Runaway Groom

by Lauren Layne

  My temper sparks again, this time with a twist of panic mixed with the anger. The truth is, I haven’t let myself think much about what happens at the end of the show. I know the premise. I know the producers are hoping the finale involves a wedding.

  It’s in my contract that I get to the finale, that I narrow it down to two women and “in good faith” consider marrying one of them.

  Did I ever really think I’d meet someone I wanted to marry? Not really. But looking at Ellie now, I realize that maybe deep down I wanted to. That maybe I wanted what my brother and Layla have—the companionship and the stability and the baby.

  I turn away again. “I don’t know that you get to ask me that, El. You can’t be determined to walk away and then act like you care which woman I end up with.”

  “I can care about you and not want to turn myself into Mrs. Gage Barrett for the sake of television ratings! I can’t do it, Gage. I can’t stick around and be part of a show that—”

  “I didn’t ask you to!” I say, slamming a palm against the wet bar so hard that the glasses rattle. I turn toward her once more. “I asked you to stay overnight with me in a hotel room. One night, because I wanted sex. I didn’t ask you to get fucking married. So whether or not I get married or who I marry at the end of this bullshit has nothing to do with you. We good?”

  Yeah. Okay. You go ahead and say it. I’m a dick, and this is not my finest moment.

  But damn her for making me feel shit I haven’t felt in forever. There’s a reason I haven’t let anyone get close, haven’t let myself enjoy more than a quick fuck. This is why.

  Because it sucks when they don’t feel the same way back.

  Ellie opens her mouth, and though I’d bet anything that she wants to say something tart and feisty, she inhales choppily. Her chin wobbles a split second before her hazel eyes fill with unshed tears.

  Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

  I take two steps toward her and place my hands on either side of her face. “Don’t. Ellie. Please don’t.”

  If I was a decent guy, I’d simply hold her—offer a reassuring hug and apologies.

  I’m not a decent guy, because all I can think is that I want her—and that this is my last shot.

  I lower my head and kiss her.

  Ellie

  I’m expecting Gage’s kiss to be angry, and it is, a little bit. His hands when they pull me to him are just the slightest bit rough, his kiss more possessive than gentle.

  But there’s something else mixed in with the anger, something so poignant and demanding that it nearly brings me to my knees.

  What is with me? A second ago I was on the verge of crying. The tears disappeared the second his lips touched mine, but they’ve been replaced by something even more disconcerting: fear.

  Fear that it’s more than desire I’m starting to feel for this man. A man who’s everything that scares the crap out of me. I want stability and calm and routine, and he’s not exactly Mr. White Picket Fence.

  He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his thumbs drifting across my cheeks with a tenderness that belies the harshness of his words just moments ago.

  I didn’t ask you to get fucking married.

  Right. He didn’t. And I’ve made it more than clear that I want no part of Jilted or the wedding at the end.

  It’s just that the thought of one of the other women touching him like this, the image of him holding Brooklyn or Cora the way he’s holding me…well, it hurts. And not just with the sting of jealousy, although there’s plenty of that. It hurts so much deeper than that, in a place inside me that I haven’t let anyone into in, well…ever?

  I make a plea to my heart: Let it be sex. Please just let it be sex.

  Determined to make it so, I run my hands up over his arms, my nails scraping at his broad shoulders, before tangling my fingers in his hair and pulling his mouth even closer to mine.

  Gage’s hands glide over my back, then find the knot of the bathrobe’s belt, untying it and sliding his hands inside to touch me. His palms are cool against my heated skin, making me gasp as he strokes my waist, my rib cage.

  He pulls back, his eyes locking on mine as his thumbs brush over my nipples, a rough, torturous tease. His gaze drops to his hands on my breasts. He licks his lips as he touches me, and the simple gesture makes me moan even before he gently pinches with just enough pressure to make me arch into him.

  Gage bends me back gently, a hand against my back, his lips wrapping around the tip of my breast, his tongue still cool from the champagne, his teeth just the slightest bit punishing from our fight.

