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"Yes," I breathe, and reach for the door handle.

He doesn't say another word as I climb in, gathering my dress around me like a cloud of regret and relief.

The truck smells like pine and leather. As we pull away, I catch a final glimpse of the chapel in the side mirror, growing smaller and smaller until it disappears around a bend.

I don't look back again.

Chapter 2 – Vincent

I don't make a habit of picking up strangers. Especially not ones in wedding dresses.

The late afternoon sun catches on my rearview mirror as I drive the familiar mountain road back from my lumber delivery in town. These weekly trips are about all the human interaction I can stand these days.

But something about her—maybe the wild look in her eyes or the way she's running like hell itself is on her heels—makes me slow the truck down.

The sun's already dipping behind the mountains, painting the sky in shades of violet and gold, and there's a storm rolling in. I can smell it in the air, that sharp scent of ozone mixing with pine and damp earth.

The kind of storm that makes the mountain roads treacherous, especially for someone who looks like they belong at a country club rather than out here in the wild.

She's a mess of white lace and desperation standing on the side of the road, her bare feet dirty and probably bleeding, her blonde hair coming loose from whatever fancy style it was in. Curves that the dress can't hide, even muddy as it is.

The kind of curves that make men stupid, that make them forget their promises to themselves. Beautiful, in that way that broken things sometimes are. Like a china cup with a crack running through it—still holding itself together, but barely.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. I should keep driving. Whatever drama she's running from, it's not my problem.

I've got enough of my own ghosts to wrestle with up in my cabin.

But I'm already slowing down.

"You look like you're running from something," I say, keeping my voice neutral. No need to spook her more than she already is.

Up close, I can see the makeup tracks on her cheeks, the way her chest heaves with each panicked breath.

Her eyes—blue, I notice, like the lake after a storm—dart back toward the chapel. "I am."

When she climbs into my truck, the whole cab fills with the scent of roses, something distinctly feminine that makes my jaw clench.

Her hands are trembling as she gathers that ridiculous dress around her, and something in my chest tightens. Protective instinct, maybe. Or just plain stupidity.

Probably both.

I pull away from the curb, watching in the rearview mirror as figures emerge from the chapel.

A woman in a pale blue dress is shouting something, waving her arms like a deranged traffic conductor. A man in a tuxedo stands frozen on the steps, his mouth hanging open. Not exactly the picture of a devastated groom.

They're already too far away to hear any of the commotion, but I can imagine the chaos she's left behind.

The silence in the truck is heavy, weighted with all the questions I'm not asking.

She's pressed against the passenger door like she might need to bail at any second, her chest rising and falling too fast. Still in panic mode.

Her fingernails—painted a soft pink, one already chipped—dig into the fabric of her dress.

"There's a jacket behind the seat," I say, keeping my eyes on the road. The temperature's dropping with the sun, and her bare shoulders are covered in goosebumps. "You look cold."

She startles at my voice, then reaches back for the worn leather jacket. It swallows her when she puts it on, making her look even more vulnerable.

Something primitive in me likes seeing her in my clothes, but I shove that thought away quick. That's not what this is.