Runaway Groom

by Lauren Layne

  I press my lips to his. A hard, shut up kind of kiss. I pull back and glare at him.

  He glares back.

  I don’t know who moves next. Maybe both of us, because this time when our mouths collide, it’s not him kissing me, or me kissing him. It’s simply two people who want each other and are done with the games.

  His fingers knot harder in my hair, and I return the favor by threading my own fingers in his hair as I press him back against the love seat, my tongue tangling with his.

  Gage’s free hand slips under the back of my dress, palming my ass. He groans. “A thong? Are you trying to kill me?”

  I pull back just enough to trail my lips over his neck, punctuating the embrace with a quick nip of my teeth.

  His fingers flirt over the V of my thong, pulling my face back to his. He pauses before he kisses me again, searching my face. “Are you going to accuse me of this not being real again?”

  I smile and press against the erection I’m straddling. “Feels real to me.”

  He grins. “Damn straight.”

  With impressive quickness, he flips me to my back, pinning me to the love seat with his weight. It’s too short to accommodate me, much less him, but we make do, our hands and mouths exploring everything that’s not covered with clothes.

  His tongue runs along the spaghetti strap of my sundress until he reaches the top of my dress. His green eyes meet mine as he drags the tip of his tongue along the neckline of the dress, teasing the very tops of my breasts.

  I arch into him, and he slips a hand behind me, easing the zipper down with unabashed ease.

  “Wait,” I say on a pant. “I’m not—it’s too soon.”

  “Second base,” he says. “Just let me get to second base.”

  I can’t stop the giggle. “I was just thinking of second base a few minutes ago.”

  He stills and glances up. “It’d better have been in reference to a fantasy involving me.”

  I grin. “Nope. Another guy. Backseat of his mom’s Honda.”

  “Amateur.”

  “Says the guy trying to seduce me in a closet.”

  “Trying? Or succeeding?” He answers his own question by sliding his thumbs beneath the straps of my dress, pulling it down.

  I’m fairly flat-chested, and the dress is lined, which means—

  “No bra,” he says with a reverent groan. He palms my breast, watching as his thumb plays over my nipple.

  “Remind me again, what constitutes second base?” he murmurs.

  “Um, I’d say you’re there,” I say on a gasp as he lightly pinches.

  “Is it just hands, though,” he says in a musing tone, as though trying to figure out a math problem, “or do lips qualify?”

  “I seem to recall that A. J. Castor got a hand under the shirt, but I don’t recall him ever getting the shirt off me. Nor do I remember any mouth action.”

  “Then A. J. Castor was fucking doing it wrong.”

  Gage grabs both my hands and pins them to the love seat as he slides his tongue over my nipple in a slow lapping motion, which he follows up with a quick, hard lick.

  I buck off the love seat. “Gage.”

  “That’s right. Gage. Not K.J.”

  “A.J.,” I correct.

  He pulls back and shakes his head. “Why’d you have to do that? Now I find myself determined to make you forget the guy altogether.”

  His tongue coaxes my nipple into his mouth as his other hand slides down my stomach.

  “Hey!” I manage around a pant. “You seem to be heading for third.”

  He makes a frustrated sound, but his hand retreats, moving upward again until it closes over my breast. He pinches one nipple as he sucks the other, moving back and forth between the two until I’m little more than a wriggling mess of pleas.

  Gage slides upward to nuzzle my neck. “Damn it, Ellie, let me under that skirt.”

  Somehow, somewhere I find the self-control to squirm out from beneath him, pulling the dress straps up over my shoulders.

  He looks so adorably frustrated that I laugh. I take his face in mine, brush a kiss against his lips. “This is moving fast. I just…I want to be sure.”

  “I’m Gage Barrett. You’re supposed to let me get around all the bases without thinking about it, and then regret it later for fear I’ll think you’re easy.”

  I lift my eyebrows. “That how it usually works?”

