Prologue
Rowan - five years ago
If I hada dollar for every time a beautiful stranger in a wedding gown and four-inch heels sprinted toward me on a sidewalk, I’d have exactly…one dollar.
“Wait!” she shrieks.
I take her in through the tinted black shield of my motorcycle helmet. White, shimmery material molds to her figure, waist-length veil floating on air behind her. Honey-blonde waves hang around her shoulders all the way down to the deep V on the front of her dress.
She closes the distance between us, breathless from her run. “Sir!”
The absence of other people in the general vicinity and the fact she’s headed straight for me meansI’msir.
I lift my visor to see her clearly as she comes to a stop in front of me. Her urgent expression and the air heaving into her lungs leaves no room for pleasantries. “Can you help me, please?”
“Um, sure…yeah, okay,” is all I manage before a man’s voice bellows from down the street. Her face turns furious and she yanks me by my jacket toward an alcove at the entrance to the bank I just came out of a few steps away.
“Shit!” she whispers, tucking us behind a pillar.
Mystery bride uses me like her own personal rag doll, jostling andshifting me into position so she’s fully concealed from view. Over my shoulder, a tuxedo-clad man with coifed black hair and a clean-shaven face barrels around the corner of the swanky hotel two doors down.
He looks like a William McDouche III…or a Robert Robertson. I decide I hate him.
“Hannah!” the man shouts, eyes darting all directions. He yells her name over and over with mounting frustration—not panic, but anger. Every time he calls out, she tightens her grip on my jacket.
My jaw ticks. “Are you in trouble?”
Desperation clings to every speck of brown, green, and gold that make up the depth of her hazel eyes. “I need to get outta here. Right now. I don’t have any money on me, but I have my phone and I can find a way to transfer some to you eventually.”
The five thousand dollars tucked in my pocket begins to burn—not to mention the life insurance payout set to hit my bank account in a few weeks. I don’t need her money.
Three more men in tuxedos—all named Chad, I’m sure—and a platinum pixie in a black dress rush onto the sidewalk, joining Tuxedo McDouche in his pursuit. Something about Pixie’s proximity to the man shouting Hannah’s name puts me on edge.
“Please,” she begs.
I don’t think a moment longer as I strip off my riding jacket and drape it over her shoulders. “Put this on.”
She yanks the veil out of her hair and passes it to me before pushing her arms through the sleeves. I step back, careful to keep my body as a barrier in Tuxedo McDouche’s line of sight. I give her a once over. “Um…”
“What?” she asks, sweeping her waves free from beneath the collar.
“Your dress might be a problem.”
The white gown paints the curves of her body like the work of a master sculptor. From the delicate shoulder straps all the way down to her knees, the material has zero give.
Damnthis girl is stunning.
Hannah splits her gaze between my bike and her dress. Without preamble, she fists the two pieces of fabric at the top of the slit above her knee and rips it wide. I swallow past the sight of the lace garter huggingher upper thigh as she splits the seam well beyond scandalous territory. She scoops the excess material puddled behind her and throws it over one arm, holding it in front to cover her exposed leg.
The wedding party gathering outside the hotel grows in number and panic by the second. Well, McDouche is still pissed, but everyone else looks worried.
“Stay here,” I say, handing the veil back to her. “I’ll motion for you when I’m ready.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m Rowan, by the way.”
A small smile crooks her lips, and it’s the brightest thing I’ve seen since I arrived in Colorado five days ago. “I’m Hannah.”