Page 5 of The Wedding Run (The Wedding Letter #1)

Luke

“ D on’t take me to the B&B.” Hands shaking, Libby clacks the seatbelt against the metal lock.

I gently cover her hand and secure the seatbelt, clicking it into place.

Our gazes meet. I shift back to the driver's side.

“The wedding is off."

“Did Derek get cold feet?”

“I think he always had them. Did you talk him into marrying me?”

That sounds like an accusation, so I approach with caution. “No, I… He wants to marry you, Libby.” I tug my cell phone out of my hip pocket. “Let me call him.”

But Libby snatches the phone. “Did you think I was desperate to get married or something? Do I look desperate?”

She looks wild-eyed and about to morph into an orc from The Lord of the Rings .

Her voice has a razor edge, and her wedding dress looks like it’s been dragged through the fire swamp in The Princess Bride .

But I keep that to myself. “Nooo.” I draw out the word in a soothing tone.

“If anything, Libby, I believe Derek desperately needs you. He needs to settle down. You’re good for him. ”

She looks doubtful about that.

“Look,” I say, noticing the time on my dashboard is now seven minutes until the wedding hour. “You guys can work this out. I’ll talk to him.” I place my hand on the gear shift, but she stops me, her hand clutching mine.

Then she jerks back as if I were a hot griddle. “It’s not Derek. It’s me.”

I take a slow breath. “Derek can be difficult, focused on work, but he’s a good guy.”

Another car zips past, its horn blaring. I suspect it because of the ‘Just Wed’ scribblings all over my truck.

“Can you take me somewhere?" she asks. "Anywhere.”

My jaw clenches, and I make a decision. Some might call it rational. Others, not so much. But something about Libby makes me want to help her. “Okay, hang on.”

I glance in the rearview mirror, checking to be sure the highway is clear, and then I gun the engine, turning the wheel hard, making a squealing U-turn.

Like a train barreling down on us, a clattering sound roars against my ears.

She covers her ears. “Is your engine about to explode?”

“You’re safe,” I yell back. But I pull to the side of the road again, and the grinding sound stops. “Be right back.”

I hop out and hustle to the back, rip away the cans Rob tied onto the bumper, and toss them in the truck bed. I should have done it earlier, but I was in a hurry.

When I settle behind the steering wheel, I explain, “Tin cans. The other groomsman decorated my truck.”

She looks at the ‘Congrats’ on the driver’s side window and ‘Honeymoon or Bust’ on the opposite side as if just noticing them.

“We had a limo coming.” She rubs her forehead. “Which I hope Charlie cancels.”

A car passes slowly, and the driver honks to the cadence of Here Comes the Bride .

I wince and start driving again.

She waggles my phone. “Can I make a call?”

“Sure.”

She dials, and I try not to listen. But of course, I can’t help it.

“Elle?” Libby says. “Yeah, yeah. I’m okay. I’m with Luke.”

She glances at me, but I keep my gaze trained on the road.

“It’s not like that,” she continues. “It was Momma’s letter.”

I slam on a mental brake. Oh no. Will everyone, including Derek, think I stole the bride away from the groom?

“I need some time to process,” Libby says. “My iPad has everything… all my lists and contacts. Charlie, make sure you cancel the?—"

But she pauses as whoever is on the other end speaks.

“Oh, okay. Great. Thank you. I love you both! I’ll call you soon.” She clicks off and hands the phone to me. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” I hesitate, not taking the phone. “Don’t you want to call Derek?”

I want to say, ‘ tell him I didn’t do anything to change his bride’s mind .’

But as Libby traces a heart painted on her window, she says, “He knows.”

I have to leave it at that. It’s not really my business what she told Derek. At least he won’t blame me. Or at least I hope not. But with Derek, you never know.

“Stop the truck!” She braces her hands on the dash. “Stop! Now.”

I slow, glancing over at her, but I don’t fully brake. We’re on a two-lane highway with barely any shoulder.

Her body starts to shake and tremble. Aftershock?

She looks pale, like she’s about to hurl. Not good. Please, not in my truck!

I swerve onto a gravel drive that anyone going the speed limit would have missed. Then I bring the truck to a complete stop. “Hey… Uh… you okay?”

She fumbles with the seatbelt, claws at the door handle.

I lean over and yank the handle. The door swings wide.

She launches out of the cab, stumbles about like a sailor on shore leave, dragging her train and skirt and veil.

She bobs one way and tips the other, weaving across the narrow, gravel drive.

Then she plants her feet and bends at the waist.

Here it comes.

Her veil billows out behind her. This is going to be a disaster of gigantic proportions. Like Mount Vesuvius exploding. And I imagine that vomit-smeared veil all over my truck’s interior.

I leap out of the truck and catch her veil before it lifts her into the air. She braces her hands on her knees and heaves a deep breath. Then all goes still and quiet—the calm before the proverbial storm.

I rest a steadying hand along her spine, so she knows she’s not alone, while we wait. And we wait. But nothing happens. After a minute or three, she straightens.

Which puts us in very close proximity. What I refer to as the danger zone.

Everything Derek told me about Libby is true.

She’s beautiful—beautiful in a way that surprises me.

Derek always could reel in women who looked like models.

You know the type: long, flowing blonde hair, Victoria's Secret bodies, airbrushed faces, pouty lips. But Libby is petite, with dark hair and warm brown eyes that notice everything. Where Derek’s other girlfriends always wore layers of cosmetics, Libby looks refreshingly natural—yet equally, if not more, beautiful.

And it startles me. My reaction to her unsettles me.

I release the veil and step away, watching her like she’s Old Faithful about to blow.

“You okay?” I ask again.

“I need a minute.” She stares at the endless gravel drive like it’s her future. I wonder what she sees there. The disintegration of her plans with Derek? The way she imagined their life together?

She finally turns toward me and announces, “I’m okay.”

I nod and wait for her next move.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes as she moves toward the truck's passenger side.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” I open her door.

She climbs into the truck, pulling and tugging at her skirt. I don’t even know where to begin. There’s so much material. Finally, I grab an armful, shove it all inside, and then secure the door.

Once I’m settled behind the steering wheel again, we stare straight ahead at the windshield, through the hearts painted large enough not to block the driver's view. I don’t know what to do or say, so I wait.

When it becomes apparent that we could sit here all night, I ask, “Did you have a destination in mind?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice cracks, and I imagine the waterworks are about to begin.

I can take vomit and even blood. But tears? That I’m not prepared for.

I grip the steering wheel hard, jam the gearshift into place, and the truck jounces along the gravel drive. I search for a wide enough spot to turn around, and we head toward the highway.

The cab becomes increasingly quiet. I consider turning on the radio but decide against it. I might accidentally land on ‘their song,’ whatever that might be. So, I drive. One glance in her direction shows me Libby is staring out the side window at the blur of trees and rocks.

A few minutes later, I turn into the parking lot of Once Upon a Pie. The diner’s marquee has faded to a dull green since it was built in the 1950s. It's changed names and ownership since then. The building looks like a silver streamliner.

“Hungry?” I ask. “It’s Storybrook’s finest.”

Slowly, Libby looks at me, blinking as if waking. Then she grins, her eyes crinkling with hope and sparking something inside me. “How’d you know?”