Fake Date with the Runaway Bride (Wild Rose Point #7)

Chapter 1

SLOANE

“You’re a vision, Sloane!” Kerry-Anne exclaims, beaming from her perch on the hotel suite’s velvet couch. She’s surrounded by hair products, shoeboxes, half-sipped flutes of Laurent-Perrier and the air of nervous anticipation I always thought I’d be basking in on my wedding day.

Normally, I’d wave away my best friend’s superlative compliments.

Kerry-Anne is the best kind of best friend: when praise is due, she slathers it on thick but genuine, and when it’s not, it’s either radio silence or a pointed and infuriatingly correct remark.

But when I gaze into the floor-length mirror of my room in the Grand Saltspring Inn, which will be tidied up by staff during the wedding festivities so Jack and I can return to the bridal suite of our dreams, I barely recognize myself.

My hair, which is normally loose and wavy and kind of wild around my shoulders, is pulled back into a perfect chignon.

My skin, usually tanned and clear, has been transformed by the makeup artist into…

what, exactly? I look beautiful, objectively, I suppose.

Every bit the blushing bride who could have stepped out of the pages of Today’s Bride, the one Dr. Jack Fordham deserves. Elegant. Timeless. Guileless.

Before I can respond, the door creaks open and my aunt Lisa steps into the room.

Her silver-streaked bob frames her face, and her olive-green satin gown matches her bright eyes, which immediately fill with happy tears.

This feels like at least the tenth time today she’s cried, as though she’s seeing me as a bride every time for the first time.

“Lisa,” I say, laughing despite the heavy pit sinking in my stomach. “You’re going to ruin your mascara.”

My aunt fans her face. “No one’s going to be looking at me anyway.” She grins. “Look at you. A vision. Truly.”

What does a vision even mean? Like a specter? An apparition? There’s something ghostly about it, like I might disappear at any moment. I push that tempting thought away as quickly as it pops into my head.

I glance back at my reflection and find the same stranger I’ve been staring at for the last hour.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” Lisa asks. She joins me at the mirror, and reaches out to adjust the strap of my dress even though it, like everything else about this occasion, requires no fixing. The dress, like everything else, is perfect. Perfect on paper.

A stunning Sunday afternoon. The most elegant oceanside inn on the coast of Oregon. Bottles of champagne chilling on ice, three flower girls with French braids and baskets of rose petals, a doting doctor groom who will await me under a wedding arch dripping with cascading white orchids.

The wedding dreams are made of.

I nod, willing the slight motion to shake my mind into place, settle the storm that’s been brewing inside me for weeks.

There’s a real one coming, according to the morning news, but in keeping with the idyllic rollout of all events and details that have been planned out for the day, it’s politely decided to wait until after the wedding is all wrapped up.

Lisa sighs lightly. “Your mom would have been so proud.”

A pang hits me. What I wouldn’t give for my mother to be here. We were a small family, mostly just me and her for so many years until she got sick. I like to think she’d know exactly what to say to put me at ease today.

“Oh,” she says, extending a small bag dangling from her red-lacquered fingertips. “Jack asked me to give this to you.”

I take the bag. “What’s this?”

“He just said he hoped you’d wear it.”

I suppress a sigh. Of course Jack couldn’t resist a wedding-day surprise. I hate surprises, of all forms, and it disappoints my fiancé to no end, he who considers himself something of a professional romantic gesture–maker.

What could he possibly be sending me? A love letter? Plane tickets for a surprise honeymoon I absolutely do not want the day after this circus of an event?

A ticket out of here? I swallow, then shove that thought deep, deep down. That question has no place on the happiest day of my life.

I push aside the tissue paper and find a small white jewelry box. I take it out of the bag and open the lid, and my stomach sinks even further.

“What is it?” Kerry-Anne asks.

A light sweat forms on my forehead as I lift a pendant I know too well from the box.

Every time we’ve visited Jack’s parents in Annapolis, we’ve been greeted in the front hallway of their home by an imposing portrait of his grandmother, Cordelia Marie Fordham, with her mouth perpetually puckered, a rosary clutched in her skeletal fingers, and that massive sapphire, gumball-sized and ringed in diamonds, resting on her bony chest.

Now, I know exactly what I’m meant to do with it. Jack, who was likely under pressure from his mother, has no question sent this as my “something blue.” Except, like everything orchestrated by my soon-to-be mother-in-law, it’s a passive-aggressive control move wrapped in faux warmth.