  Needing to touch him, I ease his boxers over his hips, my fingers wrapping around his thick erection. Gage groans against my chest, his breath hot against my nipple before he pulls it into his mouth once more.

  As good as he feels in my hand, as skilled as his mouth is, I bite my lip in frustration, somehow wanting more. I’m somehow too aware that I’ve been thoroughly, easily seduced by Gage Barrett, one of dozens. He’s in control, and we both know it.

  Screw that.

  I release him and wriggle away, ignoring his growl of frustration.

  Holding his gaze, I reach up to my shoulders, pushing the edge of the robe slowly until the terry cloth drops to my feet.

  His eyes flare with heat as he drags his gaze over my naked body, but when he takes a step forward, I hold up a finger. Wait.

  Gage narrows his eyes, then widens them as I trail my fingers idly across my chest, my pinky finger grazing my nipple before my hand slides lower, looping lazy lines over my stomach, moving ever downward until my fingers reach moisture.

  “Ellie,” he says on a rasp. “Touch yourself for me.”

  I lift my eyebrows. “Now why would I do that when I have you here?”

  He starts to step forward, but I hold my finger up once more. Not yet.

  Instead, it’s me who steps forward. Holding his gaze the entire time, I sink slowly to my knees, pulling his boxers the rest of the way down as I do so.

  “Goddamn, Ellie,” he says on a pant as I maneuver his feet from the boxers and toss the underwear aside.

  I wrap my hand around the base of him and, as I lift my gaze to his once more, my mouth brushes the tip of him, tongue flicking against the moisture there, waiting—waiting until he needs me, wants me, the way I want him.

  Gage reaches down, his hands pulling my hair over one shoulder, winding it around his fist. His hips tilt forward. Please.

  I give him what he wants—what we both want—opening my mouth and taking him inside.

  I’m not sure which one of us groans. Both of us, perhaps. I love him with my mouth, relishing every thrust of his hips, every profane word that spills from his lips.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, his head tilting back.

  He reaches down and hauls me to my feet, his mouth opening hotly over my neck as he walks me backward to the bed.

  I expect to find myself flat on my back on the mattress, but instead he spins me around, pushing gently until my palms rest on the mattress, my back to him.

  He smooths a hand over my spine, then over my butt before giving it a light smack. “Stay.”

  A second later I hear the rip of a condom wrapper, and then he’s back with me.

  I moan and arch as I feel him brush against me, but instead of thrusting inside like I need, his hand slides from my waist to my belly, holding us both still.

  “You wet enough for this?” he asks gruffly.

  “Yes!” I try to arch back to prove it to him, but he holds me still.

  “You’re sure? Sucking me off got you wet?”

  I whimper.

  He presses his lips to my ear. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  He slowly drags his finger along my slit and I cry out.

  “God, Ellie,” he gasps as he slicks a finger inside me. “You’re so perfect. So perfect for me.”

  He adds a second finger, and my hips start to move shamelessly against his hand. “More,” I demand. “Give me
more.”

  He does. His cock replaces his fingers, and he gives me every last inch in a smooth, unapologetic thrust.

  “Yes,” I gasp, arching my back as he pounds into me.

  Gage grips my waist, holding me still for every thrust as he alternates between slow and torturous and fast and dirty.

  When I can’t take any more, desperate for my release, I turn and meet his eyes over my shoulder. Please, now.

  He rubs two fingers over my clit, circling in rhythm with his thrusts, and I lose it. There are orgasms and then there are orgasms, and this is one for the record books.

  For him too, judging from the fierceness of his thrusts. I hear his shout, feel his loss of control down to the neediest part of my soul.

  When it’s over, he rests his forehead briefly on my back; his lips brush tenderly over my spine and linger there, but lightly, almost as though he doesn’t want me to know that he’s doing it. As though he’s afraid of what it might betray.

