Page 26 of Runaway Bride’s Husband

“Ryan,” I muttered, my head shaking as I turned the picture once more and looked back down at it. “That’s not my grandma.”

My grandfather had hidden this cottage and his collection from our entire family for decades, but now, I was starting to wonder if that was the only secret he’d been hiding. Because it was definitely him in the picture, but I’d absolutely never seen that woman before in my life.

CHAPTER 11

RYAN

Ifelt like I’d been dropped into a murder mystery, but honestly, it’d made this situation a whole lot more interesting. Maggie and I had spent hours last night up in that attic, trying to solve the mystery of the wrong bride.

She swore up and down that it wasn’t just a younger version of her grandmother, but that the groom definitely had been her grandfather. It seemed like old Mr. Pembroke had lived quite a life that no one seemed to know anything about.

At least, not to Maggie’s knowledge. I’d pointed out that if she’d been on speaking terms with her family, she could’ve just called and asked, but nope. That hadn’t worked either.

It was morning now, but I hadn’t slept a wink. Instead, I sat on the front porch with a cup of coffee while a random local man and his teenage son cut apart the tree blocking the gate.

They’d told us that the storm had been bad enough that half the town had lost power and now they were all helping to clear the debris that had been left behind. It was pretty cool. My neighbors in New York sure as hell were never up early, checking on everyone who lived around them to help repair damage.

While I watched them work, already having determined that I would just be in the way if I tried to help, Maggie was in the sitting room, reading the letters I’d found in the attic last night. She hadn’t slept either, curling up on the couch with those letters as soon as we’d come back down to eat and not moving since.

When the chainsaw finally stopped, I looked up again to see both the man and his son dragging the last section of the tree clear. The gate was finally open, which meant I was free.

Smiling as I drained the last sip of my coffee, I went to shake their hands and say thank you. Then I headed back inside. Maggie was still curled in one corner of the sofa, surrounded by old letters that she still didn’t seem to have made any sense of.

“The tree is gone,” I said as I walked in. “We can leave now.”

Unsurprisingly, she shook her head, not even looking up as she turned to the next page of the letter she’d been reading. “Okay, so my grandpa was definitely married before he married my grandmother.”

“Big deal,” I said, striding past her to grab my damp jacket from the back of the chair. “I know divorce wasn’t as much of a regular thing back then, but it still happened.”

She finally looked up, her brow furrowed. “No, Ryan. I think there’s more to it than that. There’s something else to this.”

“Maybe she died.”

“Then why didn’t I know about her?” she asked. “Why would he keep it a secret that he was a widower before he met my gran?”

“I don’t know, Maggie.” I swiped a hand across my face. “You can figure it out from New York. Let’s go.”

She scoffed. “I’m still not going anywhere. Neither the storm nor these letters changed that.”

I sighed. “Look, I’m not going to kidnap you, but I’m not going to grovel again either.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Hanging my jacket over my arm, I checked that my car keys were in my pocket this time and I strode toward the door. “I’m going to be in town another day just in case you change your mind, but after that, I’m gone.”

“Cool, but I’m not going to change my mind, Ryan.”

“Then I won’t be seeing you soon,” I said, pausing for another moment in the doorway. “Good luck, Maggie. I mean it.”

I waited for her to nod before I left with absolutely no idea why I’d said I’d hang around town in the first place. Maggie was channeling all her energy into those old pictures and letters. She wouldn’t come looking for me.

And as interesting as I found the situation, it was pretty clear that she was distracting herself from her own life by trying to figure out her grandfather’s past. Until she managed to piece it together, it was even less likely that she’d leave Massachusetts, which meant that my work here was well and truly done.

I’d given it my best shot and I’d failed. By all rights, I should’ve been headed back to New York right now, but instead, I stuck to my promise and rolled through the streets of Deerfield searching for a hotel with Wi-Fi and good cell reception.

Eventually, after a few false starts, I found a little boutique hotel in the center of town and got a room. The place was quaint as hell, decorated like it hadn’t seen a designer since the 1920s and smelling like sweet cookies and lemonade, and I decided there were worse places to sleep.

I trudged up the staircase to my room, sliding my phone out of my back pocket to call Marcus even as I dropped my bag on the floor. After shutting the door behind me, I listened to the phone ring and ring, and I looked around, taking in the queen-sized bed taking up most of the floor space in the room and the antique dresser.