The Runaway Bride

Chapter 3

Wade

By the time I turned into the familiar driveway, I was beginning to regret every decision that had led me to that moment.

The drive had taken nearly four hours, two stops for Poppy to use the bathroom, one argument over whether the clouds looked more like dinosaurs or sheep, and approximately a hundred questions I hadn't possessed the energy to answer.

"Daddy?"

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. "Hmm?"

"Are we there?"

I glanced at the house ahead of us. "We're here, sweetheart."

"Oh."

Silence lasted approximately three seconds.

"Can we have pancakes?"

I closed my eyes for a moment.

Of course.

We had barely escaped the car, and she was already planning breakfast.

"It's almost nine at night, Poppy."

"So?"

"So people usually eat dinner at nine, not pancakes."

She considered that with the seriousness of someone making an important business decision. "We can eat pancakes for dinner."

"That's not how dinner works."

"Grandma says we can eat whatever we want when we're grown-ups."

"Your grandma also thinks putting raisins in meatloaf is a good idea. We don't have to listen to everything she says."

Poppy gasped from her booster seat.

"Daddy! That's mean!"

"That's honesty."

"Grandma says honesty is good."

I glanced at her through the rearview mirror. She was sitting there with her little pink backpack clutched to her chest, looking at me as though I'd just committed a crime against humanity.

"Then we're both being honest. See? We're learning things."

She giggled.

That was the thing about my daughter. She could be exhausted, hungry, cranky, and on the verge of a spectacular meltdown, but give her something ridiculous to laugh about, and suddenly the world was a much better place.

I wished I possessed half her ability to shake things off.

The last few months had been a nightmare. Work had dragged me out of town unexpectedly, and the arrangements I'd made for Poppy had fallen apart at the last minute. I'd taken her with me, which had sounded manageable when I'd agreed to it and considerably less manageable by the time we'd spent.

I loved my daughter more than anything in the world.

But I was tired.

Tired enough to fantasize about a hot shower, a decent meal, and eight uninterrupted hours of sleep. Tired enough that the thought of answering another question about pancakes felt like a personal attack.

I parked beside the house and killed the engine.

For a moment, I remained behind the wheel, staring through the windshield.

The house looked exactly as I remembered it. The broad front steps, the old oak tree stretching over the driveway, the windows that reflected the fading evening light. It was a little removed from the main road, tucked behind a low stone wall and surrounded by enough trees to give it privacy.

I'd bought the place years ago, back when I'd still believed that a house could become a home simply because you filled it with furniture and stayed long enough.

That belief hadn't survived everything that came afterward.

I rarely came here anymore. There were too many memories attached to the rooms, too many corners that reminded me of a version of myself I no longer recognized. I'd moved elsewhere with Poppy, and the house had sat mostly empty.

My grandmother occasionally checked on it. She'd always had a habit of taking matters into her own hands, especially when she believed I was being stubborn.

I could already hear her voice in my head.

Wade, a house is meant to be lived in. You can't leave a perfectly good property sitting empty forever.

I'd told her I wasn't interested in discussing it.

She'd told me I was a difficult man.

We'd both been right.

"Are we sleeping here?" Poppy asked.

"That's the plan."

"Can I sleep in the big bed?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because you have your own bed."

"But it's bigger."

"It's also mine."

She sighed as though I had disappointed her on a fundamental level.

I got out of the car before she could launch another argument, walked around to her side, and unfastened her seat belt. She threw her arms around my neck the moment I lifted her out.

I held her for a second longer than necessary, pressing my lips to the top of her head.

She smelled of strawberry shampoo and the little biscuits she'd insisted on eating in the car. Her warmth settled against me, familiar and comforting.

Whatever else had gone wrong in my life, I had her.

That was enough.

It had to be.

"Come on, bug," I murmured, setting her down. "Let's get inside before you start asking me to make pancakes again."

"I wasn't going to ask."

"Of course not."

"I was going to ask for spaghetti."

I stared at her.

She smiled up at me.

I shook my head and reached for our bags in the trunk.

