Signed Copy - Runaway Bride and Prejudice

CHAPTER ONE SAMPLE

Van

People say when one door closes, another one opens. And maybe that’s true. 

But I wanna know what people say when one door opens and you find the groom hooking up with someone who’s not the bride—less than an hour before the wedding. 

In a church, no less. Classy.

There’s some special ring of Dante’s Inferno set aside for people who cheat on their wedding day. This guy—whose name is so forgettable, I don’t remember it, though I probably should—is like whatever insect belongs on the ladder rung beneath cockroaches. 

And he’s supposed to be marrying my coach’s daughter. 

Amelia. Even just her name sends a disturbing twinge of something through me—something I’d like to ignore. An unfamiliar emotion landing somewhere between jealousy and an irrepressible—and maybe irrational—longing. 

Whatever I shouldn’t be feeling regarding Amelia, I think I’m pretty safe experiencing rage at the sight of her fiancé with someone else while wearing his wedding tux.

Some guys might have walked right back out of the room. 

Pretended they saw nothing. 

Kept their mouths shut. 

I am not some guys. 

All I wanted was to take a leak before the ceremony in case it was one of those long ones with a lot of readings and singing. I’ve been dragged to my fair share of weddings, and long ones are the worst if you need the bathroom. 

Then, I planned to avoid making eye contact with Amelia for the duration of the wedding, enjoy the open bar, and go home alone to sulk. Or move on. Whatever. 

But then, I saw Coach walking toward me in the hallway, eyes on the phone in his hand. He hadn’t seen me. Yet. 

Considering the fact that I’m always on his naughty list, never on the nice list, I didn’t really want to open myself up to a lecture. Had I stopped to think about it, I might have realized Coach isn’t concerned with his least favorite player on the day of his daughter’s wedding. 

But I didn’t stop to think. I ducked into this office—and a situation I can’t ignore. 

“Guess this isn’t the bathroom. Sorry,” I say, not sounding sorry at all. 

I lean casually on the doorframe, not taking my eyes off the dirtbag adjusting his tux. The woman he was kissing dove behind the large mahogany desk when I walked in, and I can hear her shuffling around back there. Probably trying to fix her dress. Or maybe digging herself a hole to climb into. Solid plan. 

The dude has the decency to look sort of apologetic, though it’s more like sorry I got caught than sorry for being a trash human. Quickly, though, his expression turns to irritation. 

Like I’m the one doing something wrong here. Classic cheater’s projection.

“The door was locked,” he says. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

I cock an eyebrow. “It wasn’t locked. And you’re going to blow by apologies and excuses and skip straight to blame-shifting? Huh.” 

“I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t even know you.” 

“True. You don’t owe me anything.” I slide my hands into my pockets. Deceptively casual. “Now—as for what you owe Amelia …” 

His face pales at the mention of the woman he’s supposed to marry in less than half an hour. So, there’s at least some shred of humanity in this guy. I remember the way he clasped Amelia’s hand last night at the rehearsal dinner, all emotional and moved during the toasts. 

He’s a good actor—I’ll give him that. 

I am not an actor, which is why my teammates kept giving me a hard time, asking why I was so quiet last night. Why I wasn’t drinking. Or flirting with any women. 

Guess they haven’t noticed it’s been a long while since I’ve actually dated. 

Anyway, I told them all nothing was wrong; that I don’t have to be ON all the time. That my smart mouth isn’t always running. 

Which is true. It just wasn’t true last night. My real reason for being in a mood isn’t one I plan to tell them.

Amelia also looked happy last night. But jittery too—unless I was imagining it. It’s not like I really know her. I did keep my eyes on her, and I couldn’t help but notice the way she kept fidgeting with the stack of bracelets on her arm, never sitting still. 

And whenever she wasn’t smiling, her face looked … hollow. 

Unlike her douche of a fiancé, Amelia didn’t seem emotional during the toasts. Not until Coach got choked up talking about how Amelia’s mom would be so proud. Which had just about everyone in the room crying. Tucker blew his nose so loudly that a woman at the next table dropped her champagne flute. 

Thinking about Coach, about Amelia, about this guy pretending to care last night has me clenching my fists in my pockets.

“Amelia deserves better than this,” I grit out. 

“How do you know Ames?” the dude demands. 

Ames must be his nickname for Amelia, and it burns that he thinks he gets to still use a pet name for her. I’m pretty sure he forfeited the right to say her name at all the moment he first hooked up with this woman. Or whatever woman came before her. Because I doubt this is the first. There’s usually a long line behind every cheater.  

As for how I know Amelia … it’s a simple story. 