“Would you look at that rock!” Lisa says, leaning in. “And I thought your ring was impressive!” She extracts it from the box, and steps behind me to fasten it around my neck. It’s a loose chain, but all of a sudden, I’m having trouble breathing.

When I replace the top of the box, my three-carat emerald-cut engagement ring catches the light. Without a word, I drop both the box and the bag on the carpet.

“I need to use the washroom,” I breathe. But instead of locking myself in the powder room and throwing up, I stride across the hardwood in my Dior heels and give in to the temptation I’ve been trying desperately to ignore.

I flee.

Down the circular staircase into the foyer, past the caterers carrying seafood towers. Through the kitchen and out to the wide porch overlooking the ocean, then down the cedar path to the docks, where a family is exiting a cabin cruiser and two fishermen are organizing coolers.

And there it is: the boat I saw during my morning walk, with the words Footloose and Fancy Free painted on the side and a rubber keychain dangling from the ignition.

“Sloane!” someone calls from the inn behind me, but I can’t make out who.

It’s been years since I’ve driven a boat, not since I spent a summer working for a wealthy couple in the Muskoka Lakes in Canada, ferrying them back and forth from various boozy lunches and lakeside soirees.

Still, muscle memory kicks in. With a flick of the key, the engine roars to life, the sharp scent of gasoline rising in the air like hope.

I guide the boat out of the harbor. Within minutes, I’m flying across the bumpy waves of the Oregon Coast, half shocked, half panicked by what I’ve just done.

But the farther I push the throttle, the lighter I become, and I’m having an out-of-body experience. The ocean spray hits my face as I hang onto the wheel for dear life, and for the first time in a long time, I feel weightless.

I am alive.

I am free.

Until I’m not.

I’m at least a half hour away from the Grand Saltspring when the calm bay turns to heavy surf, and the bow slams against it.

I glance at the coastline, which is nothing but cliffs and jagged rock.

My gas tank is all but empty. Up ahead, I spot a tiny-looking town tucked into the next cove and I know it’s my only option.

Heart pounding, I ease back on the throttle and turn toward shore.

There’s no dock to aim for, so I guide the boat as close to the coast as I can. The bottom scrapes against sand and rock before it stops, still twenty feet from shore.

I sigh and dip my hand over the side of the boat into the water to test the temperature. The cold shocks me right out of my momentary euphoric escape back to reality. It’s not just cold, it’s downright frigid.

I slip over the side of the boat and find the water is deeper than I expect, right up to my waist. My dress is soaked. Dammit. The gown is heavy enough that if I were farther out a strong undercurrent could easily drag me out to sea.

For a moment, I consider shedding it and letting ten pounds of hand-loomed Italian Mikado silk drift away forever, but the elaborate hooks and buttons require another person to unfasten them.

And there could be people on the beach watching, maybe even filming what must look like the world’s strangest shipwreck.

Ignoring the cold penetrating right into my core, I gather the heavy fabric as high as I can (no need to flash the lacy silk underwear one of Jack’s cousins gave me at one of the too-many bridal showers).

Then I trudge through the waves toward shore, hopefully in the opposite direction of any gawking locals.

Gulls circle curiously overhead, cawing as though they’re announcing my presence. When I reach the sand, I collapse, breathing hard, tasting salt as water drips from my ruined updo.

My boat—well, the boat—bobs in the distance. Back at the inn, the wedding party must be scrambling. What do they do now? Wait for me to change my mind? Start packing the fancy deviled eggs and coconut shrimp into plastic containers?

Does Jack know yet? His parents?

What was I thinking?

What have I done?

I lie back in the sand, drawing in a shaky breath, until a voice sounds over the crash of the waves.

“Marshall! Marshall, come here!”

Moments later, I feel something warm on my cheek and I struggle to sit upright. A golden retriever is standing beside me, wagging his tail enthusiastically. Behind him, a man jogs toward us wearing a baseball hat and a crewneck sweatshirt, tennis ball in hand.

In the seconds before everything fades to black, I see deep brown eyes, a freshly shaven jaw, and lips that look capable of resurrecting the dead.

Then nothing.

***

RYAN

A woman lies in the sand ahead of me, soaked, pale, and looking like she’s had the hell beaten out of her by the Pacific. Marshall reaches her first—of course he does—and licks her cheek before I can stop him.

“Marshall! Marshall, come here!” I shout, jogging toward them.