  “Yes,” he mutters before gently maneuvering me so that he can zip up my dress. He’s surpassingly gentle, straightening one of the straps before gliding the zipper back up.

  He plants a kiss on my shoulder. “I deserve a medal for this.”

  I turn my face so we’re eye to eye. “Do I need to run out of here before you get handsy again, or can I sip my champagne and trust you to act like a gentleman?”

  “Stay,” he says without hesitation. “You’ve got to tell me who to send home next.”

  All of them. Send them all home but me.

  The thought is so unexpected, so unwelcome, that I gasp.

  Gage frowns, his hand stilling in its gentle stroke over my leg. “Ellie?”

  I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the thought, but it stays. The realization that I am falling for Gage Barrett is painful and yet totally unavoidable.

  I…like him. Maybe more than like him.

  Reality crashes down hard as I remember where I am, why I’m here, and who I’m with. Whatever happens in this closet, real life happens tomorrow when he tries to find a woman to marry. Or at least pretend to fall in love with.

  And he hasn’t kissed Brooklyn or anyone else on the set besides Cora, Hannah, and Aurora, but how long will that last? They all actually want to be here—they actually want to walk down the aisle with him.

  And I want…I want…

  I grab my champagne and take a long swallow. He reaches for his glass as well, studying me. “I can send Brooklyn home.”

  “What?” My head whips around. “No. I already told you she was one of the more normal ones.”

  “You said she bothered you,” he says, touching a knuckle to my cheek.

  “It—I shouldn’t have said that.”

  He searches my face. “Did you mean it?”

  “No, of course not,” I say. “I just…I’m not sure. I guess maybe the competition is getting to me, you know? It’s all the women talk about—how to get you alone, who’s going to kiss you next, who you like best, who you talk to the most. I guess I just…I guess I got caught up in it a little. For the sake of the show.”

  Wow, what do you know—I’m not so bad at lying after all.

  He gives a curt nod. “Okay. So Brooklyn stays.”

  My heart squeezes. “Yes. And Paisley.”

  “Sure, she’s cool. As long as she won’t tell anyone about us.”

  “Nope. She even offered to run interference with Evil. Eden,” I correct quickly.

  He frowns. “What do you mean, run interference?”

  “Well, let’s see. She’s competitive as all get-out, a little bit mean, and my roommate. How exactly do you think she’d respond to knowing I’m breaking every single one of the rules by being here right now? Not to mention what you and I just did on that love seat.”

  “You mean getting to third base?”

  I laugh and put a hand over his face, pushing him away. “Stop. It was second base, and you’re not getting to third.”

  “You sure about that?” His voice is husky.

  Not when he looks at me like that, I’m not.

  Invitation Ceremony #9

  Dear Eden—

  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 Eden: “Honestly? She scared me. Anyone who says real men aren’t scared of women haven’t met Eden.”

  *

  Dear Ellie—

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

  Gage

  “Now, refresh my memory, Ellie. You’re from San Diego. Is that a landlocked city, or right on the ocean? How are you not better at this whole in-the-water thing?”

  She hacks up a mouthful of seawater before lifting her right hand from its death grip on the surfboard to shoot me the bird.

  I grin. “You know there are cameras trained on us right now, right?”

  “Good. I hope they catch it on film when I drown you for making me float out here with Jaws.”

  “Now, now. You can’t create your clothing empire from jail.”

  “Sure I can—I’ll just have to deal in orange jumpsuits. Also, how much longer until I can sip a piña colada on the beach? I’d rather have sand in inopportune places than stand on a floating board on a wave.”

  “Oh, honey. Stand? It’s adorable you think you’ve even gotten close to that. Also, these inopportune places you speak of—can I see them?”

  She splashes water on my face, and I reach out and grab the edge of her surfboard, keeping it near mine as we tread water in the middle of the Pacific. “Silver lining: since they couldn’t figure out a way to easily mic us out here, there’s no audio for this part of the filming.”

