The Runaway Bride

Chapter 7

Maren

I slept for exactly forty-three minutes before my brain decided to torture me.

I knew it was forty-three because I'd checked the time on my phone when I woke up the second time, and somehow, in the darkness of the unfamiliar bedroom, that ridiculous little detail had become important. I'd gone to bed sometime after midnight, exhausted enough to fall asleep almost immediately, only to wake up with my heart pounding and the memory of a wooden coat stand swinging through the air.

Wade Mercer.

I hated him.

Well, perhaps hate was a strong word for a man I'd known for less than twelve hours, but I was willing to make an exception. He'd barged into the kitchen, screamed at me, nearly given me a heart attack, and then stood there arguing as though I'd personally arranged the entire situation to inconvenience him. The fact that my towel had fallen off in front of him was something my mind kept returning to with cruel enthusiasm.

I rolled onto my side and pulled the pillow over my face.

Why couldn't I have rented a normal house?

Better yet, why couldn't I have rented a room from a normal family, in a normal town, where the landlord didn't suddenly appear in the kitchen carrying what he believed was a weapon?

And why, of all the people in the world, had it been a man who looked like Wade Mercer?

That last thought irritated me enough to throw the pillow across the bed.

He was handsome. Unfortunately, he was also insufferable.

There was something deeply unfair about a man possessing a face that could have belonged on the cover of a magazine while behaving like the sort of person who made strangers regret leaving their homes.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes.

The room was quiet. Pale morning light seeped through the curtains, falling across the unfamiliar furniture and the suitcase I'd left open beside the wardrobe. For a moment, I forgot where I was. Then I noticed the strange bedside table, the unfamiliar curtains, and the folded towel I'd placed on the chair the previous night.

Everything came back.

The wedding.

I reached for my phone.

There were more notifications than I'd expected, but I didn't open any of them. I wasn't ready to see Graham's name again, wasn't ready to read whatever my parents had decided to say about the spectacular mess I'd made of their carefully arranged plans.

For now, I needed coffee.

Strong coffee.

Enough coffee to make me forget that my new life had apparently come with a hostile landlord who wasn't even supposed to be living here.

I pushed the covers aside, found my slippers, and went to the bathroom to wash my face. I stared at myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth, studying the faint shadows beneath my eyes.

I looked terrible.

My hair was a mess, my eyes were swollen from crying, and the woman staring back at me looked nothing like the bride my mother had spent months preparing for the world to admire.

That was probably a good thing.

I had no intention of ever looking like that woman again.

After changing into a pair of comfortable jeans and a loose cream sweater, I opened my bedroom door and stepped into the hallway.

Voices drifted up from downstairs.

A man's voice, low and slightly irritated.

A child's voice, bright and determined.

I paused near the top of the stairs.

"Daddy, I want pancakes ."

"You had pancakes yesterday."

"So?"

"So we're having something else today."

"What?"

"Eggs."

There was a moment of silence.

Then the little girl said, with genuine disappointment, "But I don't like eggs."

"You ate them yesterday."

"That was yesterday."

I pressed my lips together.

A laugh threatened to escape, and I quickly swallowed it.

I shouldn't have found that funny. After everything that had happened the night before, the last thing I wanted was to be amused by Wade Mercer.

Still, I couldn't help listening for another moment.

"How about toast?" Wade suggested.

"With chocolate?"

"No."

"Jam?"

"Yes."

"Chocolate and jam?"

"No, Poppy."

"Why?"

"Because I'm your father, and I said no."

"But—"

"Poppy."

A pause.

Then, very quietly, the little girl asked, "Can I have chocolate after breakfast?"

Wade sighed so dramatically that I could almost picture him rubbing his face.

"We'll see."

"That's what you always say."

I covered my mouth with my hand.

The laugh escaped anyway.

It was small, barely audible, but it surprised me. I hadn't laughed properly since leaving the city. I'd spent the last few days being frightened, miserable, and so overwhelmed by my own decisions that even the smallest pleasure had felt undeserved.

Hearing a little girl negotiate for chocolate before eight in the morning shouldn't have made me feel anything.

But it did.

