Three Reckless Words: A Grumpy Sunshine Romance (The Rory Brothers Book 3)
Three Reckless Words: Chapter 1

When I was little, I was always told my wedding would be the best day of my life.

In my humble opinion, that’s a lot of hype for one day where everything must go right, and any error could spell disaster.

What if the groom gets hammered the night before in one last blowout of bachelor glory and can’t stand up the next day?

What if a bridesmaid twists her ankle?

God, what if there’s rain?

Or, what if the blushing bride hits her breaking point, gets cold feet, and goes flying from the venue like a fox on the run?

Yeah. That last catastrophe speaks to me.

That’s why I’m ripping down the highway in a car with streamers cascading from the back and JUST MARRIED soaped on the windows in white letters so thick I can barely see out the back windshield.

That’s why I’m trapped in shoes that pinch my feet and a corset that crushes my ribs.

That’s why I’m still wearing this prison dress.

Welcome to my life.

It sucks.

My hands hurt from clenching the steering wheel for dear life, and the A/C fights a losing battle against the sweat dripping down my face in the July heat. If I’m not careful, I’ll blow the thing out on its max setting if I don’t die from heat exhaustion first.

At this point, the only thing I’m craving is freedom from this godforsaken dress.

I would sell my soul to get out of this thing.

It’s tight, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s a savage reminder of the life I’ve just blown to pieces.

Also, the man I abandoned, basically at the altar.

Basically.

Oh, God.

I mean, it wasn’t technically at the altar in front of a big crowd with their mouths hanging open. I’m not that borked in the head.

I never made it down the aisle. I didn’t stop and stare at my fiancé like a deer trapped in the headlights. No one was knocked down in my great escape.

Small blessings.

Still, too bad I made it to the part where I was zipped up in this hell-dress and there was no chance of persuading anyone to take it off again before I scrammed.

Especially when every passing face I saw before I ditched was twisted in a What the hell do you think you’re doing, little missy? kind of way.

I wonder what Holden would—

Nope. Don’t think about him.

He’s probably livid. I just humiliated him in front of his entire social circle, but I doubt he’s wounded.

My fiancé—ex-fiancé?—cares just as much about me as I care about him.

You do the math.

It’s not a big number, barely in the low double digits on a scale of meh to soulmates.

I turn off the highway, taking a little road skirting a forest. Then I’m forced to slow down for a series of bends that make me glad this Chevy has decent suspension.

Otherwise, I’d probably be careening over the hill to my fiery doom, making this even more of a bloody red-letter day.

I don’t even get a chance to appreciate what being a race car driver feels like. This dress squeezes me with the force of every turn until I’m sure I’m about to crack a rib.

Then I see it.

The sign for the cabin, black with silver letters that spell out Solitude.

“Thank God,” I mutter.

The wood front with soaring windows looks new and shiny and modern, just like the pictures on their website. When I turn, the ample glass reflects my headlights back at me.

That’s glamping for you, I guess. All the bells and whistles of a pretty modern home with just enough trees around to let rich people think they’re communing with nature or whatever.

Right now, I don’t give a crap, just as long as the place has a cozy bed and a shower.

Oh, and scissors. I’ll use the jaws of life to pry this dress off if I have to.

I might also hunt down whoever decided to make wedding dresses a team effort.

They’re the only kind of dress you wear that’s not self-sufficient. They’re not supposed to be.

They invite icky crowds to help you put them on, and then they expect your long-suffering husband to fiddle with buttons or awkward zips or laces to eventually peel the sweaty, smelly thing off.

It’s so not hot. Not sexy.

And it’s inconvenient as hell when you’re alone.

The tires crunch as I pull up outside the cabin and switch off the engine.

Blissful silence falls over everything.

It’s been a long-ass drive from Springfield, but I’m here.

Finally.

Just half an hour or so outside Kansas City. Saved by the first place I found beyond the city limits that had a vacancy on short notice.

My snort sounds slightly snotty as I struggle out of the car, my phone in one hand and my enormous getaway bag that was resting on the passenger seat in the other. I swiped the cutting cake too and threw it in the back.

Smart move. If it’s too late for any decent food, at least I can eat my feelings in sugar.

The place is even nicer up close with its black walls with wooden accents hugging those ginormous windows.

Makes sense it would look like a mini palace, considering how much it cost for three days. I’ve never stayed at a luxury rental solo before.

The front looks inviting enough, despite the modern look. Decent porch, cute little fence, solar lights, and I think there’s a garden out back.

Tomorrow, I’ll investigate, after I’ve put a bandage on my life.

I pull up the email with the code and totter awkwardly to the front door.

