My clothes, on the other hand…”
I hoped she’d chuckle and usher me in warmly, but instead, her frown deepened, and she kept me there on the doorstep. “Garrison’s business associates are all here?—”
The door opened wider, and Greg stood there, his brow furrowed even deeper than his mom’s. A chill wind blew up from the mountain, bringing with it the promise of a storm. I shivered.
“I’ve got this, Mom,” he said.
She nodded and returned to the party I could hear toward the back of the house.
He stepped outside and shut the door behind him. “Charlotte, you know how big of a deal this shower is to my parents.”
I thought the party was forus.But I didn’t say that, not when he was looking this angry. “I’m sorry?—”
“Are you?” His mouth tightened. “My mom has been planning this for months.”
“I’ll go home and change?—”
“There’s no time.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe my mom has something you can borrow.”
“Okay.” I hated how small my voice sounded, but my throat was too tight for volume. Guilt roiled through me. I’d messed up their—our—party.
“For once, couldn’t you have let the dog be?”
Yes, I was late. Yes, I’d stopped to help a dog. But I’d hardly committed a criminal offense. Hurt rolled through me and unbound my tongue. “You used to like that I’d stop and help.” I hadn’t changed—this was who I’d always been. But somewhere along the line, he’d gone from thinking it was adorable to finding it annoying.
“When we were teenagers. Don’t you think it’s about time you grew up?” He stormed inside, the open door the only invitation I’d get.
I stayed on the porch for another moment to corral and hitch my emotion. He was stressed. We were both worn out. I was late to something important to him. The wind blew a few icy raindrops in my direction. Getting sick right before the wedding was the last thing I needed.
I felt like a trespasser as I edged past the door. The tinkling of silverware on cutlery and glasses, along with laughter and chatting, drifted toward the front entryway.
The cream-colored marble tiles (Mrs. Miller was obsessed with cream) were warm beneath my bare feet as I took another step toward the huge oval mirror in the entryway.
My carefully curled long hair lay limp and lifeless down my back. The dress was a lost cause. My makeup had smeared while caring for Molly, and my freckles were on full display, making me look at least five years younger. I guessed I wasn’t just acting like a teenager; I was going to look like one as well.
In the reflection, I spotted Greg coming down the stairs with a women’s blazer, a button-up blouse, and a tweed pencil skirt (all cream, of course). His mom’s signature look.
“You can change in the bathroom down the hall,” he said as I swiveled toward him. “I’ll grab some shoes.”
“Your mom’s feet are a size smaller than mine.”
“Do you have another solution?” he asked, his voice clipped.
I slowly shook my head. Going barefoot must be out of the question. I changed quickly in the bathroom. Greg’s mom was a petite woman, and her clothes were on the snug side.
“Sexy business casual,” I said with a hip shimmy. It was the kind of joke that would have made Greg laugh when we’d first started dating but would now earn me a pained frown. The wedding stress was killing us. We just needed to get through it, and then things would go back to normal.
I’d tipped my head over to shake out my hair and give it body when I heard a clattering noise on the marble floors. “Greg?” I called out.
