Chapter 3
MILLIE
I think I’ve officially crashed out.
After more than eleven hours in the car after a ruined morning wedding, there’s stiffness in muscles that I never knew existed, and my ass feels flatter than a pancake.
Driving in the rain has never been one of my favourite things, especially not today.
But at least when I pulled onto the side of the road and stood in the rain as I sobbed, I couldn’t tell what were tears and what was rain. That made me a little less embarrassed.
Until now.
The gauzy material of my wedding dress hasn’t dried properly since my whole crying-in-the-rain incident, and I may have been a bit too upset to realize that I’d been dragging the hem through mud.
The cream-coloured leather in my car is ruined, pools of water left in the print of my butt as I stand outside of some old bar.
I cringe, not bothering to look down at myself again.
What I need is a bathroom and somewhere to sleep tonight. Unfortunately for me, only one of those things is available to me as of right now.
I shut the car door with my hip and lock it twice, taking a long look around the neighbourhood. Cherry Peak. I’ve never heard of it.
As if realizing that I’ve gotten out of the car again, the skies open up and scream along with me. The rain pelts harder and faster than it has the entire drive here. I jog toward the bar, hating the squelching sound of my wet socks in my shoes.
They were the only spare pair I had in my car, and now, they’re ruined.
The wind tries ripping the door off its hinges when I give it a slight tug and freeze in the doorway.
My stomach pinches at the rustic aesthetic, this irrational sense of discomfort only making my frustration grow.
I’ve been taught to hate places like this at first glance.
It looks dirty and smells like cigarettes and the kind of warm beer you find being tossed around at a sports game.
I try to catch my breath while stepping inside, water dripping onto the floor beneath me. There’s nobody in here besides a straight-faced bartender who clearly isn’t impressed by the mess I’m making, and . . .
My cheeks burst into flames.
It would be my luck. Truly, there could not be a more fitting outcome to the day I’ve had than to stumble into a bar to find the most ridiculously good-looking guy in the entire world nursing a beer. And, of course, he’s looking right at me.
How could he not when I look like some woman straight out of a horror film? Splash some fake blood on my chest, and I’m sure I could pull it off.
He’s quite literally everything my parents told me to stay away from.
Dressed in full black, he keeps his long hair swept back out of his face and down to the centre of his neck, and the tattoos—every inch of his neck is covered in them.
Some are black, but others have pops of colour.
And his hands match. He grips his beer—the bottled kind, of course—and taps the base to the bar as he flexes his fingers.
I snap my eyes back up and regret it the moment they connect with his. They’re so dark, a rich brown that matches the leather stool beneath him. Unlike the men I’m used to seeing with their perfectly sculpted facial hair, he doesn’t have even one patch of it over his thick, sharp jaw.
Sucking my lips into my mouth, I catch the shine of the tiny black hoop in his nose. A piercing . . . he has a nose piercing?
Completely aware of my staring, he curls the corner of his mouth into a smirk, and I freeze. Mortification swells inside of every inch of me as I choke on a swallow and dive out of sight. My sneakers squeak on the old wood floors with every step I take toward where the bathroom sign leads.
I’m panting by the time I slip through the door and find two empty stalls. I head into the first one and pee for the first time since some filthy rest stop. When I finish up and leave the stall, I realize that the low I’ve hit outside of this bar wasn’t truly the bottom. This is.
“Ah!” I shriek when I find my reflection in the mirror.
I look like a drowned rat.
My hair is ruined, the bun at my nape sagging and coming apart, and the makeup that I sat for hours having done is smeared and crusted. My lips look as dry as they feel. And my dress is simply ruined. Although that doesn’t make me all that upset. I never cared for it in the first place.
I lean over the counter and turn the taps on before grabbing fistfuls of paper towel.
Once I’ve soaked them in water, I try and scrub away my makeup, hating the sore, red skin revealed beneath it.
The fake lashes are already discarded on the floor mat in my car, but that doesn’t seem to help how raw my eyes feel.
After dumping the wet paper towels, I grab dry ones and start to pat my face. Then, I do the same to my arms and beneath the chest of my dress. The corset is still tight, and as hard as I try, I can’t untie the laces myself. That realization has me growing more anxious.
I don’t know why I stopped here or know where I’m going next, but if I can’t get myself out of this dress, I’m going to freak out. The spare clothes in my trunk are nothing special, but at least they’re dry, and . . . I didn’t grab them.
Gripping onto the counter, I hang my head and sigh.
What am I doing?
Three confident knocks hit the bathroom door. I swipe the back of my hand beneath my eyes and straighten, expecting someone to come inside. Instead, another set of knocks comes a beat later.
I stiffen and keep quiet, waiting.
