Runaway Groom

by Lauren Layne

  “Thanks,” I say with an answering smile. In addition to being gorgeous, the blonde’s normal, which is more than I can say for most of the rest of them.

  As though proving my point, one of the Brittanys has wrapped herself around me, asking if I’ve ever seen her YouTube channel where she performs Broadway musicals with food puppets.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a redheaded contestant smile sympathetically at Ellie and hand her her sunglasses. She says something to Ellie, and then they both begin moving toward the steps at the shallow end.

  I watch as the redhead—damn it, what’s her name?—sits on the middle step and links arms with a still sulking LeAnn. Ellie sits on LeAnn’s other side, and I feel a rush of gratitude as I realize they’re babysitting the crazy one for a while.

  It frees me up to do what the producers have instructed me to do today—pay attention to as many contestants as possible so that viewers don’t think I favor any one woman yet. I’ve been told to “keep the mystery alive” about who I care for. Not a problem. Nobody’s more in the dark about that than me.

  “So, Gage…”

  At the words, I turn my attention toward Jane, an aggressive woman who strikes me as the type who plans to win the competition by sheer force of will.

  She smiles when I meet her eyes, although it’s not particularly friendly. She lifts her eyebrows. “We girls have all been wondering…why did you leave not one but two fiancées at the altar?”

  The pool seems to go very still: the girls who were splashing each other with annoying squeals stop, and everyone else quiets down to hear my answer.

  I’m not fazed—much. The producers warned me that the question would come up sooner rather than later. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d planted the question. That is, after all, the premise of the whole show: The Runaway Groom finally finds his way to the altar.

  I have no intention of marrying any of these women, but I’m also not ashamed of my past.

  I unwind Brittany’s arms from my waist and casually move backward until I can hoist myself up onto the side of the pool beside Brooklyn.

  “Well,” I say, nodding in thanks as someone hands me a beer, “the truth is, I never should have been engaged to either woman in the first place.”

  “But you proposed to them, right?” asks Maria, a brunette who’s kept mostly to herself.

  I take a sip of the beer. “To Annabel, yes.”

  “I can’t believe you dated Annabel Olsen,” chirps LeAnn. “She’s the prettiest woman on the planet.”

  LeAnn’s not wrong. My ex-fiancée is a supermodel who’s only grown more famous since we broke up. Hell, perhaps I give myself too much credit, but I suspect she became famous because we broke up. Not that I begrudge her any of it. The rumors are right on that account. I really did leave Annabel on our wedding day, and not a day goes by that I don’t wish I’d handled it better.

  “I was twenty-three and idiotic,” I say. “Annabel and I had dated for all of two weeks before I put the ring on her finger, and it hit me there on the wedding morning when I was meeting her family for the first time that I didn’t know her. She didn’t know me. I hadn’t realized that she’d assumed we were moving back to Norway after the wedding to live near her parents; she hadn’t realized that I’d just signed a new movie deal and couldn’t do that.”

  Also, everyone conveniently forgets that Annabel walked away too. In fact, she was the one who’d suggested first that we were making a mistake—but I was the one photographed speeding away in a black convertible decked out in Just Married shit…alone.

  Ergo the “Runaway Groom” label, which I can’t seem to shake.

  “You didn’t talk about those logistics with your fiancée before the wedding day?” asks a skeptical voice.

  “Obviously not.” I turn my head to glare at Ellie, but do a double take when I see that she’s ditched the wet T-shirt and is wearing only a tiny black bikini top. I thought the wet shirt was good. This is better.

  Naked would be best.

  I push the thought aside. Naked Ellie isn’t in the cards for me.

  “What about Valerie Blake?” one of the other women asks, referring to my second fiancée, and forcing my attention away from Ellie’s small, perfect tits. “Why didn’t you marry her?”

  Because Valerie’s a raging bitch.