  I squeeze my eyes shut as he pulls out, because I’m unable to look at him. Gage isn’t the only one who’s scared about what he might betray.

  I collapse onto the bed as he disappears into the bathroom.

  If I had the energy, I’d crawl under the covers, but I feel boneless and give in to the urge to just lie there.

  I hear the flush of the toilet, then jump a little at the sound of his voice on the phone.

  “Eight o’clock works great,” he says quietly. “The most private table you have, please…Yes, thank you…I appreciate it.”

  He hangs up and walks toward the bed. He pulls back the covers that we still haven’t peeled back despite having had sex twice. I squeak as he scoops me up and then deposits me on the soft sheet.

  Then he taps the back of his fingers against my waist. “Move over.”

  I do as he says, shifting toward the center of the bed so he can slide in beside me.

  “What are we doing?”

  “Sleeping,” he says, eyes already closed, as he settles onto his back.

  “But who were you just talking to?”

  “Hotel restaurant. Reservation is for two hours from now, so if you want to get in your damn nap before dinner, I suggest you shut up and sleep.”

  I stare at him until he relents and opens his eyes. “What?”

  “We’re staying? For dinner?”

  “Is that okay?” He reaches out and plays with the ends of my hair, the gesture so absentminded and intimate that I almost feel my eyes water, although with a different reason than before.

  “Yeah,” I whisper as I lower myself beside him, my cheek on his shoulder. “That’s okay.”

  Gage turns his head, pressing his lips to my hair. “I’ll get you back to the villa tomorrow. Then first flight home. But I want tonight first. All of tonight.”

  My heart squeezes in gladness—and something far more lasting and dangerous.

  “Okay?” he asks when I don’t respond.

  I nod, too overcome with emotion to look at him or speak.

  I wait until I hear his breathing even out, wait until I know he’s asleep.

  And then I let the tears come.

  Gage

  “This is heavenly,” Ellie sighs as she sits back in her chair and adjusts the blanket around her shoulders that the hotel staff brought out once the night breeze picked up.

  “You’re sure you’re not cold?”

  She smiles and sips her wine. “No. I’m happy.”

  I start to argue that that might be the wine, but since I’m happy too, for reasons that have nothing to do with the sauvignon blanc we’ve been enjoying with dinner, I don’t question her statement.

  I do, however, take advantage of the opening to get to know her better. Actually, scratch that—I know Ellie. And she knows me. Which is ridiculous, given the short amount of time we’ve been a part of each other’s life, but I guess it’s like that sometimes. Some people just get each other.

  But it doesn’t mean I don’t want more. To understand why she won’t give us a chance.

  “Question,” I say, swirling my wine and keeping my gaze on hers.

  “You’ve already asked, like, a million.”

  “Yes, and now I know your birthday and your favorite movie, and how you like your coffee, but now I want to get at the good stuff.”

  She tenses slightly, a little bit wary. Good. Maybe she should be.

  “What do you want most?” I ask.

  She blinks. “Um, that’s a little vague. You mean like in life? Right now? For Christmas?”

  I smile. “You strike me as the type of woman who has always had goals, always had a plan. To what end?”

  “Ah,” she says, not pretending to misunderstand me. She sets her glass aside. “All right, then.” Ellie takes a deep breath and looks out at the water, illuminated by the moon. She’s silent for so long that I think she’s not going to respond.

  At last she does. “Stability. I want stability. A life I can count on, at least as much as life allows itself to be reliable.”

  It’s not the answer I’m expecting, and she sees it on my face when she glances my way. “You’re surprised.”

  I lift a shoulder. “A little. Entrepreneurs are known more for risk-taking than stability. Why not buckle down with a nine-to-five and a 401(k)?”

  “Well,” she says, leaning forward and crossing her hands on the table, “that’s what everyone assumes. Heck, it’s what I assumed. And I tried it. But you know what happens when you rely on someone else for your savings account and your healthcare and the paycheck that feeds you?”