Whoever said corsets were a must was lying through their teeth. I’m about three seconds away from passing out.

They’ll replace me in a day or two and the coroner will have to list ‘wedding dress’ as my cause of death.

Is that better than ‘Holden’ himself?

Ugh, won’t that be lovely?

As I make my slow, painful way to the front door, I spot tall white boxes through the windows that give me a glimpse of the gardens behind the cabin.

I can feel my eyes light up.

Boxes for bees?

I stop and stare for a solid minute, grateful there’s no one around to wonder about the weirdo chick in the wedding dress getting her eyes stuck to the ether.

But bees.

Here, of all freaking places, there are bees.

For the first time today, I crack a smile. Not a small one either, but one of those messy heartfelt crazy grins that makes my lungs hitch with joy.

So, yeah. Tomorrow I’ll definitely check out the garden, first thing. Or maybe if there’s still enough sunlight when I extract myself from the evil dress, I’ll—

My heel snaps and my ankle twists sideways.

My smile breaks like falling glass.

I practically face-plant on the path.

Holy hell, today is so not my day.

In fact, the bees are the only thing stopping today from becoming the worst day in history—and yes, that’s a big fat exaggeration and Mom would tell me I’m being dramatic, but bite me.

Today has sucked baboon ass.

I can be a little dramatic. I deserve it.

So I climb the wooden steps, swearing my way to the front door and punching in the code on the little concealed number panel, praying it’ll work.

I need this to work.

If it doesn’t, I’m probably just going to curl up on the porch in a lump of misery.

Then the door clicks and flashes a green light.

There’s a brief second where I can’t believe my luck before I’m scampering inside and flicking on the lights.

It’s spacious and cute with a large open-plan kitchen. The interior matches the outside, shiny and fancy and new.

But I’m not here for the luxury gas stove or the pretty stone marble island or the leather sofas that could eat me alive.

I’m here for one thing and one thing only.

Scissors. Or a knife.

Though, given my track record with sharp objects and a sense of my own mortality, scissors are a far better option today.

I don’t want to slice open an artery and turn myself into a crime scene. I just want to get this damn dress off.

Four drawers later and a lot of banging around, I replace exactly what I need. Meat scissors.

Amazingly sharp and never used by the look of them.

With my phone running low on power, I leave it on the counter, ignoring the five hundred messages and panicked calls that bombarded me all the way here. Then I drag my bag into the luxe bathroom.

I try to avoid my own reflection as I slide the scissors down my bodice and snip away.

The noise feels cathartic, in a way, like shedding an unwanted skin.

Chop, chop, chop.

I keep going, methodically slicing through lace and silk, shredding the torture instrument wound around my chest like a snake.

Finally, it’s off, piling in ribbons of white fabric by my feet.

Now I’m just standing in the fancy lingerie my mom bought for my wedding night—which is weird, by the way—and I’m only t-minus three seconds from crying. It has absolutely nothing to do with how stupid and useless I think garter belts are.

Sighing, I rip the lingerie away and twist the shower on. Steamy water blasts out instantly, filling the room with a soothing heat.

Just in time.

My chest heaves as I step under the spray, and for the first time, I let my feelings bleed.

Ugly sobbing.

Honking.

Blubbering like a baby.

Look, it’s not that I’m sad about trashing my sham of an engagement.

The whole thing was a joke from the beginning, and I’m glad to be rid of it. Plus, my ring finger feels lighter without that hulking diamond on it. Win.

It’s not even the way I shamed myself forever in front of everyone I know. If I ever live this down, I’ll know for sure there’s a benevolent God.

No, the thing that’s demolishing my heart right now is the fact that I’ve just lost my life.

The whole package.

If I’d just had the courage to say no, to walk away sooner, I wouldn’t be here, ugly crying in a strange place that’s beyond my budget.

I wouldn’t be a runaway with no one left to turn to.

I wouldn’t be alone.

Sighing roughly, I close my eyes and tip my face up to the hot spray, pinching my lips together. At least the water feels good, washing away the sweat and panic, obscuring so many bad memories with its sensory overload.

One itty-bitty step toward un-fucking my life, maybe.

Not that I’m about to erase this mess with one nice shower.

Eventually, I know I’ll have to face the music, but that’s a tomorrow problem.

Tonight, I just want to forget.

To feel like a human being again, and not a sweaty heartbroken slob with a corset in ruins.

I take my sweet time in the shower. There’s this high-end body wash that smells like fresh vanilla and citrus, courtesy of the host.

I still use the shampoo and conditioner I brought. I’ve got special stuff to handle the curls, because no matter how fancy the products are here, they won’t know how to tame my hair.

