Page 3 of The Billionaire's Runaway Bride

I gather up the skirts and rush over to close the door. Then I smack my back to the closed door. “I can’t do this.”

“Hurry then.”

Run? Am I really going to do this? I catch another glance in the mirror and grimace. “Where, though? Where can I go?”

“There’s a bus station in the next town.” She fishes in her small clutch and pulls out keys. “Here. Take my car.”

I nod, feeling like a bobblehead. Letting this sink into my head feels dangerous. Can I do this? I know I shouldn’t be considering this at all. I should be preparing to head down that aisle, but I catch the keys Aubrey tosses at me.

I’m doing this. I am so doing this. Feeling the metal of her keys snaps me into action, like they are a tangible tool I can hold onto in order to be shown the way out.

“Where’s your purse?” Aubrey glances up, her slim wallet in one hand. She points, hurrying toward the counter where my bag is. I’m already halfway there.

“How much cash do you have? Don’t use cards. They can track them.”

I nod again, speechless because I’m afraid that if I speak, it’ll break this spell that’s taken over me. It’s like magic, this determination to escape that I can’t ignore.

“Not much,” Aubrey notices, shoving her cash into my hand. “Go. If you run out to the left hallway, it’s closest to the parking lot. I’ll…” She shrugs. “I’ll fake some illness and cover you.” Her hands clutch me as she pulls me in for a hug. I squeeze her close, praying I can get away with this. Then, before I lose my will or my chance, I release her and leave.

I run out of there in this hideous dress. No one stops me, and no wonder because everyone is closer to the area where the ceremony is supposed to happen. After I find Aubrey’s car, I cram my dress inside the driver’s seat—maybe missing a strip or so that can hang out the door for all I care—and I get out of there. Speeding too fast, I book it to the bus station.

I’m doing this. I am doing this.

I’m grateful the station isn’t too crowded. With the lack of passengers holding up the line, I’m able to reach the windows within another moment.

“Where”—the clerk looks up and blinks, taking in my appearance—“where to, ma’am?”

“You pick.” I lick my lips, feeling like my parents will come after me somehow. “Just pick a place…” I slap my cash on the counter. “Anywhere I can start to go with this.”

I’ve got no plan. Wherever this person decides will be better than not having a clue what to do.

“Hmmm.” Again, he eyes me carefully, no doubt curious about what’s going on. “Well, we’ve got a bus heading toward Denver in about five minutes…”

I shove the money across the counter and nod. Once I have my ticket, requesting an “old-fashioned” paper one instead of having one accessible on my phone, I pick up my dress and turn toward the exit area. Before I walk out, I pause to throw away everything that would tie me to the people who wanted me to marry that despicable man.

My phone, my credit cards. Into the trash they go.

Then, before I can rethink any of it, I get on the bus and leave my old life behind.

I’m not sure where I’m going, but I finally feel alive.

Chapter 2

Caleb

I lean back in my seat and prop my ankle up on my knee. Enduring a meeting with my lawyer and publicist should’ve had me sweating bullets, but that’s not my style. Of course, I’m aware I’ve screwed up. I really messed up this time. Not only did my ex-fling talk to every gossip rag about me cheating on her with a model, but my party house in Atlanta was destroyed.

“I still can’t understand why Felicity thought we were together.”

My publicist arches a brow at my flippant comment. His look conveys complete professionalism with a dash of humor.

“It’s not like we were exclusive.” I shrug. “I never gave her the idea that she was anything more than a quick lay.”

“She must have gotten the idea somehow,” my lawyer replies.

I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter anyway. The damage is done.” Since Felicity went to the rags and posted a few videos that became viral, the whole world already assumes I’m just another cheater—with a woman I’ve never met, at that.

I can’t care too much about her hurt feelings or why she’d stretch the truth. Maybe she was after a paycheck. My party house in Atlanta, though, that’s a harder hit to get over. A few days ago, an accident with a tiki torch on the patio went awry. Everything snowballed. People screamed “fire” and all the guests freaked. A stampede of people leaving knocked over another torch, and within just a few moments, the whole place was burned down.

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