She jerks upright, startled, and her big jade green eyes blink at me, before she lays suddenly back in the sand as though she’s decided to take a nap.

I slow down, crouch beside her, and place my hand lightly on her elbow, careful to avoid anywhere inappropriate. The last thing a passed-out woman needs is to wake up with a strange guy’s hands on her.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my tone gentle, but it comes out gruff. “Hey there. You okay?”

Marshall tries to shove his nose under her arm again, and I push him back. She murmurs something I can’t make out and then manages to pull herself upright. Relief fills my chest. This is my one day off, and dealing with an unconscious stranger wasn’t on my to-do list.

She coughs a little and then clears her throat before looking up at me, tears forming in her eyes.

“What happened to you?” I ask. I turn toward the water and see a center-console skiff sitting close to shore, rocking back and forth in the tide. “Is that your boat?”

She shakes her head, and if I’m not mistaken, she’s turning a subtle shade of green. “I stole it.”

Well. That raises some questions. But now doesn’t seem like the time.

“Sounds like you’ve had quite the day,” I say instead.

She nods, staring at the sand like she wants to sink right through it.

“How about I call my buddy down at the coast guard? He might be able to pull that thing in before it floats off. Could keep you out of some trouble.”

She nods again, but nothing changes in her expression. She looks…hollowed out. Devastated. Like whatever drove her out here is way bigger than grand theft watercraft.

“And you can’t be comfortable in that thing,” I add, glancing at her fancy white dress. The poor woman has a piece of driftwood caught in the fabric.

“I wasn’t really in the first place,” she says.

I gesture down the beach. “I live right over there. Why don’t we get you warmed up? I can grab you something to change into. And you can use my phone to call…” I hesitate, because who the hell knows what kind of mess she’s in. “Whoever you need to.”

She doesn’t look overly enthused by the plan, but something in her resigned expression as she nods tells me I’m her best option.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

She pauses. “Sloane.” There’s a waver in her voice, like even she’s not sure.

“I’m Ryan,” I say, offering my hand.

She takes it, and I help her stand. The dress weighs a damn ton and I’m honestly impressed she didn’t sink. It’s now not just soaked, but also covered with a thin layer of sand.

“Come on,” I tell her. “My place is just up this way.”

Marshall leads us along the beach, tail wagging like he’s thrilled to be part of the most dramatic moment this town has seen in years.

Sloane hangs back a step from me, and I don’t blame her.

If our roles were reversed—a stranger leading me toward a secluded cottage—I’d probably be uneasy too.

But she doesn’t have many options. Town is at least a half-hour walk, and that dress would make it torture.

We climb the sandy path to my cedar-shingled cottage. It looks onto the ocean, with a wide porch out front and surrounded by scrubland on the other sides. Some people think living next to the water gets old when you work on it every day. For me, it’s where I breathe.

“After you,” I say.

She stops at the porch, and Marshall is practically passing out with excitement. I push the door open for her.

Inside, her gaze flickers across the space. It’s tidy. Comfortable.

“Nice place,” Sloane says.

“Thanks.” I unlock my phone and hand it to her. “I’ll get the kettle going and find you something dry to change into.”

She doesn’t move. Just stands there, staring at the phone like it’s about to explode in her hand.

I head to the kitchen, start the kettle, then go into my room to grab clothes. I find a University of San Diego T-shirt and a pair of joggers and—God help me—stop for a second to fix my hair in the mirror.

Ridiculous. Why do I care what this stranger, this boat thief thinks?

When I head back out, the hallway is empty and the front door is open.

“Sloane?” I call.

She’s on the porch now, still staring at the phone in her hands.

I stop beside her, softening my voice. “Here,” I say, offering the clothes. “Why don’t you get changed. Then maybe we can talk about what brought you here.”

Even though everything inside me says I do not need to get involved in whatever disaster she’s carrying.

“Thank you,” she whispers. She hands the phone back but doesn’t walk away. “Actually… I might need your help. With the back of my dress.”

She turns, and I see the dozens of tiny hooks running down her spine.

“No problem,” I say.

I carefully start to unfasten the little hooks, very aware of every inch of bare skin and every breath she takes. When the last latch loosens, I step back quickly, suddenly feeling like an intruder.

“Where’s the bathroom?” she asks.

I point toward it. “End of the hall on the right.”

She disappears inside, leaving me on the porch, wondering how a perfectly ordinary day turned into…this.