Let’s be honest, I barely know what my hair needs. It’s a constant trial and error, because the second one product gives me smooth, sleek curls, my hair decides it’s ready to rewrite the rules.

And God, this morning, Mom insisted on doing my hair for me.

I think it was meant to be some sweet mother-daughter bonding thing on the worst day of my life. All she did was make my hair frizzy and stick a veil over it like that would solve all my problems.

This time, it’s not raw grief that makes my chest heave like a wolverine chewing through my vital organs.

It’s anger.

It’s knowing this entire crapfest could’ve been avoided if my family hadn’t believed I’d be better off with Holden Corban, the golden boy. The man who only wanted me so I could be a trophy wife accessory on his arm.

He didn’t court me.

He wore me like one of his gaudy gold watches.

I don’t hate Holden for being what he is, but that’s not to say I like him.

I don’t think he likes me, either.

He pretended to care just enough because it’s what everyone around him expects from an arranged marriage. Also, the optics were great for his career.

I’m sure they’re looking pretty heinous right now.

I only step out of the shower once my fingers resemble red, wrinkled sausages and start toweling myself down, calmly and ritualistically.

Dry off, rub product through my hair, wrap it up, get dressed.

My clothes smell like me. They look like me, too.

Big white tee with a picture of Seattle on the front. Never been, but who cares when you’re buying discount t-shirts to sleep in? Add a pair of pajama shorts, and I feel like a new woman.

Even though I’m planning to sleep like the dead, I spray on thick perfume, hoping to keep the sensory distraction going.

My perfume, this time.

Not Mom’s designer stuff or the perfume Auntie Sarah ponied up for my wedding day so I could smell sophisticated.

I almost died choking.

No, this smells like me, and it helps me relax.

I’ve got this place to myself for three whole days. I’m determined to spend every second decompressing from life.

I’m on the verge of another broken smile when my ears start ringing.

A noise outside?

So much for relaxing.

My heart starts thudding.

What was that, anyway?

It sounded like a bang, a little like someone knocking something heavy over.

I’m suddenly horribly aware that I’m in the middle of nowhere. Alone and isolated with my misery.

Of course, I left my phone on the counter like a magnificent idiot.

It’s probably dead from losing power, too. I didn’t stop to dig out my charger and plug it in.

Great work, Winnie. Safety 101 and you fail.

I chew my lip, mulling over my options. With my rancid luck, it’ll be a rabid racoon, which I can fight off and then enjoy a blistering round of painful shots.

But at least I can fight it off.

What if it’s a prowler?

I swear I can feel the blood draining from my face.

Oh, boy. Here we go.

Between knife-wielding bandits and wild animals foaming at the mouth, I’ll take the furry doom for sure. If it’s human and he means to do me harm, I doubt I’ll get a crack at a miserable ER visit.

Stop it. Pull yourself together.

You’re not this scared of a stupid racoon pawing around.

I am, in fact, very afraid of a stupid plague racoon, but hiding in the bathroom won’t solve anything. If I could just call animal control…

My phone is on the counter. Hopefully it still has a little battery life.

I just need to creep out and get it.

Balling up my spare towel like a club, I pad to the door and turn the handle slowly, carefully opening it.

Nothing out there but darkness and the LED wall light in the hall.

Okay. This is fine.

If it’s a dumb racoon, I have my weapon of choice—well, not choice, but I’ve got a weapon. If it’s an intruder—

I guess I’ve still got a weapon.

“Hello?” I call loudly, stepping into the hall.

It’s past sunset now with the moonlight dappling in through the windows, bathing the living room in this ghostly light.

There’s no movement. Nothing to suggest there’s anything nefarious waiting for me out there.

Heart in my throat, I take a few more steps, waiting for the inevitable axe murderer to leap out of nowhere and finish me off in one brutal swing.

But when Mr. Murdery doesn’t materialize, I hurry to the kitchen counter and snatch my phone. It’s still alive, thank God.

Barely. Looks like one of those annoying updates just ran, leaving it to boot up extra slow.

The screen lights up my face.

Sweet Jesus.

Come on, come on.

Why today?

Another noise makes me jump, something rattling.

“Hello?” I yell again, brandishing my towel club. “Who’s there? Anyone? If you’re a racoon, I’m all out of snacks!”

Silence.

Could it be some appliance thunking as it kicks on? The air-conditioning or plumbing?

Maybe I imagined the noise and I’m just letting paranoia cross my wires. Maybe—

No, I hear it now.

Laughter.

Blaring like a loud movie, followed by an explosion that bursts color over my eyelids.

