Chapter 3
HER GREAT ESCAPE
Ledger
Driving is easy.
Figuring out what to say to someone whose fiancé left her at the altar? Now that’s rocket science.
Seeing as my top two skill sets involve shooting pucks when the opponent least expects it and never overwatering my plants, I keep my mouth shut as I cruise along the winding country road away from the church.
As I maneuver this sweet ride onto the main drag in Duck Falls, there’s really no need for words either, since Aubrey’s staring at the side of the road, her gaze behind Dev’s aviator shades locked squarely on the sights whipping by—the signs for nearby vineyards, the busy shops, the bustling sidewalk.
As the wind rustles her veil, she’s looking more pensive than I’d have expected.
But what did I expect?
I’ve never given any thought to how a jilted bride would behave post-jilt.
Now that it’s top of my mind, my gut says tears streaming down her face, makeup ruined, and shoulders convulsing would be on the menu.
Sure, her cheeks seem a little splotchy, like maybe she’s just cried, but there are no waterworks coming from the passenger next to me right now.
Just a stark sort of silence.
It’s eerie.
What the hell do I do with a broken-hearted bride’s silence? I barely knew how to handle the divorce papers Marla served me more than a year ago, along with a cup of her tears, lamenting how we’d grown apart, and how she needed to find someone more available.
I’d hated her crying too, so I’d shut up and signed the papers. Only to find out later they were crocodile tears.
Dev doesn’t break the silence either. That’s odd, since he’s a chatty one. But maybe he knows how to handle runaway brides and silence is the way? Wouldn’t be surprised if he read an article on it recently. Something his parents sent to him in one of their daily emails.
Mine don’t send me shit like that, so I keep my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel, stealing occasional glances at Aubrey.
She’s still unreadable, but she’s got to be seconds away from another round of tears.
Doesn’t matter that she’s been tough when I’ve seen her at family events, like Garrett’s barbecues, where she was always asking if anyone needed another drink or scoop of potato salad, or a fresh set of bags for a round of cornhole.
Or at the arena with him, when she’d taunt the opponents on the ice. Heckle queen, we’d called her.
But that toughness doesn’t matter now. Nobody wants to be dumped on their wedding day.
I focus on the mission Garrett gave me. Get her far away from that prick.
I owe him the world, and helping his sister is the least I can do to help the guy who makes my career possible.
I flash back to last night, wishing I’d seen the signs at the party.
Only I was too caught up in the same swirl of thoughts that have been chasing me all summer—this fucking knee.
At least Aubrey learned the truth of Aiden’s cheating ways before she said I do.
As I slow at a light near the highway entrance, the electric motor in the car lulling to a space-age hum, the quiet still hangs over us, and really, it’s only polite to ask what’s next.
I turn to Aubrey, a little wary of how she’ll take any kind of convo right now. But I’ve got to ask. “North or south?”
The question feels weighty too. More important than a simple “which way do I go” ought to feel.
North means we’re cruising farther away from home.
It means we’re spending the rest of the day together and I’ll need to take good care of her for several hours.
South means returning her to the city, forty-five minutes from here.
Both have their pros and cons. Especially since I have no clue if Aubrey wants me to be more emotionally available or less emotionally available, or something else entirely.
I don’t fucking know at all, but one thing I’m certain of—given my history, I’m no good at relationship advice, so I sure hope there won’t be too much advice I need to dole out if Aubrey chooses door number one.
Bracing myself for her answer, I snag the chance to study the woman in the passenger seat, all lace and tulle, and teeth worrying away at the corner of her lips.
But hold the hell on. Is that worry or something else? Something like…restrained delight as she draws a contemplative breath?
She turns to me in slow-mo, and there’s not a shred of pain in her brown eyes. With an impish shrug, she declares, “North.”
“What the lady wants.” When the light changes, I gun the engine.
As we cruise along the highway, the corners of her lips curve into a bigger grin. “Maybe a little faster,” she says.
“You an adrenaline junkie?”
“Considering it,” she says, smiling more.
“Okaaay,” I say, still treading lightly. Maybe she’s in shock and it’ll all hit her later.