  I don’t say this, obviously. Nobody likes a guy who trashes his ex. And the truth is, I didn’t treat Val much better than she treated me. Still, it bugs the shit out of me that I took all the heat for our non-wedding. Val and I met when filming the pilot of a crappy TV show that never got picked up. It was love at first sight—or so I thought. She was pretty and fun and didn’t take herself too seriously.

  She didn’t take us too seriously either.

  She’d told me the morning of our wedding that she expected us to have a discreetly open relationship—in fact, she’d been assuming we had an open relationship all along. The worst part was, she seemed shocked that I wouldn’t agree—as though she just assumed I was the sort of guy who’d welcome other men fucking my wife. Or that I’d enjoy screwing around with other women. She told me it was the way Hollywood marriages worked, and to get over myself.

  I believe my exact response was, “Fuck a Hollywood marriage. I want a real marriage or no marriage at all.”

  Her response? Fine. No marriage it is.

  And that was that. Sort of. The trouble was, I’d already been in my tux, Val already in her designer gown. I was twenty-seven by that point, with three Killboy movies under my belt (an action series that’s my bread and butter), and just famous enough to warrant plenty of paparazzi at the wedding. They’d caught me on camera walking away from the hillside mansion we’d rented for the ceremony, and caught Val watching me from a balcony. By the next morning, I’d been labeled as the “Runaway Romeo,” her as the “Jilted Juliet.”

  Valerie apparently was more concerned with her reputation than with the truth, and so she didn’t tell the media the real story. I was tempted to, definitely—especially after plenty of little old ladies came up to me on the street and swatted me with a rolled-up L.A. Times, telling me I should be ashamed of myself—but I didn’t. And the more time that passed, the less I cared.

  Except I care now. My damned Runaway Groom reputation was what landed me on Jilted.

  “Hello. Earth to Gage?”

  I shake my head, realizing I never answered the question about Valerie aloud.

  I give the women a slow grin. “Guess she wasn’t the one to tame me.”

  It’s what the producers told me to say, and it works exactly as they promised. I can practically hear the women’s silent chorus of Challenge accepted.

  On the other side of the pool, I see Raven waving her arm to get my attention, then she points to her watch. It’s my signal to wrap up the pool party by selecting one of the women for a stroll along the beach. Then it’ll be a meeting with the CBC team to talk about who’s going home tonight, then finally, finally a break.

  I do a quick scan of the women in front of me, trying to figure out whose company I can best tolerate for the next half hour. I’m a little surprised by how much I want to choose Ellie—not because she’s easy, but because she’s the only one who makes me forget about the cameras.

  Instead I select Ivy, a gorgeous pediatrician with dark brown skin and warm brown eyes. She’s on the quieter side, but not so shy that conversation will be a struggle.

  The other women hide their disappointment with varying degrees of success, and I risk a quick glance at LeAnn, relieved to see that she’s arm in arm with Ellie.

  I wait a second for Ellie to meet my eyes, but she doesn’t even glance back. No doubt she can’t wait to get back upstairs to pack her bags and be done with all of this.

  Ivy approaches me with an expectant smile, and I grin at her, extending my hand, which she accepts readily.

  I lead her down the steps toward the private beach, the cameras dogging our every step, and I wonder
just how the hell I’m going to survive another month of this.

  Invitation Ceremony #1

  Dear LeAnn—

  You are cordially invited to celebrate the wedding of Gage Barrett and his future bride on Saturday, May 21, at two o’clock in the afternoon. Dinner and dancing to follow.

  *

  The Runaway Groom on why he jilted LeAnn: “LeAnn’s sweet, but the chemistry just wasn’t there. She deserves someone who will take the time to get to know her, and that’s just not me.”

  *

  Dear Ellie—

  You are cordially invited to stay on at the villa as Gage Barrett continues his quest for his future bride.

  *

  Text message from Ellie to Gage: The closet. NOW.

  Gage to Ellie: Can’t. How about the closet, midnight?

  Ellie to Gage: Fine. Only because it’ll be easier to dispose of your body in the dark.

