My Darling Bride(8)

I bury my face in my hands. What in the world. He thinks I’m a prosecco-drinking, name-game maniac!

I flop back on the bed as my head tumbles through our encounter.

I can’t believe I threw myself at him like that. It just . . . happened.

He was a little hostile at first, completely understandable, but then he offered to fight Fake Clint. I give a one-two punch to the air. Cat hater or not, he’s a good one.

Hours later, I awake and watch from the window as the sun sinks below the horizon. Half the sky is still dark, the other half tinted with pink and red. It’s pretty, but I can’t wait to get back home. I don’t want cacti. I want Central Park, my little family, and the bookstore.

I grab clothes for a shower. I don’t have much to choose from but find clean panties, a pair of gray sweats, and an “Arizona Rocks” shirt I picked up yesterday. I stand under the hot water and contemplate my dinner options, either pizza delivery or Chinese. I’ve picked Chinese by the time I get out and dry off.

As I stand in front of the mirror, my eyes snag on the small scars on either side of my rib cage from the surgery. I trace the raised red surfaces, then put my hand over my heart. Luckily, they didn’t have to do open-heart surgery. Going in through my ribs was the best option for the mini-maze surgery, with a shorter recovery time. I sigh, thankful for normal, steady beats.

I part my hair in the center and brush it out. There’s no motel dryer, so I scrunch the strands. When it dries, I’ll have a riot of loose blonde curls spilling to the middle of my back. If I stretch it out, it’ll reach my lower back. Pulling out my makeup bag, I dab foundation on my face and blend it in. Mascara is next, just enough to take away some of the paleness. Shimmery lip gloss coats my lips.

I laugh when I realize I have nowhere to go.

Maybe I’ll go next door and chat with G. I could buy him dinner, considering what I put him through. Ugh. I wish I had nicer clothes with me.

My phone rings as I come out of the bathroom, and dread fills me when I see it’s Missy. I debate answering but end up plopping down on the bed as I pick up. She’s Kian’s PA, and we’ve had some good times, but in the end, she’s his minion.

Her voice is hushed. “Emmy! Thank God!”

Alarm hits. “What’s wrong?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m not saying.”

She rushes through her words. “I’m in the restroom at a gas station just outside of Tucson. Kian’s in the car. He’s tracked your phone, Emmy. He knows where you are.”

“I turned off his tracker.” Two days ago in Vegas when I found it.

I’d been shopping for a dress to wear to Kian’s friend’s wedding. Back in New York, I’d packed one, a black number with cutouts, but I’d forgotten to try it on. On my flight to Vegas, I realized it would show my surgery scars and perhaps rub against them.

I’d left Kian sleeping and went shopping. I was in a boutique in Vegas when I heard him calling my name; then he barged into the dressing room where I was. When I asked how he knew where I was, he admitted he’d put a tracker on my phone.

You were gone for so long that I was worried, Emmy.

I didn’t buy it. It wasn’t just about being concerned for me. He invaded my privacy and kept up with my movements so he could hide what he was doing.

“He reinstalled and hid it under an app,” Missy says.

My teeth grit. “Do you see a motel outside the gas station?”

“Yeah. I think that’s where he’s going. I keep asking him, but he won’t answer. He’s really pissed because you won’t answer the phone.”

“Doesn’t he have the rehearsal dinner tonight?”

“He told Danny he was sick. His best friend is getting married, and he’s skipping it to look for you. He should be giving a toast right now.”

“It’s not my fault he makes dumb decisions.”

She huffs. “If you want to end this, then leave and turn off your phone. I’m sick of your ‘on again, off again’ thing with him.”

“Yeah, you’d love for us to be over. You’d just slip right in and take my place in a heartbeat.” I pause, my voice thickening. “He hurt me, Missy. Beware of him. Please.”

She huffs. “I don’t know why I’d need to know that. He’s my employer.”

No, he’s more than that.

As soon as I arrived in Vegas and met them at the hotel, my hackles rose at the undercurrent of tension I sensed. The way she fidgeted, her eyes darting to him over and over. The way he didn’t look at her. They’d arrived a few days before me, and I smelled something rotten. Sure, Kian and I had a tumultuous relationship and had broken up a few times, but I always trusted him to be faithful when we were together.

Finding a pair of women’s lacy white underwear under his bed had cemented my suspicions.

Then the awful fight that ensued afterward—the final straw.

“I’m throwing my clothes into my bag as we speak. You’re literally giving me seconds.”

“He’s been with me in the car. I couldn’t call you. I texted.”

I was asleep.

“He can’t focus when it comes to you,” she adds, her tone annoyed. “He needs to be getting ready for next season—”