The Runaway Bride

Chapter 8

Maren

For approximately three seconds, I was happy.

Then Wade spoke again.

"My grandmother will be here later."

I lowered the mug.

"All right."

"We'll discuss the rental agreement."

I looked at him over the rim. "There's nothing to discuss. I paid for the room."

"That's between you and my grandmother."

"Exactly."

"And I'm telling you that I haven't agreed to this arrangement."

I placed my mug on the counter.

"Well, I haven't asked for your agreement."

His jaw tightened.

I continued before he could interrupt.

"I met your grandmother yesterday. She showed me the house, explained the terms, and accepted my payment. I signed the agreement she gave me. If she failed to inform you, that's unfortunate, but it isn't my fault."

"You seem very comfortable telling me what is and isn't your fault."

"Because I know what I did. I rented a room. I didn't break into your house. I didn't force your grandmother to give me the keys. And I certainly didn't ask you to come marching into the kitchen with a coat stand."

His expression darkened.

"Are we going to keep talking about that?"

"I would love to stop talking about it. Unfortunately, every time I see you, I remember it."

He looked away, muttering something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"That's what I thought."

He turned to face me fully.

"Listen, Maren. I don't know what your situation is, and I don't particularly care to know. But I have a daughter, and I don't intend to have a stranger living in the same house without knowing anything about her."

I stiffened.

There it was.

The reminder that, in his mind, I was a problem he hadn't asked for.

I took another sip of coffee, buying myself a moment to steady my voice.

"You don't need to know my life story, Wade. I'm not asking you to trust me with your daughter. I'm asking you to respect the agreement I made with your grandmother."

"And if I don't?"

I set the mug down.

"Then you'll have to explain to her why you think your personal preferences matter more than a contract she entered into."

His eyes narrowed.

I held his gaze.

My heart was beating a little too quickly, but I refused to let him see it. I'd spent too many years being careful about what I said, how I behaved, and whether my decisions would disappoint someone else.

I was done with that.

If I had to spend the next few weeks arguing with Wade Mercer, then so be it.

I wasn't going back.

I wasn't crawling home to apologize for refusing to marry a man I didn't love.

And I wasn't going to let a stranger with a bad temper make me feel as though I'd done something wrong by choosing myself.

Wade looked as though he wanted to say something else, but Poppy interrupted him.

"Daddy, can Maren have breakfast with us?"

The question changed the atmosphere in the kitchen.

Wade looked at his daughter.

Then at me.

I immediately shook my head. "That's all right, sweetheart. I've already had my coffee."

"But you haven't eaten."

"I'll eat later."

"Why?"

I hesitated.

Because your father looks as though he'd rather swallow the frying pan than share a table with me.

Because I didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable.

Because I was beginning to suspect that every ordinary activity in this house was going to turn into a battle.

None of those seemed like appropriate answers for a five-year-old.

"I'm not very hungry," I said instead.

Poppy frowned.

"Daddy says breakfast is important."

"Your daddy is right."

Wade's mouth twitched.

I hated that I noticed.

"Then you should eat," Poppy insisted.

I glanced at Wade, expecting him to tell her not to bother me.

Instead, he placed another plate on the table.

"There's enough food," he said.

The invitation was so reluctant that it barely qualified as one.

Still, it was an invitation.

I considered refusing simply because I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he could dictate whether I ate in his kitchen.

Then my stomach growled.

Loudly.

Poppy's eyes widened.

She burst into laughter.

I closed my eyes.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Wade looked at me, and for the first time that morning, I saw something resembling amusement cross his face.

It disappeared almost immediately, but I'd seen it.

"Sit down," he said, pulling out a chair. "Before you pass out and give me another problem to deal with."

I glared at him.

"I wasn't going to pass out."

"Of course not."

"I wasn't."

"Then we're in agreement."

I wanted to throw my coffee at him.

Instead, I picked up my mug and sat down.

Poppy beamed as though she'd personally negotiated a peace treaty.

I took the plate Wade placed in front of me and muttered a quiet thank-you.

He gave a short nod before returning to his own seat.

For a few minutes, we ate in relative silence. Poppy talked about a drawing she'd made at school, then launched into an explanation of why dinosaurs would have made excellent pets if they hadn't been extinct.