There was something comforting about the ordinary noise of a family getting ready for the day. The kind of noise I'd once imagined hearing in my own home. Not the polished, carefully arranged life my parents had planned for me, but something messy and real.

A father arguing about breakfast.

A child refusing to accept no for an answer.

I wondered what it would be like to grow up with a father who sounded irritated but still made sure there was jam on the table.

The thought caught me off guard.

I pushed it away and continued downstairs.

The kitchen was brighter than it had been the night before. Sunlight spilled across the counters, illuminating the wooden cabinets and the little vase of flowers near the window. A frying pan sat on the stove, and two plates were arranged on the table.

Wade stood at the counter in a dark T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair still slightly damp, as though he'd recently showered. He was cracking eggs into a bowl while Poppy sat at the table, her chin resting on her hands.

She noticed me first.

"Good morning, Maren!"

I smiled at her. "Good morning, Poppy."

Wade looked over his shoulder.

His expression changed the instant he saw me.

It wasn't dramatic. He didn't scowl or throw anything down. He simply went still for half a second, then returned his attention to the bowl with the kind of deliberate indifference that made it clear my presence wasn't welcome.

Wonderful.

The feeling was mutual.

"Morning," I said, mostly because I was determined not to let him think he could make me uncomfortable in a room I'd paid to occupy.

He grunted.

I decided to take that as a greeting.

"Do you know where the coffee is?" I asked.

He pointed toward a cabinet without looking at me.

"Top shelf."

"Thank you."

I opened the cabinet and found a jar of coffee beside several mugs. I reached for one, then hesitated when I noticed that every mug had a different design.

I chose a plain white one.

It was such an ordinary thing, making coffee in an unfamiliar kitchen, that for a moment I allowed myself to pretend I was simply staying with someone who had been kind enough to lend me a room.

Then Wade spoke.

"That's mine."

I looked down at the mug.

It was a white mug.

An entirely ordinary white mug.

I slowly turned toward him. "I'm sorry?"

"The mug."

I glanced at the mug again, then at the other mugs in the cabinet.

"Are you telling me this entire cabinet is off-limits?"

"No. I'm telling you that one's mine."

"How unfortunate."

His eyes lifted to mine.

I gave him my sweetest smile.

"Would you like it back?"

He stared at me for a moment before returning to his eggs.

"Use whatever you want. Just don't move things around."

I placed the mug on the counter a little harder than necessary.

"Trust me, Wade. I have no desire to rearrange your precious kitchen."

"Good."

"Good."

Poppy looked between us.

"Why are you both saying good like that?"

Neither of us answered.

I turned toward the coffee machine, determined to ignore him. Unfortunately, the machine appeared to have been designed by someone who believed that operating a simple household appliance should require a university degree.

I pressed a button.

Nothing happened.

I pressed it again.

The machine made a noise that sounded suspiciously like an insult.

I frowned at it.

"Are you having trouble?" Wade asked.

"No."

He looked at the machine, then at me.

"You're pressing the wrong button."

"I know how to make coffee."

"Clearly."

I turned around.

"Do you ever wake up in the morning and decide not to be unpleasant?"

He leaned against the counter, folding his arms.

"Do you ever wake up in the morning and decide not to take everything personally?"

I stared at him.

"You're unbelievable."

"So I've been told."

"By everyone, I hope."

Poppy giggled into her hands.

Wade glanced at her. "Finish your breakfast."

"But I'm not eating yet."

"Then stop listening to our conversation."

"I'm not listening. I'm watching."

I nearly smiled again.

Wade, apparently unwilling to let his daughter enjoy herself at his expense, turned back to the stove.

I tried the coffee machine one more time. This time, it worked.

A small stream of coffee poured into the mug.

I exhaled in relief.

At least one thing in this house was willing to cooperate.

I reached for the sugar, only to discover that the container was empty.

I opened the next cupboard.

Plates.

The one beside it contained glasses.

The third held pots and pans.

I closed it and opened another.

"Can I help you?" Wade asked.

"I'm looking for sugar."

"It's in the drawer beside the stove."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The words sounded so stiff coming from him that I almost laughed.

I found the sugar, stirred a spoonful into my coffee, and took a cautious sip.

Perfect.