  Ellie

  The only silver lining to LeAnn being the first one to get sent home? She had the bottom bunk to my top bunk, and now I don’t have to worry about stepping on her when I sneak out of my room.

  Wait, I take it back.

  Because if I’d been the one to be sent home, as planned, I wouldn’t be sneaking out at all. I wouldn’t even still be in Maui—I’d be on a flight back to San Diego, where I belong.

  I hop silently down from the top bunk, freezing when I hear rustling from Eden’s bed, but she merely mutters something in her sleep and rolls over.

  Paisley snores, God bless her, so I know she’s asleep by the faint honking noise coming from the other top bunk. I usually sleep in shorts and a tank top, but tonight I went to bed in capris. I silently pick up the hoodie and flip-flops I set near the foot of the bed and tiptoe to the bedroom door, grateful that it doesn’t squeak when it’s opened.

  The female contestants occupy the five bedrooms on the far side of the house, and once out in the hallway, I creep quietly past the other closed doors toward the hallway and the closet where I talked to Marjorie that first day.

  The son of a bitch had better be there, because we’re about to have words.

  The worst part was, I really trusted the bastard. I thought when I opened my envelope tonight, I’d have my ticket home. Instead, I got an invitation to stay, and it was LeAnn who said a noisily tearful goodbye.

  I get why she had to go, but why at this ceremony? This was supposed to be my farewell.

  I walk as quietly as I can in flip-flops, pausing at every turn to listen for voices. Most of the crew’s staying at a house nearby, but Adam, the show’s host, as well as some of the higher-ups, is here on-site, probably to be the first to know if there’s any drama.

  For the first time, I wonder where Gage sleeps. I know they put him in the master suite, but I don’t know what part of the enormous house it’s in. Near the closet, maybe? Perhaps that’s how he stumbled across me that first day.

  I take two wrong turns and open two wrong doors, one to a linen closet, another to a small powder room, before I get my bearings and find the right one.

  I step inside and fumble around for the light switch, only to let out a little squeak when I see Gage leaning against the back wall, hands shoved into the pocket of gray sweatpants, tight-fitting black shirt showcasing every bit of muscle.

  “What the hell?” I snap. “Why are you just chilling in the dark?”

  He pushes away from the wall. “Didn’t want anyone to see the light through the crack under the door.”

  I open my mouth to argue, only to realize it’s a pretty good point, so instead I irritably rap my fist against the switch to turn the light off once more.

  It plunges us into darkness, which works in Gage’s favor, because now I can’t throw something at him, like I’ve been fantasizing about for hours.

  I cross my arms and glare into the darkness. “What the hell, Gage? You promised.”

  “I didn’t promise.”

  “We shook hands! That’s a gentleman’s promise.”

  “Hmm.” His voice sounds closer now. “Well, I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman. And you’re not a man at all. Perhaps that renders our handshake void.”

  I hiss out a little breath, and I’m angry, I am, but I’m also…disappointed. In him. I don’t even know why. He’s got a reputation as a self-absorbed playboy, and he’s living up to it marvelously. I guess I just wanted him to be something more, and I thought I’d seen glimpses of it—in the way he actually seems to listen to women when they talk, the way he took care to make sure LeAnn didn’t do anything dumb, even the way he hadn’t turned me in for my cellphone use.

  But it’s becoming increasingly clear that he’s exactly everything the media’s made him out to be. Gage Barrett does what he wants, when he wants. He doesn’t give a shit that the woman from San Diego doesn’t want to be here, or that LeAnn’s probably a hot mess right now.

  “All right, then,” I say quietly as I back up. “I guess we’re done here.”

  “Like hell,” he snaps, reaching out and hooking a finger into the V-neck of my hoodie. “Will you just stand still a second and let me explain?”

  “You already did. You’re not a gentleman, and you lied,” I sum up succinctly.

  I hear what sounds like the grinding of teeth, and it’s slightly mollifying to know that I’m not the only one who’s feeling frustrated.

