The Runaway Bride

Chapter 4

Wade

"What the hell—"

"WHO ARE YOU?"

We shouted at the same time.

I stared at her.

She stared at me.

Then her gaze dropped to the wooden stand in my hands.

Her face went pale.

"GET OUT!"

I blinked.

"Get out?"

"YES! GET OUT!"

I stared at her as though she'd just spoken in a language I didn't understand.

I was standing in my own kitchen. In my own house. Holding a wooden coat stand because I had every reason to believe an intruder had broken in.

And the half-naked stranger standing in front of me was telling me to get out.

"Who the hell are you?" I demanded.

She made a strangled noise and pressed herself against the counter, dragging the towel tighter around her body.

"Don't come any closer!"

"I'm not coming closer!"

"You're holding a weapon!"

"It's a coat stand!"

"WHY ARE YOU HOLDING IT LIKE THAT?"

"BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE A BURGLAR!"

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Looked at the coat stand again.

Then, apparently deciding that the object was still a threat regardless of its original purpose, she snatched up the nearest thing within reach.

A wooden spoon.

I stared at it.

She stared at me.

For one absurd moment, we stood there armed with household objects, looking like two idiots who'd wandered onto the set of the world's worst crime drama.

Then she screamed again.

I shouted something that probably wasn't English.

And in the chaos, Poppy peeked around my leg.

"Daddy?"

The woman's eyes snapped toward her.

My head turned at the same time.

The movement startled me, and the wooden stand slipped in my hands. I reached instinctively to catch it, knocking my elbow against the doorframe.

The woman flinched.

Her hand flew to her chest.

The towel loosened.

And before either of us could react, it slipped straight down.

Everything happened in the space of a heartbeat.

The towel hit the floor.

The woman gasped.

I froze.

My brain registered bare shoulders, the sudden movement of her hands as she tried to cover herself, and the look of pure horror on her face.

Then my survival instincts finally returned.

I spun around so quickly that the coat stand struck the wall.

"OH, FOR GOD'S SAKE!"

Behind me, she shrieked.

"YOU ABSOLUTE p*****t!"

"I'm NOT LOOKING!"

"YOU ALREADY LOOKED!"

"I DIDN'T MEAN TO!"

"THEN WHY ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE?"

I whipped around again, still keeping my eyes firmly on the ceiling.

"YOUR HOUSE?"

"YES!"

I nearly laughed.

Not because anything was funny. Nothing about this situation was funny. But the sheer audacity of being accused of trespassing in a house I'd owned for years was enough to make me question whether I'd suffered a head injury during the drive.

"Lady, I own this—"

"STOP LOOKING AT ME!"

"I'M LOOKING AT THE CEILING!"

"YOU'RE TURNING YOUR HEAD!"

"BECAUSE YOU KEEP SHOUTING!"

"BECAUSE YOU BROKE INTO MY HOUSE!"

"I USED A KEY!"

"THAT DOESN'T MAKE IT BETTER!"

I dragged a hand down my face.

This could not be happening.

I had driven for hours, endured traffic, answered enough questions to qualify for a parenting award, and finally brought my daughter to a place where I expected peace and quiet.

Instead, I was in a screaming match with a half-naked woman who had apparently decided that my kitchen belonged to her.

Behind me, Poppy tugged on my shirt.

"Daddy?"

"Not now, sweetheart."

"Why is that lady naked?"

I shut my eyes.

Of all the questions she could have asked.

"She's not naked," I said carefully. "She's—"

"THE TOWEL FELL!" the woman yelled.

"I KNOW!"

"THEN STOP TALKING ABOUT IT!"

"I'M TRYING TO EXPLAIN SOMETHING TO MY DAUGHTER!"

Silence.

For the first time since I'd entered the kitchen, the woman stopped shouting.

I could practically feel her embarrassment spreading through the room.

Then she spoke again, her voice smaller but no less furious.

"Your daughter?"

I exhaled through my nose.

"Yes. My daughter. The little girl standing behind me. The one who doesn't need to witness whatever the hell this is."