Dev chuckles in the back seat. “You heard the woman.”
“Yeah. Step on it, Ledger,” she says, sounding downright giddy now.
That’s surprising, but maybe it’s a sign? Perhaps this escape isn’t such a bad thing for her? Or maybe she’s laughing before she cries?
No clue.
In a heartbeat, I’m speeding past seventy, barreling toward Wine Country.
As much as I’m down with silence, I’d still like to know what the hell is going on in the head of our guest of honor.
A little intel would be nice so I can do my job today.
“You in the mood for a wine tasting, Aubrey?” I shout against the wind.
Maybe I can gage how she’s doing that way.
She snort-laughs, but she doesn’t answer the question. Instead, she asks one. “Can you ride a roller coaster?”
That’s random. “Yes. I’m tall enough.”
She turns back to me, rolling her eyes as the wind whips past us, kicking up the ends of her veil, so it flits around her jaw. “I meant are you guys allowed to? With your contract?”
“It’s not skiing, hang-gliding, skydiving, or moped riding, so yeah.” Dev rattles off some of the hockey contract no-can-dos.
“My dad was obsessed with amusement parks,” Aubrey says, gazing into the distance again and seeing something, maybe the memory of her father.
My heart squeezes. Garrett misses the guy too.
“He used to take us when we were kids. Since I’m the youngest, he let me pick the order. We rode everything. Every single ride.”
“Sounds nice,” I say. My life as a kid was all hockey, all the time. My path has been crystal clear from the moment my dad took me skating when I was four. If there’s any truth to his story, I was a natural. Soon, though, my path’s going to become all kinds of blurry.
My jaw clenches. Don’t want to think about the season coming up, or the way my knee barked when I went for a run the other day.
Aubrey goes quiet again. Dev’s surprisingly quiet too. When I peek in the rearview mirror, his head is down, bent over his phone.
I want to smack him for scrolling mindlessly at a time like this.
But I don’t want to make this moment about digital etiquette, so I ignore his distracted ass, mentally cycling through options for the rest of the day.
Maybe there’s an amusement park we could take her to.
But before I can even suggest it, Dev shouts victoriously, “The Ultra Blast Amusement Park is two miles away. Want to go?”
Aubrey thrusts an arm in the air, like a rocker salute. “Let’s do it!” Then she shakes her head, like she’s forgotten something. “If you guys want to, that is? Are you up for it?”
She’s seriously asking us what we want to do on her worst day?
“Anything you want,” I answer, then Dev leans forward to add, “I’m all in, Aubrey.”
“Good,” she says, then lets out a strangely contented sigh, her shoulders relaxing as she leans back into the seat, settling in.
Huh.
Maybe Aiden Peters’ exodus in his pie truck wasn’t entirely the worst fate for the bride today. Don’t know if that’s because of her ex’s behavior last night or some other reason entirely.
I don’t really know Aubrey well. For more than a decade, I’ve kept my distance from the little sister of my best friend who also happens to be my agent.
I’ve got enough trouble in my life. Don’t need to invite more in the form of a dangerously pretty redhead with a smart mouth, a passion for sports, and a fiancé.
Make that…a former fiancé.
I’d like to punch that asshole. I’d like to tell him he’ll regret the day he ever hurt Aubrey Emerson.
But as I steal a glance at her, I can’t help wondering—did he hurt her? Or…help her?
I noodle on that for another mile or so, until I see the sign for Ultra Blast and turn off the highway, slowing my speed on the street. But the wind whips up Aubrey’s hair again and blows her veil right across her face, lacy fabric smacking her cheeks, sticking to her lips. She bats at it.
“Let me help—” I say when lace flies past my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the fabric skitter across the sidewalk, then divebomb over a railing and tumble into a stream below. I grip the wheel harder.
“My veil!”
The urgent cry is the first sign of devastation from the jilted bride today. Also, it’s one-hundred percent real. Nothing fake in her reaction and no crocodile tears there.
I do what any problem solver would do—yank the car into the parking lot of a nearby 7-Eleven.
Barely pausing to turn off the motor, I fling open the door and tear down the hill.