  We’re both breathing heavily, and slowly I become aware of the back of his knuckle against my chest. It’s up high, not like he’s fondling my boobs or anything, but it’s skin on skin, and we’re in a dark room, and he’s Gage Barrett, and—

  I bat his hand away. “I’ve got to get back to my room before crazy Eden wakes up and catches me gone.”

  “I couldn’t let LeAnn stay,” he says before I can move. “Even if she didn’t truly mean to hurt herself, any woman who would even chance it just to get the attention of some guy she barely knew—she was a risk.”

  “To the show.”

  He snarls in frustration and steps closer. “No, damn it, Ellie. No. To herself. The more I talked with her, the more it became clear she was unstable. I spoke with the producers about it, suggested that someone from CBC escort her home, ensure that she gets some counseling.”

  I swallow. “Oh.”

  I’m…ashamed. Not only that I assumed the worst about him, but also that I hadn’t put more thought into LeAnn’s mental stability. I mean, I knew she was sort of the resident crazy, but mostly I figured she was acting out for the sake of the show.

  He’s right, though—someone who would even suggest getting hurt for the sake of attention isn’t stable enough to stay on the show.

  “That was good of you,” I manage, crossing my arms.

  My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and I can see the flash of white as he gives a quick smile. “How hard was that for you to say?”

  “Very,” I admit.

  “You still pissed at me?” he asks teasingly.

  “About you sending LeAnn home before me? No. You’re right that that probably needed to be addressed. But I would like to know what the hell you were thinking pulling me into the pool earlier.”

  He grins wider. “I already told you. I was thinking that the T-shirt would look really good wet. I was right.”

  “You’re also a pervert,” I mutter.

  “How old is your T-shirt company?” he surprises me by asking.

  “Really? Small talk?”

  “You were right,” he says. “This is awkward.”

  I think he means the conversation, but instead he reaches out and flicks on the light and grins. “Much better.”

  I blink at the sudden brightness. “I thought you were worried someone will see.”

  “I like to live on the edge,” he murmurs, scanning the crowded closet until he spots what he’s looking for.

  A moment later he’s overturned two buckets. He sits on one, and then pats the other for me to do the same.

  I reluctantly do so, because as weird as sitting in a
cleaning closet with Gage Barrett is, I’m not the least bit tired, and staring at the ceiling above my bunk bed holds no appeal.

  “So. Your business.” The buckets are short, so he wraps his long arms around his knees.

  I do the same, and rest my chin on mine. “We started it a couple of years ago.”

  “We? You and the person you were speaking with on the phone?”

  “Marjorie. We’ve been best friends since high school.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “San Diego.”

  “Ah. Not so far from my home.”

  “You’re from San Diego originally?” I ask.

  He smiles. “Didn’t do your Gage Barrett homework, huh?”

  I shrug.

  “I’m from the East Coast originally,” he says. “I moved to L.A. when I was nineteen.”

  “To act?”

  “Yup.”

  “Was it hard to leave your family? I sometimes think about leaving San Diego, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to leave my mom.”

  His eyes flash with pain at the question, and he looks away for a moment before shrugging. “Sure, I guess. So, you and Marjorie…why T-shirts?”

  I’m surprised to realize that I want to know more about whatever caused the shadow to cross his face, but I go along with the question. “Same reason most businesses start, I guess. We just thought there was a market. There’s something so classic about a T-shirt and jeans, but it’s shockingly hard to find one that’s not too short, not too clingy, not too boxy, not too see-through…”

  “I don’t mind the see-through.”

  “So you’ve said. Anyway, Marjorie and I thought, how hard can that be?”

  “How hard was it?”

  “Harder than we thought,” I admit. “We knew from the start what we wanted, but finding the best manufacturer was hard. And now that we have it right, we’ve got the next battle.”

  “Exposure.”

  I nod. “We’re in plenty of boutique stores in San Diego, and we’ve even had a couple of B-list celebrity endorsements. It’s enough to pay the rent on my tiny apartment and afford groceries, but not much more.”