I reached behind me without turning around and gently guided Poppy toward the hallway.

"Bug, go wait in the living room for me."

"But Daddy—"

"Please."

She hesitated.

Then she shuffled away, though not before looking back at the woman with wide, curious eyes.

"Sorry your towel fell," she said sweetly.

The woman made a noise that sounded like she was about to dissolve into the floor.

I wanted to join her.

The moment Poppy disappeared around the corner, I turned my back fully to the kitchen.

"Look, I don't know who you are, and I don't know how you got in here, but—"

"I RENTED THIS HOUSE!"

The words struck me so unexpectedly that I went quiet.

For a second, I thought I'd misheard her.

"You what?"

"I RENTED IT!" she repeated, her voice trembling with anger. "I paid for it. I have the agreement. I have the keys. So if anyone needs to explain why they're barging into the kitchen with a wooden stick, it's you!"

I stared at the wall.

My grandmother.

That meddling, stubborn, infuriating woman.

Of course.

I could practically picture her signing papers, collecting rent, and congratulating herself on solving a problem I'd never asked her to solve.

She had rented out my house.

Without telling me.

And now there was a stranger standing in my kitchen, accusing me of being a p*****t while my daughter waited in the living room.

I let out a slow breath.

"Unbelievable."

"What is?"

"Nothing."

"No, go ahead. Say it."

"I said nothing."

"You're muttering."

"Because I'm trying very hard not to lose my temper."

"Well, congratulations. You're failing."

I turned my head a fraction before remembering that she was still trying to cover herself.

I faced the wall again.

"Can you please find something to wear?"

"Can you please leave?"

"I LIVE HERE!"

"NOT ANYMORE, APPARENTLY!"

I fell silent.

That one landed.

Not because she was right. She wasn't. This was my house, and I wasn't about to surrender it to a stranger because my grandmother had decided to play landlord.

But I could hear the fear beneath the woman's anger now. She sounded less like someone picking a fight and more like someone who had already been through a terrible day and had no intention of letting a strange man walk in and make it worse.

I knew that kind of exhaustion.

I'd lived with it for years.

It didn't make me any less furious.

"Put some clothes on," I said, forcing my voice into something approaching calm. "Then we're going to have a conversation."

"I don't want to have a conversation with you!"

"Wonderful. We're already in agreement on something."

I heard the sharp rustle of fabric.

Something fell.

A muttered curse followed.

I remained facing the wall, gripping the coat stand so tightly my fingers ached.

Then came her voice again.

"Okay."

I waited.

"You can turn around."

I turned slowly.

She was wrapped around the towel once again.Her cheeks were flushed, and she was holding the towel tight against her chest as if my eyes could take them off.

I lowered the coat stand.

She pointed at it.

"Put that down."

I looked at the wooden stand.

Then at her.

"Gladly."

I leaned it against the wall.

She folded her arms over her chest.

I folded mine, too.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Up close, she looked younger than I'd first thought. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and something about the tightness around her mouth suggested she hadn't slept properly in days. Her expression was furious, but there was a fragile edge to it that didn't quite fit with the way she was glaring at me.

I had no idea who she was.

She clearly had no idea who I was, either.

And somehow, that made the whole situation worse.

"Let's start again," I said. "My name is Wade Mercer. I own this house."

She stared at me.

Then she let out one short, disbelieving laugh.

"Well, Wade Mercer, my name is Maren Whitmore, and I paid to live in it."

I felt something cold settle in my stomach.

Maren Whitmore.

A name meant nothing to me.

But the way she said it—chin lifted, eyes bright with anger, refusing to back down even after the most humiliating encounter imaginable—made one thing painfully clear.

This woman wasn't going to leave quietly.

And if my grandmother had truly rented her this house without my knowledge, I had a feeling my quiet night was officially dead.

From the living room, Poppy called out, "Daddy? Can we still have pancakes?"

Maren looked at me.

I looked at Maren.

Neither of us spoke.

Then she muttered, "I hate this house."

I rubbed my forehead.

The feeling, I suspected, was about to become mutual.