Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

It takes every bit of self-control in my body not to run after her, not to throw myself at her feet.

But there’s something I have to do first.

I turn to Yvonne, and she takes a step back from the rage on my face. “You said you have our wedding invitation, darling?” I ask. “May I see it?”

Apparently she’s too busy reeling from the scene that just went down to think clearly, because she slowly pulls it out of her purse and hands it to me, her gaze trailing after Jenny.

“You slept with Jenny Dawson?”

I ignore her. Knowing Yvonne, she’s probably rethinking her strategy. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if she still tried to coax me down the aisle, then encouraged me to keep Jenny as my mistress just so she could benefit from the notoriety.

Too damn bad.

I take the invitation, which is heavy as shit. Real gold indeed.

“Hey,” I say, turning to a thirtysomething couple out for what was probably a nice date night before all the drama started.

They both turn their phones on me, wide-eyed.

“You’re getting this on video, right?” I ask, gesturing at their phones, trying to hide my disgust.

The man doesn’t move, but the woman manages to nod.

“Great.” I hold up the invitation in front of the lens for a few moments, making sure that there’ll be plenty of time to read the names. Then, without preamble, I proceed to tear the invitation into six pieces before letting them flutter to the ground.

I look directly into the lens. “I haven’t been engaged to that woman in more than two months. And she was cheating on me for more than a year before that.”

I hear Yvonne gasp in outrage, and I lift my eyes to meet those of the woman holding the phone. “Do me a solid and put that on YouTube, would you?”

It won’t do Jenny any good, but I have to do something. I have to try.

Jenny.

I walk out of the restaurant, not bothering to glance back at a still sputtering Yvonne. I burst onto the sidewalk, looking in every direction and not seeing her.

I’m sprinting by the time I get to the truck—except the truck’s not there.

I lift my hand to my face as I remember she offered to keep my bulky truck keys in her purse while we were at dinner.

Fuck.

I pull out my cellphone.

She’s long gone in my truck, well on her way home by now, but Finn or Vaughn can give me a ride. I can catch up with her back at the house, and…

My hand drops to my side before I make the call.

And what?

I can catch up with her at home, maybe, assuming she doesn’t grab the cotton ball and hit the road. Which I wouldn’t blame her for doing, even though the thought of it leaves me feeling oddly hollow.

But even if I do make it home before she’s gone, what the hell am I going to do?

Ask her to stay? She’s Jenny fucking Dawson. She’s a movie star, a Grammy winner, an international sensation, and she’s only twenty-two. Her star is blindingly bright, and she’s just barely getting started.

You could go with her, a little voice nags.

Except I can’t.