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

I open my designated dresser drawer, but she closes it again. “Wear

what you’re wearing.”

I glance down at the dress and sandals. “I usually wear my pajamas when I meet him.”

“Wear that,” she says again. “Now, give me your phone. I’ll hide it before Evil gets back.”

I laugh at the nickname for Eden, then reach out and give Paisley a spontaneous hug. “Thank you. It feels good to talk to someone about this.”

She hugs me back. “You’re welcome. You can pay me back by at least ensuring I stick around longer than Evil.”

“Done.”

Paisley pulls back and plucks my phone from my hand, then fluffs my hair. “Okay. Go.”

I roll my eyes and do as she instructs. And as I head toward our closet, I let myself acknowledge just how much I’m looking forward to seeing him again.

Almost like I’ve missed him.

Damn it. When did that happen?

Ellie

The caution tape is still blocking our hallway, although someone’s crossed out CAUTION and written COCKROACH CITY in black Sharpie.

Effective. Even knowing it’s a lie to keep the other women away, I find myself walking cautiously down the hall, practically tiptoeing as if to avoid the horror of a disgusting bug crawling over my sandaled foot. I swear I feel a little tickle against my arch, and let out a stifled shriek, rubbing frantically at my feet.

I glance up when I hear someone snicker in the darkness.

Gage is leaning against the doorway, looking every inch the Hollywood heartthrob even in his pajama pants and T-shirt. Two champagne flutes dangle from one hand, a bottle in the other hand.

“You’re such a girl,” he says as I get closer.

In response, I punch him in the arm, but it’s mostly pointless because his biceps is stronger than my fist. “?‘Cockroach City’? Your handiwork?”

“It works,” he says, opening the door for me. “You don’t see anyone else here, do you?”

“No. Not even Brooklyn,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes and preceding him into the closet.

I wait for him to say that he doesn’t want Brooklyn to find him here, but he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he hands me the flutes before tearing off the foil from the bottle.

I hold up the glasses as he pours, then settle back on the love seat while he sets the bottle on the table and plops down beside me.

The silence stretches on for another minute, but it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, Gage seems relaxed. Thoughtful.

I take advantage of him being distracted to study his five o’clock shadow. The stubble there is lighter than his hair. Not quite red, but more mahogany than his hair, which is dark chocolate.

Oh, good Lord, Ellie. I decide to study the bubbles of my champagne glass instead.

He turns his head and looks at me. “So. What was with the hurry to meet?”

“What? Oh,” I say, remembering that I’m supposed to be the one who set up the meeting ahead of schedule, not Paisley.

For a split second I try to think of a lie, but I’ve always been pretty bad at the white lie thing. Once my mom caught me coming in an hour after curfew after letting A. J. Castor get to second base, and when she asked me where I’d been, I told her I wanted more bras—prettier ones. She took me shopping the very next day. In hindsight, that doesn’t exactly win her the mom-of-the-year award, but I certainly appreciated it at the time. So did A.J.

Anyway. Not a good liar.

“Paisley knows about this,” I say, gesturing between us.