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"Why did you stop? When you saw me on the road?"
The question catches me off guard.
Truth is, I don't know why. Haven't let myself think about it too hard. Because thinking leads to feeling, and feeling leads to complications I swore off years ago.
"Get cleaned up," I say instead of answering. "We can talk after."
She nods, gathering her dress and heading down the hall. I watch her go, telling myself this is temporary.
One night. That's all this is.
Just giving shelter to someone who needs it, like I'd help any stranger caught in a storm.
But as I hear the bathroom door close and the shower start running, I can't shake the feeling that I'm lying to myself. That by stopping for a runaway bride on a mountain road, I've set something in motion that I won't be able to control.
Thunder rolls overhead, and I wonder if the storm outside matches the one brewing in my chest.
Whatever this is, whatever she's running from or toward, I need to remember my rules. No complications. No connections.
No falling for broken things I can't fix.
Chapter 3 – Sadie
The world feels surreal, like I'm moving through one of those dreams where everything is slightly off and time moves like honey—thick and slow.
Maybe it's the exhaustion finally catching up with me, or maybe it's the way Vincent's cabin seems to exist in its own pocket of reality, separate from the life I just fled.
I'm still wearing my wedding dress. The one I spent three months designing, visiting boutiques in New York and Boston until I found exactly the right silhouette.
Now it's torn and muddy, the delicate beading catching the firelight. Some of the pearls are missing, probably scattered along the chapel's gravel path like breadcrumbs leading to my great escape.
The symbolism isn't lost on me—this dress that was supposed to represent my perfect future is now as damaged as my plans.
The cabin is nothing like what I'm used to. Everything here feels solid, lived-in, real. Rough-hewn wooden beams cross the ceiling, their dark wood holding decades of stories. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, the flames casting dancing shadows across weathered floorboards that have been worn smooth by years of footsteps.
It's masculine without trying to be, authentic in a way that makes my former life feel plastic in comparison.
The scent of wood smoke mingles with something else—pine, leather, and a hint of coffee. It's nothing like the artificial vanilla candles my mother insists on burning, or the expensive cologne Matthew wears.
Matthew.
The thought of him sends a shiver down my spine.
"You're safe here," Vincent says quietly, his deep voice cutting through my spiral of thoughts.
When I look up, he's watching me with those dark eyes that seem to see too much.
He's removed his jacket, and the flannel shirt he's wearing stretches across broad shoulders that speak of actual physical labor rather than carefully scheduled gym sessions. His hair falls just past his collar in waves that look like they've never seen a styling product.
I realize I'm staring and quickly look away, but not before I catch the slight quirk of his lips beneath that beard. Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I blame it on the fire, though I know better.
"Thank you," I manage, though the words feel inadequate.
How do you properly thank someone for saving you from yourself? For being exactly where you needed them to be at exactly the right moment? For not asking the questions that must be burning in their mind?
He grunts in response and moves toward what I assume is the kitchen area. His movements are fluid, confident in a way that suggests this is his domain. "Hungry?"
I start to say no out of habit—years of watching my portions, of trying to maintain what my mother calls a "feminine figure" while still fitting society's expectations. But my stomach betrays me with an audible growl.
