Page 3 of Runaway Bride for the Boss

Why did I run away from my own wedding? I’ve been having second thoughts since before I even said yes to the proposal. There was the elaborate engagement party at theNew York Public Librarylast year. That’s when I finally built up the courage to voice my doubts to Larson, my fiancé – now my ex-fiancé. Was it the best time to share that I’d been feeling a little lost in our relationship and wanted to slow things down; no, probably not. But his reaction was blown way out of proportion.

He lost his temper and he shoved me, hard enough that I tripped, hitting my head on a table on my way down. I ran out of the party in complete shock that he could ever hurt me, my sweet Larson. Or so I thought. He was the nice guy, the safe choice, but that illusion has been crumbling for over a year. Then there wasthe incident this morning…but I can’t even think about that right now. All that matters is that I’m getting far far away.

I turn onto the NY state route 9A, crawling along in the right lane and deciding I’ll just follow the highway as long as possible. I should’ve left after that incident, I know. And I did try to end things, but he wasn’t having it. I was in too deep and didn’t see a way out. It didn’t help that Mother was on his side, so I thought maybe I was overreacting like everyone said. So, I went back to him with my tail tucked between my legs and just…stayed. I’ve hated myself for it every day since. But the interaction I overheard when I went to the groom’s suite, to voice my concerns once again, was the last straw. It was enough to finally make me come to my senses.

I could stay and try to call off the wedding like an adult, but Larson would never let that happen. He’s so persuasive, so convincing…and might even threaten me or resort to something drastic to force my hand. I feel like I don’t even know him anymore, and I certainly can’t trust him now. So, I bolted.

I don’t particularly have a destination in mind as I take the ramp to the Taconic State Parkway, I just need to put as much distance between Larson and me as possible. I glance on either side of the highway, inhaling deeply as I admire how beautiful this time of year is in New York. The burnt orange and red hues of the trees that stretch as far as the eye can see on either side of the road are amplified by the twilight hour.

This has always been my favorite time of year. While some may see the dying leaves as an ending, I’ve always felt a sense of beginning, of rebirth in Autumn. What better time to say goodbye to that which no longer serves us and to find beauty in change and allow ourselves a fresh start? How ironic.

“Just enjoy the view, Autumn. And on the bright side, not having your phone with you means no way for him to track you,” I say quietly, glancing at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

I glance back to make sure the coast is clear, then pull over to the shoulder of the road to defiantly pull my hair out of the tight bun it’s in.

Wren, why do you have your hair down again? You know you look more presentable when it’s up.

“Take that asshole.Ithink I look better with my hair down. And it’s Autumn, not Wren.”

I blow out a breath as I stare at the limp strands. My normally shiny and silky reddish-blonde hair is dull and frizzy. It’s most likely damaged from all the heat styling.

Curls are unbecoming and unladylike, Wren. You’re a woman, not a heathen.

I scowl at the sound of his voice in my head. I was such a dumbass, such a pushover. I let him change everything about me until I didn’t even recognize myself.

“The curls will be back after a wash,” I murmur to myself as I start the car. I’m never straightening it again. Ever.

I drive for hours, my car slowly chugging along as I take the exit onto I-90 E. I still don’t know where I’m headed, but when a few minutes later I see a sign for exit 45 to merge onto I-91, I impulsively turn onto it. Another bright side is that if even I don’t know where I’m going, no one should be able to track me down.

Not Mom, nor Alicia, and most especially, not Larson.

The sky slowly darkens, and at first I think it’s because it’s getting late, but then lightning flashes ominously.

“If it rains, that means the skies are endorsing my disappearing act from the wedding,” I mouth with a small smile. I’m not exactly sure if I believe in a higher power controlling the universe, but when a clap of thunder follows my words, my smile widens into a grin.

A few minutes later, it starts to drizzle, slowly increasing to an outright downpour. This slows my already sluggishdriving considerably. I squint, leaning forward until my chest is plastered to the wheel as I drive through the rain. I drive for another hour and a half, and see an exit coming up ahead. I can’t make out the words on the sign through the rain, but I debate for a few seconds, then abruptly turn left at the last second.

I shift in my seat, my eyes watering from squinting while having my contacts in—one must’ve shifted—ass on fire from being in the same position for who knows how many hours. My stomach grumbles, and I wince as the hunger pangs I’ve been studiously ignoring feel like they’re eating my insides. Damn it, I only had a blueberry muffin this morning. The rain is still pouring heavily, and I’m totally lost as to where I am, but I keep driving.

The first tendrils of panic hit me when my car stalls, bucking and jerking in the middle of the road. I immediately glance at the gas meter. It’s not on empty so that can’t be the problem.

“Oh no. Please don’t do this to me now, Betty. Don’t quit on me,” I mutter with a shaky voice as the car comes to a full stop. I can’t see any signs through the rain, which leads me to believe that I’m not in a town yet. And it’s probably the middle of the night already, so I might even be the only one on the road.

I wait for some time for the engine to cool—isn’t that what to do in this situation? Then I turn the ignition. Nothing happens. I swallow hard. My car can’t die here. It just can’t.

“Come on, Betty, just a little further.” I turn the ignition again and the engine sputters angrily. “Yes! That’s it.” On the fourth try, the engine comes to life. I know I only have at most thirty minutes of driving left.

I glance around again and see a left turn just up ahead. I take it hoping it leads to a town or at the very least, a gas station. Somewhere with people. I let out a relieved sigh when after a few minutes on the road I come across a tall sign with the words,Welcome to Brattleboro, Vermont.

I press my foot on the gas, mindful of the slippery road and the fact that the car could give out at any moment. I pass through a couple of small buildings. The town slowly takes shape, the buildings getting taller and closer together.

As I turn onto a road with a signboard that says,This way to Historic Downtown Brattleboro,I suddenly realize that the name of the town sounds familiar. Brattleboro. Brattleboro. Where have I heard that before?

Brattleboro is a shit town with stuck-up people and pompous asses.

Larson. Oh, my God, this is Larson’s hometown.

CHAPTER 3

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