We met randomly. Talked. Thought she might be my soulmate. 

Then I realized she was my coach’s daughter. 

The quintessential Romeo and Juliet story. But with more hockey and hopefully with less death and mayhem. 

“How I know Amelia is irrelevant. Consider me the good angel on your shoulder, here to make sure you do what you need to do.” 

The idea of me as an angel is laughable, but whatever. I can imagine Alec and Tucker and the guys on the team howling over this comparison. 

He scoffs, and I study him. He’s got that whole clean-cut, white-collar thing going on. Neatly trimmed hair. White teeth. Eyebrows that look like they get regularly manicured. And he’s wearing enough projected anger to fill a stadium. 

Is this the kind of guy Amelia likes? The kind of man Coach would approve of?  

As opposed to me—a tattooed hockey player with a reputation. 

“This is a private matter,” he says. 

I’m sure he’d love to keep it a private matter. As in, a secret, hidden thing. 

Protectiveness surges within me. It’s an emotion that comes standard with any decent guy who has sisters. I’ve got three, which amplifies my sense of outrage. 

Why can’t I remember this guy’s name? It starts with a D, but I can only think dude. 

But dude is too nice. 

Douche. I’ll go with that. Douche the Groom. Or, more likely about to be Douche Formerly Known as Groom. I don’t want to be so happy about this because it means Amelia will be crushed. 

Single again. But crushed. 

And single. 

Irrelevant. Because she’s off-limits, dummy. She’s the coach’s daughter. 

The woman hiding behind the desk chooses this moment to stand, smoothing down her dress. Her bridesmaid’s dress. I’m not super knowledgeable about fashion, but the dress is almost the same style my sister, Alexandra, picked for her bridesmaids a few years ago. 

Talk about a cliché. The groom and a bridesmaid in the church office—like a game of cheating Clue. 

The woman touches his arm with familiarity, telling me this isn’t the start of something. Not a first-time or one-time thing. 

Maybe he’s the kind who told himself this would be the last time, that once he said I do, this would all be in the past. Faithfulness from this hour—clearly not day—forward. 

Yeah, right. Cheaters gonna cheat, and they’re gonna keep on cheating. Unless someone steps in and stops it. 

Someone like me.

“So, how’s this going to work?” I ask.

“How’s what going to work?” Douche snaps.

“Do I need to escort you physically to tell Amelia about this, or can I trust you to walk yourself?”

“The door was locked,” he stammers, going back to his original response. Like the main problem here is faulty hardware. Not his actions. 

I snap my fingers. “Catch up. We’ve moved on, and you’re burying the lede. The headline is Douchebag Groom Cheats Less Than an Hour before the Wedding with a Bridesmaid.”

“Maid of honor,” the woman corrects, almost like a reflex. Immediately, she seems to realize what she’s said, or maybe what she’s done. Her eyes go wide, and then she bursts into tears. 

Normally, I’d hate seeing a woman cry, but in this case, I have zero pity for either of these two. 

“Don’t cry, baby. We’ll figure this out.” Douche the Groom has the audacity to pull her into his arms. “Like I promised.” 

“Just a hunch, but I’m not sure I’d trust any promises he makes,” I say. 

“You don’t know anything,” Douche says. 

“You made her promises”—I point to the woman sniffling in his arms—“but you’re about to make vows to Amelia? I guess the plan was to keep on cheating after the wedding with your fiancée’s best friend?” 

“Her cousin,” the woman says, again like the words just kind of escaped without her meaning for them to. 

I suck in a breath through my teeth. Cheating with a friend is bad. Cheating with family is worse.

“And how do you think Amelia’s dad will feel about this?” 

That sobers them both right up. 

“You’re one of the hockey players,” the woman says through a wet sniffle. 

Douche appraises me, suddenly looking less confident. Hockey players are a brutal bunch. Though the Appies are less so than most. We rely on skill, not sheer force or dirty plays. I don’t take my gloves off if I can help it. But I won’t run away from a fight either. If they come my way, they come my way.  

Okay, and maybe I’ve been known to instigate sometimes. Whatever. It’s part of the game. 

“This is all just a misunderstanding,” Douche says. 

“Cool. Then let’s go clear it up with your fiancée.” 

“You can’t tell her,” the woman whispers. “It will kill Milly.”

Milly—another nickname. How many does Amelia have? And why do I hate both of the ones I’ve heard? Maybe they’re tainted by the people saying them.  

I open the door and gesture for them to walk out.

“This would probably go down better if she hears it from you both.” I tilt my head toward the hallway behind me. “Come on, lovebirds. No time to waste. I think I hear the string quartet warming up.”

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