Wade listened, asking questions and occasionally correcting her when she confused one dinosaur with another.

I found myself listening, too.

He was different with her. Softer. More patient. He still had that dry, slightly sarcastic way of speaking, but there was affection beneath it, something steady and unquestionable.

When Poppy dropped her fork, he picked it up and replaced it without interrupting her story. When she asked for more juice, he poured it before she finished asking. When she leaned against his arm to show him a picture she'd drawn, he stopped eating to examine every detail.

He paid attention.

Not the distracted sort of attention people gave when they were waiting for someone to stop talking, but the kind that made a child feel as though whatever she had to say mattered.

I looked down at my plate.

I didn't know why that affected me.

Perhaps because I'd spent so much of my life surrounded by people who listened only when they wanted something from me. Perhaps because my parents had always been more interested in appearances than in what I actually wanted.

Or perhaps it was simply because Wade was a better father than he was a man to have breakfast with.

That wasn't saying much.

"Do you like pancakes, Maren?" Poppy asked suddenly.

I looked up.

"I do."

"Then you should come for breakfast tomorrow."

Wade stopped chewing.

I stared at the little girl.

"That's very kind of you."

"We can make pancakes together. Daddy isn't very good at them."

"I am perfectly capable of making pancakes," Wade said.

Poppy turned to him. "Last time you burned them."

"That was one time."

"Three times."

"Two."

"Grandma said three."

I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.

Wade pointed his fork at his daughter.

"You're enjoying this far too much."

She grinned.

And there it was again—that warmth between them, so natural that I felt like an intruder simply by witnessing it.

I didn't belong here.

I reminded myself of that as I finished my breakfast.

This was temporary. I would find a job, settle into the town, and figure out what came next. I would keep my head down, avoid unnecessary conversations, and make sure I didn't become attached to anyone or anything.

Especially not to a little girl who asked strangers to make pancakes with her.

And definitely not to her impossible father.

After breakfast, I carried my plate to the sink.

Wade glanced up from wiping Poppy's hands.

"You can leave that. I'll take care of it."

I looked at him suspiciously.

"Why?"

"Because you're a guest."

I almost laughed.

"A guest?"

"Yes."

"Last night, I was an intruder. This morning, I'm a guest?"

His expression became flat.

"Would you prefer intruder?"

"I'd prefer tenant."

"Then perhaps we should wait until my grandmother arrives before deciding what to call you."

I set the plate in the sink.

"Fine."

"Fine."

I turned away before I said something that would start another argument.

I had just reached the doorway when he spoke again.

"And Maren?"

I stopped but didn't turn around.

"What?"

"When my grandmother gets here, we'll look at the agreement. Until then, please don't move anything or go into rooms that aren't yours."

I slowly turned to face him.

"Don't worry, Wade. I'm not interested in exploring your house."

"Good."

"And I'm not interested in your belongings."

"Excellent."

"Or your bedroom."

His eyes narrowed.

I smiled sweetly.

"Unless, of course, you intend to accuse me of stealing your precious white mug."

Poppy burst into laughter.

Wade stared at me.

I walked out of the kitchen before he could respond.

My smile lasted until I reached the bottom of the stairs.

Then it faded.

I climbed back to my room, closed the door, and leaned against it.

For a moment, I allowed myself to enjoy the silence.

Then I looked at my phone lying on the bedside table.

The screen lit up with another incoming call.

Graham.

My stomach tightened.

I watched his name flash across the screen until the call ended.

A second later, a message appeared.

I didn't open it.

Instead, I turned the phone facedown and walked to the window.

Outside, the morning was bright and quiet. The trees moved gently in the breeze, and somewhere in the distance, a bird called to another.

I pressed my palm against the cool glass.

I had wanted a fresh start.

A place where no one knew my name, where I could breathe without feeling as though someone was watching me, where I could figure out who I was without the weight of my family's expectations pressing down on my shoulders.

I hadn't expected it to begin with a man who hated the idea of me being here.

But I had made it this far.

I wasn't going to run again just because something had become difficult.

This time, I would stay.

Even if Wade Mercer made every single day of it a nightmare.