Page 2 of Snowed In
I’m out.
I catch my breath, waiting for the doubt to creep in, but there’s nothing. Just my gut telling me to get the hell out of dodge, and beyond a few issues with dairy, it’s never let me down before. I just need to find a taxi. I need to find a taxi, and then I can—
“You lost?”
I jump. I think I even let out a little squeak, and whirl around at the question to see a man standing right next to me.
Christian.
I pause before him, startled into stillness, and the first thing that pops into my mind, the very first thing my panicked, addled brain latches onto, is what the hell is Christian Fitzpatrick doing at my wedding? I didn’t invite him. I’ve barely spoken more than two words to him despite sharing a classroom for our entire childhood, and since then, I’ve only ever had a brief glimpse of the man when he comes back to the village for a visit.
But I have my answer before I’ve even finished the question. Why wouldn’t he be invited? My mother invited everyone. Third cousins twice removed, friends of friends of friends. It’s that kind of wedding. She probably tracked down half the kids I went to summer camp with when I was twelve. Maybe even all of them. Of course, everyone I went to school with would be invited.
Including Christian Fitzpatrick.
He stands in the shade just to the left of the doors, his phone in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. His dark hair is slicked back, and I can’t help but notice he’s wearing a tie. It’s weird. I mean, I know it’s my wedding, but not once, noteverduring a single school day did he show up wearing the required tie, and now here he is, with a silky teal one knotted neatly at the base of his throat.
I’m bizarrely touched by the sight of it. Like he made an effort just for me. But then his eyes drop down my dress before taking in the bag, and I’m back on edge, my skin prickling under his gaze. Christian’s not a snitch, but he was also the kid who thrived on chaos, and I can see him raising the alarm just to be entertained.
He finishes his perusal, meeting my eyes with an unreadable expression as he brings the cigarette to his lips and takes a slow drag.
Oh no. “Christian—”
“Megan.” He says my name like a taunt, like we’re back in the playground, but there’s no bite to it. If anything, he sounds amused. “Need some help?”
I shake my head, and he takes another drag. Neither of us moves.
“Well,” he says finally. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
He gestures with the cigarette when I just stare at him and blows a short stream of smoke from the side of his mouth.
“Go on then.” His attention turns to his phone, and he starts to scroll, acting like I’m not even there. Like I didn’t just…
Oh.
I wait another breath to see if he’s playing with me before I take a hesitant step forward and then another and another until I hurry past him, my pulse pounding once more.
“Freedom’s the other way,” he calls, and I spin around, darting past again with a mumbled thank you. I’m never going to live this down. But that’s the least of my worries right now.
This time, I feel his eyes on me as I race around the side of the building, but I ignore him as I round the corner and find myself in the hotel parking lot. It’s jammed with cars but empty of people, deserted but for a couple of taxi drivers standing around as they save their spots.
I get into the first one I see, startling the poor man in the front seat, who had his head in a newspaper.
“What the—” His eyes widen in the rearview as I shut the door, and he twists around to take me in. “Are you the bride?”
“No.” I shove my skirts out of the way and zip open the bag. Technically, it’s not a lie. Not anymore. “Are you free? I have cash. Lots of cash. Literal envelopes of cash.”
His expression softens at my increasingly hysterical tone, and he reaches out to pat my arm.
“Don’t worry about that, love. I believe you.”
“I know how this looks, but I—”
“I’ve been doing this for forty years. You think you’re the first runaway bride I’ve had?” He turns back to the front, all business. “Just tell me where you’re going, and I’ll get you there.”
I could almost cry at his kindness. “Dublin,” I say. “Please.” I booked a random hotel room under a fake name, and it’s where I plan on staying until I figure everything out. I don’t know anyone in the city, which means no one will think to look for me there.
But my driver is hesitating. “Ah,” he says lightly. “I thought you were thinking of the train station. That’s a bit of a drive if I could just see some proof of—”