“I don’t make it a habit of barging into the women’s bathroom, but I will if you don’t let me know you haven’t passed out or something.”
The low, very male voice shocks me. I suck in a breath and lean against the counter, my eyes fixed on the closed door.
“I’m conscious,” I call out, hating how shaky I sound.
“That’s a good sign. You need anything?”
Furrowing my brows, I answer, “No.”
“Are you sure? You looked like you were running from something.”
I almost laugh at how right he is. Only, I’m pretty sure nobody is chasing after me. I’m running from my life, not necessarily one person, although Chadwick isn’t someone I’m interested in keeping around.
“I’m fine,” I say.
The mystery man taps the door. “Alright.”
I assume he’s left when I don’t reply and he doesn’t try forcing me to. Facing the mirror again, I focus on my dress. The fabric is soaking wet when I take the skirt into my hands and wring it out over the sink. Mud stains my fingers, and I let it.
After what feels like forever, I let the skirt fall back to cover my legs.
It’s not perfect, but the dripping has stopped.
I wiggle my toes in my wet socks and pull my hair free of the bun.
With a shake of my head, I let the damp strands fall to my shoulders.
It’s not perfect, but after a bit of touching up, it looks better than it did.
I have to make peace with this. It won’t get any better until I find somewhere to stay tonight.
Breathing deeply, I grip the door handle and pull.
“You weren’t lying.”
I jump into the air and whip my head in the direction of the voice.
The man from the bar is leaning against the wall, his hands in his hoodie pocket and that dark gaze latched onto me without a single ounce of hesitation.
I feel pinned in place, unable to do anything other than stand here and try not to gape at the perfection of his features.
He’s so intimidating. The urge to shrink inside myself is there, and if I weren’t so dead to every emotion I’m feeling, I’d probably give in. Tonight, I’m not who I’ve been for the last twenty-six years. I’m someone else, a sliver of the person I wonder I could be if given the chance.
“What?” I ask, almost breathlessly.
“You didn’t pass out.”
Blinking repeatedly, I nod and grip the side of my dress. “No. I didn’t pass out.”
“You don’t sound very relieved by that,” he notes, reading too much into what I’ve said.
“How would you know what I sound like? I didn’t want to pass out. Not here.”
Intrigue flickers across his face. “Not here? What exactly is it about this place that you don’t trust?”
“I didn’t say that I don’t trust it.”
“So, what is it, then? It’s just not up to your standards?”
I narrow my gaze. “What does that mean?”
“What should it mean?”
“I’m leaving,” I state briskly.
He nods, waving me past him. I’m a step down the hall when my stomach grumbles. I grow warm, too busy wondering if he’s heard it to catch the shift of his body.
Without touching me, he manages to catch my attention with a wave of his fingers. I twist to see him behind me, so close that I have to crane my head back to find his eyes. “Let me get you something to eat first.”
“There’s food here?” I ask, unable to deny how hungry I am.
His mouth turns down slightly. “Yeah, there’s food here. Do you not have places like this where you’re from?”
“If there are, I haven’t been to one,” I admit, more to myself than him.
“Well, it’s your lucky day, then. Peakside has the best poutine I’ve ever had.”
My stomach grumbles again, and the grin that spreads his lips threatens to send me into a spiral. It’s so pure yet somehow has this sinful twist to it. This is the kind of smile only a man who knows how good-looking he is can pull off.
I hesitate to accept his offer, regardless of how badly I could use a good meal after the day I’ve had.
He watches me closely before adding, “Text whoever you need to and let them know where you are. Give them my name if it will make you feel more comfortable.”
“Can I give them your name when I don’t have it?” I blurt out, ignoring the realization that not only do I not have my phone, but even if I did, there wouldn’t be anyone I’d want to text.
“You can tell them you’re with Shade at Peakside in Cherry Peak. They’ll be able to find me if you mysteriously go missing, which you won’t.”
“Shade? That’s your real name?”
His chuckle is deep, almost a purr. “No, princess. But it’s the only name anyone here knows, and that includes you.”
The pet name grates. I narrow my eyes and snap, “Don’t label me.”
“Isn’t that what you did the moment you spotted me?”
“No,” I say, but it’s a weak attempt at a lie.
I deduced exactly what type of guy this Shade was from the moment I spotted him, and he damn well knows it too. Maybe I just didn’t expect him to do the same to me, or realized that I’d made it so obvious where I came from.
“Eat with me, and I’ll let you convince me you’re not who I expect you to be,” he suggests.
“And if I don’t care about what you think about me?”
“Then I’ll convince you to let me get some food into you another way.”
Pressing my lips together, I hold in a laugh. Really, what do I have to lose? At this point, the answer is not a damn thing.
“Okay. Fine, yeah. I could eat.”