Rescuing The Royal Runaway Bride - Элли Блейк

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“No. Never. Do you remember the first time you said you’d marry me? I do. I was four and you were seven. Kind woman that I am, I never planned to hold you to it back then. But I’m not letting you off the hook now. This ring is what it is: a symbol. If a brick is what will help keep roofs over both of our families’ heads, then it seems like a pretty fine symbol to me.”

      Another promise broken, Sadie slid the brick from her finger. The fact that it came right off, without even the slightest pressure, seemed like a pretty big sign in and of itself.

      She quickly tugged down the track pants, found a ribbon hanging from her garter and tied the ring to it with a nice tight knot. Then she gave the jacket one last tug. “Okay, I’m ready.”

      Will pressed away from the car and turned. His dark gaze danced over her clothes—his clothes—her bare feet, then up to her hair. It paused there a moment before dropping to the hand clutching the bouffant of fake curls. At which point his mouth kicked into a smile. Dimple and all.

      As it had been the first time, it was as unexpected and magnificent as a ray of sun slicing through a rain cloud and Sadie’s heart thumped against her chest.

      “What?” she shot back.

      Will held a hand towards the doorway of La Tulipe. “I didn’t say a thing.”

      Sadie grabbed the hood of his jacket and pulled it over her head. Then, scooting past him, her chin imperiously high, she said, “You didn’t have to.”

      * * *

      As soon as they entered the lobby of the old hotel, Sadie’s adrenaline kicked up a notch. For all her efforts to escape, everything could fall apart right here, right now.

      She tucked herself in behind Will, breathing through her mouth so as not to drink too deeply of the deliciousness of his cologne. Skin. Washing detergent. Whatever.

      “Sadie,” he said, turning so she was face to face with his strong profile. The heavy brow, nose so perfect it could have been carved from marble, the hint of that dimple.

      “Mmm?”

      “Have you heard of a little something called personal space?”

      “Sorry,” she said, searching desperately for a sane reason why she might be snuggled into him as she was. “I’m...cold.”

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