The Rebound - Stefanie London Page 0,5

invisible force.

Then she’s gone. I catch the flutter of the gauzy wrap around her waist and the bounce of her perky ass as she sprints into the building, catching the stares of two shocked older women.

Leaning back against the driver’s seat, I tilt my face up to the ceiling. My head is spinning like a top—all the things I want to say to my dad, but can’t. All the hurt still simmering below the surface, festering from years of neglect. I crank the radio, trying to drown out my noisy mind.

After a while I check the dash and more time has passed than I thought. Where is she? I get out of the car, heading toward the building and peering into the foyer through the glass door. Nothing.

A second later my phone rings and my father’s number flashes up. Shit. He’s going to kick my ass for being late, but at least I have an excuse.

I swipe my thumb across the screen. “Dad.”

“I see you didn’t even bother to turn up after our discussion,” my father says icily. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

That hits me in the gut.

“I’m still coming,” I say. “There was—”

“Don’t bother.” His words are a growl.

“No, you don’t understand—”

“Don’t bother coming, Sebastian. The wedding is off.”

I freeze. Ice trickles down the back of my spine and, for a moment, I wonder if I’ve been turned to stone. “Excuse me?”

“The wedding is off.” My father lets out one of his patented gruff sounds of annoyance. There’s chatter in the background and I can hear someone arguing. It sounds like Mike. “Presley has decided that she would rather run away than tell my son to his face that she doesn’t want to marry him.”

A sinking feeling settles like a stone in my gut. “She ran away?”

“Climbed out of a window, apparently. They found her wedding dress in a heap, along with her shoes and everything else. Lord knows how she made it out of the venue in her underwear.”

For a moment, I can’t think. Can’t speak. My brain chugs like it’s swimming in molasses and I swing my gaze in slow motion up the floors of 21 Love Street. Fuck. How could this happen?

I’ve aided and abetted a runaway bride.

CHAPTER THREE

Presley

IT’S INCREDIBLE HOW things can change in the span of twenty-four hours. This time yesterday, I was getting my makeup and hair done. I was being buttoned into a white gown I’d painstakingly chosen so I’d look my best for my future husband. I was filled with anticipation about the future.

Well, maybe that part isn’t entirely true. I’d had my doubts. I’d worried that Drew was right about Mike overpowering me, and I was worried for the fights he’d caused between Drew and me. But those were teething problems, right? Every time families were joined, there would be an adjustment period.

The front door squeaks open, but I don’t bother to lift my head from the couch. No doubt the throw cushion will have a Presley-shaped indent on it from the hours I’ve spent mindlessly staring into space while Netflix plays in the background.

“Pres?” Drew shuts the door behind her. Her footsteps are soft, tentative. Which, if you knew my sister, is not how she usually moves.

Drew is a hurricane. Not a gentle breeze.

She comes over and squats down in front of me, her eyes narrowed with worry. It’s like staring into a mirror—especially since she’s not wearing any makeup and there are dark circles under her eyes. Although I suspect her circles were earned in the best way possible—staying up late with her lover boy and boinking until the sun came up.

Yesterday, I was the one telling her to give love a chance...and look where love has brought me.

“Oh, sis.” She lays her forehead against mine, her long platinum-blond hair shiny like strands of white gold. My own hair is still crunchy with hairspray, and a bobby pin pokes into the side of my head. “It’ll be okay.”

Will it? The man I thought I loved turned out to be a user and a dick, and his family will now hate me. My mother will be furious. So much money wasted—the flowers, the food, the wine, the gifts...

My friends will probably think I’m a basket case.

Who jilts two grooms? Me. Anne Presley Richardson, failed bride. Destined to be #foreveralone. Okay, yeah. I’m throwing a pity party. So what? I need a moment to wallow.

“I got your phone,” she says, dropping it into my lap. “I snuck into Mum’s