Runaway Groom (I Do, I Don't 2)

It’s news to me, but not unwelcome. Like most guys, I don’t consider driving a convertible on a tropical island with a beautiful woman a particular hardship.

Adam hands us all a pen and piece of paper. We all write a number from one to a hundred. The woman with the number closest to mine is my driving companion.

“What happens if two of us pick the same number?” Eden asks in a demanding voice.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” I say with a wink as I write on my paper and hand it over my shoulder to Adam. Eden gives me a look as though she can’t decide if I’m joking, followed by a tight smile and shrill laugh. Note to self: send Eden to the breakfast group.

Adam gathers everyone’s scraps of paper, and I finish my champagne as the women watch the host anxiously.

He looks through the papers. Then shuffles through once more, as though double-checking the numbers.

Then he looks up with a smile. “Congratulations, Ellie.”

Her head snaps up. “Really?”

“What number did you choose?” Eden asks me.

“God, Eden. What does it matter?” Cora says.

“What number did you choose?” Brooklyn asks Ellie.

“Fourteen,” Ellie replies.

“Me too,” I say, standing to end the conversation. “Shall we, Ellie?”

Knowing that the camera will catch every moment until we can get in the car, I walk toward her, offering my hand with an easy smile.

She takes it after only the slightest beat of hesitation. “Sure.”

“See you ladies back at the house,” I say to the group.

My eyes lock with Adam’s just for a second, and I give the slightest nod.

He nods back, his expression thoughtful.

We both know I didn’t write the number fourteen on that paper. I didn’t write any numbers at all, just letters. Five of them.

E-l-l-i-e.

Gage

I don’t drive as fast as I want to, not because I’m not dying to see what the red BMW can do, but because I’m acutely aware that these could be my last minutes spent with Ellie.

“What’s your last name?” I ask once we’re on the main road and out of sight of both the van and the cameras.

She pulls a hair elastic from her wrist and winds her long dark hair into a messy knot atop her head to protect it from the wind. “Why?”

“Are you always ornery, or is it just with me?”

“I’m not ornery,” she says indignantly. “I’m just wondering why you need my last name. We’re supposed to remain anonymous.”

“We both know I can find out within two minutes of being back at the villa.”

She looks out at the ocean, then back at me. “Wright. With a W. But don’t go stalking me when the show is over.”

“I’ll try to contain myself.”

She studies me. “Did you write my name on that piece of paper?”