  “Yeah, that makes up for the fact that I’m floating amidst the sharks.”

  “You’re cute when you’re grumpy.”

  “Speaking of cute…” She gestures with her chin. “How cute are Paisley and the surfing instructor?”

  “Ah…” Truth be told, I haven’t been paying much attention to Paisley or the instructor they hired for today’s “roommate date.”

  All of the contestants are divided among five rooms, A–E. Ellie’s in room A, and since I’ve sent home all of her roommates except for Paisley, today’s easily the most pleasant on-camera moment of this whole circus.

  Admittedly, the first half hour was boring as hell. Neither Ellie nor Paisley has surfed before, so they brought in some guy named Ed who couldn’t have looked more like the stock photo for “surfing instructor” if he tried. Dark tan, too-long blond hair, a wide and lazy smile, liberal use of the word dude.

  Now that Ellie mentions it, though, I guess his lesson with Paisley back on the shore was a little…hands-on. And she didn’t seem to mind in the least.

  I glance over my shoulder and scan the scattered crowd of surfers until I spot Paisley’s red hair. I’m just in time to see Ed reach out and brush a strand of hair out of her face.

  “Cozy,” I say.

  “You think the producers are freaking out?” she asks.

  “Nah, they’re probably hoping it’ll stir up some drama—maybe that I’ll punch the guy when we get back to the beach.”

  “Ooh! How long until that happens?”

  I point out toward the horizon. “Big wave coming in. Want to ride it?”

  She snorts. “How long have you been holding that one in?”

  “All day. But seriously.”

  “Nope. If I’m lucky, the wave will take me away and I’ll die a swift, merciful death, thus ending this nightmare. But you go ahead.”

  “Nah.” I know how to surf—mainly because one of my speaking roles was a minor character in a story about a Honolulu high school. I’m good enough not to embarrass myself, and indifferent enough to prefer the woman next to me over the thrill of catching a wave.

  “Looks like Paisley’s going for it, though,” I say, pointing as the redhead paddles out to position herself to pick up the oncoming wave.

  She stands at precisely the right moment—albeit shakily—and rides the wave with a bit more grit than grace, but Ellie and I both whoop our congrats.

  Paisley gives us a brilliant grin before slapping her palm against Ed’s in a triumphant high-five. I note the way she turns her head toward the boat, no doubt knowing that the bosses are likely increasingly impatient to capture something other than me and Ellie bobbing in the water and her flirting with another guy.

  I check my watch. We’ve got ten more minutes of this shit.

  I look over at Ellie, whose chin rests atop her hands, her lips just slightly pouty. “How fast a swimmer are you?”

  “Oh, I’m from San Diego, remember? So that pretty much makes me part dolphin, according to you.”

  I glance behind her, gauging the distance to the shore. We’ve been idle for quite a while, letting the tide push us in, so it’s not far.

  No matter how fast Ellie can swim, the boat can be faster, but they’ve got their equipment, they’ll need to dock, and that will give us time.

  “Want to piss off a whole bunch of people?” I ask.

  Ellie lifts her head. “What do you have in mind?”

  “On the count of three, we’re going to paddle back to shore.”

  “And then?”

  I grin. “And then…we’ll figure it out. Quick-like.”

  “What about our boards?”

  I splash her. “Ditch them. Do you want to escape the cameras or not?”

  She perks up. “We’ll get in so much trouble.”

  I grin. “Exactly. On my count…”

  Ellie

  I let out a delighted laugh as Gage speeds away from the beach. “They’re not even out of the boat yet.”

  He grins, his perfect teeth flashing white against his tan, looking every bit the part of the movie star who can get away with just about anything he wants. “Where to?”

  I rummage in the duffel bag at my feet for a T-shirt. After dashing out of the water, we paused only long enough to grab our bags and Gage’s car keys from the startled staffers assigned to stay behind and watch the stuff, then hopped into the rented convertible.

