Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 60231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Luke Marshall’s farm.
It’s safe to say my broody, infuriatingly handsome ex-boyfriend didn’t expect to find me sobbing on his sofa in a pile of tulle. And I’m sure there are a million other things he’d like to be doing other than listening to my panic-induced plea for help. But Luke hears me out … and takes pity on me.
I can stay with him until the media moves on from my runaway bride headline, as long as I pull my weight around the barn.
The only thing that makes being elbow-deep in horse manure worth it is seeing Luke shirtless. Farm life has definitely done his body well. He’s fit, tanned, and moves with an easy strength that makes it impossible to look away.
The more time we spend together, the more sparks reignite. But with old secrets and wounds just below the surface, nothing stays buried for long.
Before I know it, I’m faced with the hardest choice of my life: return to the glittery world where millions pretend to love me, or walk away for the one man who truly might?
Note: This title was previously published as This Much Is True
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CHAPTER 1
Laina
“What do you mean you’re on the run?”
Stephanie’s question is valid, as is her curious but mostly nonchalant way of asking it. After all, it’s me we’re talking about. But she should’ve been more prepared.
“Do I really need to break it down for you—darn it!” I pry my heel out of a slit in the asphalt. “Besides, when your best friend calls and says she’s on the run and needs your help, the only question you should ask is whose car are we taking?”
“You’re so funny.”
I glance to my right, then to my left. A trail of sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. Aside from two men in fitted suits and sunglasses from the security team, I’m in the clear.
“There’s nothing funny about this,” I say, darting across the parking lot as gracefully as possible despite the layers of tulle.
“The last time I saw you—which was approximately fifteen minutes ago, give or take—you were in your wedding dress, looking stunning, I might add, waiting for your father to show up to walk you down the aisle.”
Fifteen minutes? Man, I work quick.
The crowd roars from the other side of the safety barrier Landry Security erected three days ago to keep fans and paparazzi—mostly paparazzi—away from the church. Brickfield has been teeming all week with spectators eager to see what the media has deemed the wedding of the century. Former classmates were interviewed. My kindergarten teacher was on the front page of Exposé magazine this week. Alleged encounters with the “men in my life” since I became famous have been dissected and analyzed to death. If only half of what was printed were real, my life would be far more entertaining.
I would’ve felt bad for Sheriff Jones in his plight to organize a response to this level of anarchy in a town of five thousand people if he hadn’t used my wedding as the launch of his re-election campaign.
“What’s going on, Laina? Are you joking around, or is something really the matter?”
“Considering I’m currently hiding between two sheds and hoping no one is flying drones overhead, I’d say something is the matter.”
“Why are you between two sheds?”
I spit a piece of my veil out of my face. “I can’t marry him, Steph.”
My best friend goes silent. I imagine her face—mouth agape, brows arched higher than the lamination treatment should allow, and a wrinkled forehead defying her Botox. She wore the same expression when I told her I was marrying Hollywood heartthrob Tom Waverly a year ago—complete and utter shock.
“I should’ve listened to you,” I say, taking a steadying breath. “I never should’ve accepted his proposal at all, let alone plan a wedding and invite one hundred fifty people to the church and another two hundred to a reception that cost more than …” Dread rolls through the pit of my stomach. “Let’s not even go there.”
“Okay.” Her voice is cool and tempered. “What do you need?”
“Ironically enough, I need you to ask whose car we’re taking because the answer is I don’t know. I didn’t think this through. I excused myself from the room, shut the door, and left.”
“We’re throwing a plot twist at the last second, but that’s okay. I think quick on my feet, so don’t panic.”
“Strangely, I’m not. I don’t know whether that’s because I’m blocking out the ramifications of this wholly impulsive decision or if this is my gut’s way of thanking me for following it.” I peer around the side of one of the sheds, nearly getting busted by the best man. “I’ll take it either way.”