Screaming, I leap back until my hip bangs the island, stuffing the towel in my mouth to stay quiet.

Yep.

Someone’s here to blow me up.

I thought axes and knives were bad enough, but no, it’s some intruder freak armed with explosives.

Did Holden send them? Some kinda weird assassins hellbent on wiping me out because I had the audacity to flee from his clutches right before his coronation?

No, that can’t be right.

He doesn’t even know I’m here.

Despite myself, I see faces splattered with blood and creepy crooked smiles painted on oversized masks. Like every good horror movie, maybe they’re brandishing a gun or two.

I’m so ready for a total nightmare.

What I’m not expecting is two young boys to push the sliding back door open and come running inside, their hair mussed and eyes bewildered.

I finally remember to stop screaming.

A teenage girl follows them, stopping with her hands on her hips when she sees me.

Unlike the boys, who freeze up and trade worried glances, she seems irritated and rolls her heavily outlined eyes.

“Shit, Colt,” she says. “I thought you said this place was free for the weekend?”

I blink, sizing them up slowly.

The boys are lanky like they’ve just hit their early teenage growth spurt, all thin arms they haven’t grown into yet. The girl, she’s aiming for a more mature look with the heavy makeup, but she can’t quite pull it off.

If I had to guess, they might be thirteen or fourteen.

“That just fucking figures,” one of the boys says. Colt, I presume. He looks like a sweet kid, and despite the language, his eyes are round and worried behind his black framed glasses as he looks at me. “Um… I’m really sorry, ma’am. We must—this is the wrong place. Obviously. There’s another cabin down the road, and I guess we just got confused? Right, Bree?”

He shoots the girl a desperate look.

“Yeah, confused. Whatever.” The girl shrugs.

I’m calling crap.

This road looks like the end of nowhere. We’re practically sitting in the woods. And they’re so young—high schoolers, maybe not even that.

Summoning my courage, I march over to the sliding door they came through and slam it hard enough to make the glass quiver.

Outside, the solar lights illuminate a grocery bag on the deck with what looks like a fireworks stash.

Normally, I’d say live and let live, kids do dumb stuff all the time, but this is so not the night.

The kid looks at me again, swallowing thickly before he says, “Lady, are we cool? Can you just—”

“Sit down,” I snap, wheeling back around to face them.

The two boys shuffle their feet, but the girl just stares at me, putting on her best grown-up bitch face.

Tough luck, missy.

I’m not fazed by any attitude tonight.

“We’re sorry we disturbed you. Like seriously,” the boy tries again.

I glower until he stops talking.

“I don’t care about you disturbing me. I care about the fireworks out back. That’s what the noise was, right?” I shake my head, barely able to believe their stupidity. “Have you guys not noticed it’s summer? It hasn’t rained for a few weeks and we’re at the edge of a forest?”

“Have you noticed it’s like, none of your biz?” The girl folds her arms, sulking.

“Princess, why aren’t you sitting?” I wait for her to stop rolling her eyes. “Unlike you kids, I rented this place out for the night, so I know I had to give my details online. I had to prove I’m over eighteen.”

Colt swallows as he sits, almost like his legs give out from under him. Good. “I—”

“I’m not here for excuses, kiddo. You want to screw around and play stupid? Fine and dandy. But there’s no way I’m letting you guys do it here with fireworks on dry grass. Have you ever heard of wildfires? Do you want to start one?”

Oh God, I sound like my dad. When did I learn to lecture?

When did I become so boring and uptight?

“What are you gonna do? Call the cops?” the girl challenges. She hasn’t sat, but her face seems paler now, and I get the first hint of fear in her eyes.

I think I have a plan.

First, I lock the door and head past them to the welcome basket on the kitchen island—which I didn’t notice much when I first came in. But there, lo and behold, is a help line typed neatly on a card.

Let’s be real, the police are probably stretched thin out here and have better things to do with their time. And considering these guys are babies who look like they’re about to piss themselves, I don’t think it’s worth scaring their souls out and potentially slapping them with a juvie record.

Kids are idiots.

It’s an age-old fact.

When I was their age, I was the same way. Now that I’m coming down from the shock of the rabid racoon slash prowler being three clueless teens, I’m slightly less tempted to cuss them into next week.

This is precisely the sort of crap I might’ve pulled if I’d ever had the freedom to do it.

“No police. You’re welcome,” I tell them coldly, fingering the info card and the number printed across it. “But I do want your names so I can tell the rental company, Higher Ends, and they can get in touch with your parents.”

From the devastation on the kids’ faces—especially Colt’s—that might be the worst threat I could make.

Awesome.