  “You know, you’re on vacation,” he says as I pull the shirt over my head. “It’s perfectly acceptable to drive around wearing nothing but a swimsuit with a famous celebrity.”

  “Oh, gosh, you don’t say. Maybe I should just go entirely topless and leisurely rub some tanning oil all over my tits.”

  My tone is sarcastic, but Gage stifles a tortured groan, shifting slightly in the driver’s seat.

  “You are such a guy,” I say. Although I’m secretly thrilled at the prospect that a skinny, flat-chested “regular” girl can have that sort of effect on him.

  “It’s your fault,” he says as he changes lanes. “For making me stop at second base. I want more.”

  “Hmm. At what point do you get your fill?” I muse. “Third base? Home run?”

  “Well, here’s the thing about me, Wright. I like to round all the bases many times per game, and I like to play many games in a row.”

  “Sounds exhausting.” I dig my sunglasses out of my bag and slide them onto my face.

  “What sort of tools have you been with if exhausting is the only word you can summon for a sex marathon?”

  I tilt my face up toward the sun. “Just because you’re insatiable doesn’t mean my sexual history has been lame.”

  “But it has been, a little bit. Right?”

  “Well, I did have this very tepid encounter on a love seat a couple of nights ago. Guy didn’t know his way around the female body at all.”

  “Huh. I’m thinking maybe you misunderstood the situation, and you should give him a second chance.”

  I turn my face toward him. “You know, if I thought I was his only shot at female companionship, I might. But I got the feeling he could have just about anyone he wanted.”

  He glances over at me, just for a moment, before shifting his gaze back to the road. “Did you also get the feeling that maybe you were the only one he wanted?”

  My stomach flips. His words make me feel like I’m thirteen again, complete with all the sweaty palms, jittery stomach, and breathless longing.

  I try to tell myself that it’s simply his actor-self at work, that he’s just really good with a line. But while my brain knows that, my heart…my heart wants him to mean it.

  He glances over once more, as though wait
ing for me to reply, then lets out the smallest of sighs when I don’t.

  “All right, Ellie. I’ll give you an out. For now. Where we headed?”

  “Where are they least likely to find us? It’s an island.”

  “Yes, but a big one. With plenty of tourists. Dream big, woman. We’re on Maui. It’s paradise. If you were here for vacation instead of the show, what would you be doing right now?”

  “Honestly? Probably taking a nap.”

  He groans. “I really did pick the wrong girl as my partner in crime. A nap? Don’t make me push you out of this car.”

  “No, I’m serious!” I say with a laugh. “The beds they have us women in…bunk beds, Gage. Like the kind you had at summer camp. And the sheets are like sandpaper, and there’s always someone around. The only escape is the bathroom, and that’s tiny, and there’s no ventilation, and oooh, no, forget a nap. I want a bubble bath. Or a really long shower. Or—”

  I grab the dash as Gage pulls into the left-turn lane and makes an unexpected U-turn.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see. In the meantime, tell me something about yourself.”

  “Oh, God,” I groan. “Don’t—”

  “Fine, I’ll start. I’m from Rhode Island. Providence. My dad’s an engineer, my mom’s a pastry chef for a local restaurant. I’ve got one older brother, named Frank. I played baseball in high school but wasn’t good enough to play in college.”

  I smile gently. “Is that from your Wikipedia article?”

  He gives me a startled glance. “I’m trying to open up here. Evidently I’ve got to do better. Let’s see, something not available on the Internet…” His thumbs tap the steering wheel. “My brother married my ex-girlfriend.”

  My head whips around. “Seriously?”

  It’s a stupid question. I can tell by his expression that what he told me is true. I know that look. It’s the one we all wear when we’re trying too hard to be indifferent—to convince everyone that what we’ve just said is no big deal. To convince ourselves.

  I want to ask a million questions, but instead I reach across the car, resting my palm against his still-wet swim trunks, letting him know that I’m here if he wants to say more.