Five minutes later, with Poppy holding my hand and her backpack bouncing against her little shoulders, we reached the front door.

That was when I noticed something wrong.

The lights were on.

I stopped so abruptly that Poppy bumped into my leg.

"Daddy?"

I didn't answer immediately.

I knew I'd left this house dark. I'd locked the doors myself the last time I'd been here, and I was almost certain I'd checked the windows before leaving.

Yet warm yellow light spilled through the curtains, illuminating the front room.

I stared at it, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

Perhaps my grandmother had come by.

It was possible. She had a spare key, and she was perfectly capable of letting herself in whenever she pleased. But she usually called first, if only to give me a lecture about something I hadn't done.

And there was something else.

A faint sound came from inside the house.

A clatter.

Then silence.

My shoulders stiffened.

"Stay close to me," I whispered.

Poppy looked up at me. "Why?"

"Because I said so."

"But—"

"Shh."

She immediately pressed her lips together.

I took the spare keys from my pocket and selected the one that opened the front door. I turned it slowly, wincing at the small click of the lock.

The door swung inward.

I stepped inside.

The house smelled different.

Not the faint, stale scent of a place that had been closed up for days. There was something warmer in the air, something that reminded me of soap and freshly washed clothes.

My eyes swept over the living room.

Nothing appeared disturbed. The furniture was where I'd left it. The cushions were in place. No drawers had been pulled open, and there was no obvious sign that anyone had forced their way inside.

That should have reassured me.

It didn't.

"Come here," I whispered to Poppy.

She slipped behind me, clutching the back of my shirt.

I eased the door shut with my foot and listened.

There it was again.

A noise from somewhere deeper inside the house.

A metallic clink followed by a soft shuffle.

Someone was here.

My first thought was that a burglar had broken in and was searching the kitchen for something worth stealing. My second was that whoever it was had made a serious mistake choosing this particular house.

I wasn't in the mood for nonsense.

My gaze landed on the wooden coat stand beside the living room entrance. It was a solid piece of furniture, heavy enough to make an impression if I swung it hard.

I grabbed it with both hands.

Poppy's eyes widened.

"Daddy, what are you doing?"

"Nothing. Just stay behind me."

"But that's our—"

"Quiet, sweetheart."

She clamped a hand over her mouth.

I almost smiled despite myself.

Almost.

I moved forward slowly, keeping the coat stand raised in front of me. Every instinct told me to call the police, but I wanted to know what I was dealing with first. I wasn't about to start shouting and give someone the chance to come at us from the dark.

The hallway seemed longer than I remembered.

My footsteps were quiet against the floor. I could hear Poppy's small shoes following close behind me, occasionally scuffing against the wood.

As we approached the kitchen, the sound became clearer.

A woman was muttering under her breath.

I frowned.

A woman?

I tightened my grip on the wooden stand.

The muttering stopped.

Then came the unmistakable sound of a phone being tapped rapidly.

I moved toward the doorway, heart beating a little harder now.

"Police," I whispered to Poppy, though I wasn't sure why I was telling her that. "If anything happens, you run outside and call Grandma. Understand?"

Her little fingers curled around my shirt.

"Don't let the bad person get you, Daddy."

Something squeezed painfully in my chest.

I glanced down at her.

"No one's getting me, bug."

I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt.

Then I stepped into the kitchen.

And my entire world stopped.

A woman stood beside the counter.

A young woman.

A very naked-looking young woman, except for the white bath towel wrapped around her body.

Her hair was damp, falling in dark strands around her face and shoulders. Water glistened along her collarbone. One hand clutched the towel firmly against her chest while the other held a phone, her thumb hovering over its screen.

She looked up at the exact moment I entered.

For half a second, neither of us moved.

Her eyes went wide.

My brain, apparently deciding that this was the perfect moment to abandon me, supplied absolutely nothing useful.

Then we both screamed.

"AAAAAH!"

The sound was so loud that I nearly dropped the coat stand.

She jerked backward, knocking something off the counter. It crashed onto the floor, making both of us scream again.

"What the hell—"