Page 38 of Runaway Bride's Guide to Love

I’m furious that he drained our bank accounts. Maybe more so now than when I found out about it. I’m so mad that I shot a text off to my dad asking if I could sue Duncan. He said we’d talk about it when I got back. Which is his way of saying, “let’s think this through when you’re not emotional and drunk.”

Which is fair. These frozen drinks are going down way too smoothly.

My dad also knows I wouldn’tactuallysue. Duncan might be a lying, stealing, cheating scumbag, but he’s a good attorney. The battle between him and my dad would go on for years. No one has time for that. Plus, years of working at a law firm has made me hate tiny, revenge-filled, lawsuits. Though I would contend this wouldn’t be a petty lawsuit. No, I feel that I’m entitled to compensation for money that was stolen, my money that I paid for the wedding. Oh, and the emotional suffering I endured from wearing his mother’s wedding dress. Hell, I should sue just for that.

But I can’t, because I did that. I did a lot of this. Which brings me to who I’m mad at the most—myself. I want to slap myself for ignoring every red flag that is now so glaringly obvious. I’m furious that I made excuses for his behavior. And how I let myself change for him. I’m mad for having such a narrow focus and the need to have what others had to the point I didn’t see what was happening right in front of me.

I know I’ll move on. I know I’ll get over the hurt in my chest for the life I thought I was going to be living. But I don’t know when, or if, I’ll forgive myself for letting all of that happen.

“Room for another chair?”

I crack an eye open to see Emmett standing over me, completely blocking the sun. I didn’t know one person’s shadow could completely engulf a person.

And why is that so hot?

“Sure,” I say, signaling next to me. “Though, I don’t know if I’m good company today.”

“That’s fine.” He unfolds the chair he brought down from the house and starts to take his shirt off. “I’m more of a silent beachgoer anyway.”

Sweet baby Jesus…

I don’t mean to stare at Emmett’s chest, but…I am. He’s not even doing it in a sexual way. He’s just a man taking off his shirt atthe beach. And I don’t blink for a single second as I watch in awe.

In my defense, I’ve never seen an eight-pack of abs before. I’ve also been with the human version of a Q-tip for the past four-ish years.

Emmett is…manly. Bronzed skin. Defined muscles without it looking like he lives at the gym. A slight trail of hair that leads down to, then disappears, inside his trunks. Trunks that I bet cling to his muscular thighs if he were to step into the water. I find myself biting my lip at the thought of a wet Emmett, his hair slicked back and the drops of water running down his face and the sweat pooling on his chest.

“You okay, Tiger?”

Emmett’s words, in conjunction with the water smacking me on the legs, snap me out of my fantasy.

And what a fantasy it was…

“Yeah,” I say, fumbling for an excuse as to why I was gawking at the man. Because judging by how he’s looking at me I’ve been clearly caught. “I’ve been drifting off a lot lately.”

Yes. That’s a good one. I hurry to talk again just in case he doesn’t buy it. “I thought you said you didn’t like the beach.”

He shrugs, turning his backward hat around to block the sun in his eyes as he takes a seat. “I don’t. But I’m here for the week, so, when in Rome, right? Plus, I thought you could use some company.”

“Thanks. But you don’t have to spend pity time with me. You said you don’t like the beach, and I’m already making you do things that you weren’t planning on.”

Emmett sits up a little in his chair. “Who said anything about pity?”

“Isn’t that what it is?”

“On the contrary.” He turns to me and the sincerity on his face hits me right in the heart. “This is me being done with work for today. This is me wanting to spend the day with my friend, relaxing on the beach. And who knows, maybe she can tell mewhat’s so great about beaches. And why getting sand up my shorts is relaxing.”

This makes me laugh. “Well, for starters, at this beach, you get frozen drinks.”

Emmett looks around. “Is there a bar?”

I shake my head and grab the cooler that is next to me and pull out a pitcher of strawberry daiquiris. “There is. Bar Stella.”

“Very nice,” he says. “I’ll take one, please.”

“Coming right up.”

I pull the plastic cocktail glass from the cooler and pour Emmett a drink. Because yes, I maybe, might have, on purpose, packed an extra glass for him.

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