  I understand instantly. “They can take it away.”

  She nods. “Bingo. Trust me, when I graduated from college, I took all the advice. I took the marketing job with the big company instead of the scrappy start-up. I maxed out my 401(k). I networked my ass off to figure out how to move up the ladder. I was the superstar on my team and everyone knew it.

  “But…” Ellie takes a sip of water. “In the end, it doesn’t matter how good you are if it’s someone else’s company. My firm merged with another one. They only needed one marketing group, and the other company was bigger, so…” She spreads her hands. “My whole team got the axe. I walked away with a fat severance and a hell of a life lesson.”

  “But working for yourself is not without risks.”

  “No, definitely not,” she agrees. “At least I’m calling the shots, though. If I succeed, it’s on me. If I fail, that’s on me too. Well, me and Marjorie. I guess…I don’t know, I guess it’s about the control, you know? To be totally in charge of my own life.”

  I see the server approaching with dessert menus, but I catch his eye and shake my head. Not yet.

  “Sounds a little intense for someone in her twenties. Isn’t this supposed to be your chance to goof around? You can be responsible later.”

  Ellie’s smile is sad. “Spoken like someone who’s probably taken stability for granted.”

  She doesn’t say it as an attack, and I don’t take it as such.

  “What was your upbringing like?” she asks, glancing at me.

  I drum my fingers on the table. “Probably about like you’re expecting. Somewhere between middle-class and upper middle-class. I don’t really know the distinction there, but growing up was…comfortable. I didn’t get everything I wanted for Christmas, but I got a lot of it. Food was always on the table, and so on.”

  She nods.

  I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.

  “You want the stability you didn’t get growing up. The stability your mom didn’t offer you. Or your dad, when he bailed.”

  She taps her nose with a sad smile. “Nailed it. It’s a cliché, I know. The girl who never knew where her next meal or her mom’s next job was coming from grows up into a boring, cautious adult. The whole slew of ex-boyfriends bailing on me whenever the next best thing came up didn’t help either.”

  Then she grins and spreads her hands wide. “Gage Barrett, meet Ellie Wright’s bagg
age. I don’t travel light.”

  I don’t smile back, because I’m starting to get a very stark picture of why she refuses to consider me as a part of her future. I may have a shit-ton of money, but that’s not the kind of stability Ellie’s talking about. She wants someone to count on, someone who will be there.

  A full-time actor who’s away on set isn’t the man for the job. We both know it.

  “What about you?” she asks, her smile dimming a bit. “What’s your heart’s grand desire?”

  I feel a quick stab of desire to be honest—to be brave, as she just was, and lay out that part of myself I buried deep after Layla left me.

  But the desire to play it safe is just as strong. Stronger, apparently, because when I open my mouth, it’s not the truth that spills out.

  Or rather it is, but not the whole truth—not the truth that matters the most.

  “I want to be a silver screen legend,” I say with a wink. “I want to be remembered along with Humphrey Bogart and John Wayne. I want my name to be uttered in the same breath as those of Harrison Ford and Clint Eastwood and Paul Newman.”

  “Ah yes, the almighty Oscar hunt,” she says, resting her chin on her hands.

  “Not so much,” I correct. “I wouldn’t mind, and I sure as hell intend to have one of those on my mantel someday. But what I’m after is more than a statuette or the label of Best Actor next to my name. It’s more. It’s…”

  I break off, not really sure how to explain, and too embarrassed to admit that nobody’s ever asked me this before.

  “It’s a feeling,” she completes for me. She’s smiling a little, but it’s not mocking. “You want people to feel something when they hear your name. Or more specifically to remember how they felt when they watched you in a particular movie.”

  My smile slips, a little unnerved at how much she gets it.

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  This time I don’t catch the server’s eye in time to shoo him away, and he approaches with the dessert menus, although other than telling us the pineapple upside-down cake with lime crème anglaise is their most popular dessert and is “not to be missed,” he doesn’t linger.