Chapter Two

The traffic was slow going toward Heathrow, the heavy rain and spray on the roads making everyone more cautious. We snaked onto the motorway, weaving between coaches, big trucks, and past a long row of orange traffic cones that cut three lanes down to two.

I spotted a sign for Heathrow; we were still ten miles away.

"Miss Pippa," the driver said. "I am sorry but I am short on time. I can't be late for my next bride, it simply isn't fair on her."

"I…I don't know what to do?" I'd removed my veil and was rubbing my forehead. A stinking headache was encroaching. "It's just I…"

"I can drop you at the next roadside service station. You'll be able to get a cab from there to the airport, or a bus even."

"Okay. Thanks. Whatever you need to do."

"I can give you some cab numbers if there are no Ubers."

"No, it's fine. I'll figure it out. Thank you, though."

A mini-van went past, the occupants staring in at me. They were all smiles and waves, obviously excited to see a bride.

I turned the other way. I wasn't a bride. I was a scorned woman. A fool. A woman who no longer had a best friend.

The driver pulled into the service stop which provided fuel and food to weary travelers. He went past the truck park, maneuvered around a couple of long white coaches, and stopped near the entrance to the food court.

He hopped out. The rain had mercifully slowed to a light drizzle, and there was even a patch of blue sky in the distance. With a bit of luck it signified a change in my fortune.

Within seconds he had my suitcase out of the trunk and my door open. Ignoring my bouquet, and holding my mother's veil in my fist, I stepped out. My spine was stiff and my knees strangely shaky; I feared they might give way without warning.

"I really am sorry how this has turned out," he said. "And that I couldn't do more to help. But if you could leave a review on Wedding Cars R Us that would be great."

"A review?"

"Yep, just to say I got you where you needed to be on time." He kind of shrugged and smiled. "I'm supposed to always ask that."

"I…er…sure, I can do that…I suppose."

"Great, much appreciated. You have a nice day now." He slammed the door and jumped back behind the wheel. In the blink of an eye he'd pulled away, and the long sleek car had joined the stream of traffic heading back to the motorway.

I pulled up the handle on my case and stepped into the shelter of the overhang that circled the entrance to the building. The scent of burgers, donuts, sausage rolls, and bacon baps circulated.

The curious glances I received were plentiful and wide-eyed, and I shrank into the shadows, behind a brick pillar. I prayed no one would take a photograph of me—that was the last thing I needed. Not that I wasn't used to being stared at or photographed, it was my job to look good and gain attention, but today that was not what I wanted. No way. I wanted to slink away and lick my wounds, not be seen or heard by anyone. I wanted to be invisible.

Not that I could blame the people who did spot me having a stare. I wore a body-hugging white gown, full-length, lace over silk that caressed my slight curves and had a sweetheart neckline. My hair was loose, long blonde curls falling over my shoulders, and even on a dull day my grandmother's pearl necklace would be sparkling—it had been professionally cleaned for the occasion.

I sighed. What the heck was I going to do?

Heathrow, that's right. Get to the airport and get the heck out of Dodge. It was the only option.

Two long white coaches were parked on the other side of the lot. One had the image of an airplane on the side.

Airport. That must be a link coach. It would do, and no doubt only take fifty minutes from here, especially now the rain had slowed and we'd come to the end of the roadworks.

So with my phone and veil clutched in one hand, and tugging my banana yellow suitcase along—stuffed full of bikinis, sandals, sarongs, beach dresses, and sunhats—I made my way to the coach.

The door was open, the driver pacing several feet away, enjoying a smoke and chatting animatedly on his phone.

I lifted the hem of my dress and climbed the four steps. Half carrying and half dragging my case, I scooted to the back of the coach. It was empty. Several soft leather bags and a bunch of red fleeces were tossed around. This was no doubt a pit-stop break for a group of people who'd traveled down from the north of the country and were heading for the airport.

I reached the backseat; it was empty, and after tucking my case on one side, I slunk into the corner seat on the other and stared out of the condensation-misted window. I had some cash in my purse, but that was tucked in my suitcase. I'd get it if and when the driver asked for the fare. Right now, I felt numb and I wanted to be unseen. It was as if all of my emotions had been twisted in two giant hands and wrung out. I was bruised on the inside. My heart was beating in a broken, stuttering way.

I closed my eyes and an image of Steven's smiling face appeared. He had boyish good looks, a quintessential English accent, and charming manners. But almost instantly, that image was replaced by the one of him kissing Cheryl with his hand on her breast. There was something so explosive about the way he was holding her, as though he'd die if he were denied her. He needed her.

In a way he'd never needed me.

Of that I was sure.

A few people got on the coach, deep voices, a slight rocking. I scooted down as best I could, wishing I'd had the courage to strip out of my wedding dress and into my travel outfit—jeans and a pale-pink cashmere jumper. But the sparkling tiny buttons at the back of the hideously expensive dress—that I'd got at mate-rates discount—required an extra pair of hands. The plan had been for Steven to seductively undress me, so without him I was pretty much stuck in it, for now at least.

"Brick, have you just eaten three Whoppers?"

"Yeah, what's it to you?" The rustle of burger packaging and a slurp through a straw was accompanied by a throaty laugh.

"Your wife will kick your ass." Another deep American drawl.

"Not if no one tells her. I go along with Olympian diets when we're together, but when we're not…"

"The mice and the cats will play, eh." A thickly accented voice, Eastern Europe perhaps.

"When the cat's away the mice will play, Vadmir." A chuckle. "Get it right, man. You've been out of Russia long enough."

I screwed up my eyes tighter. Hopefully, if anyone saw me they'd think I was asleep and leave me alone.

"Right, guys," a female voice, strong and authoritative, came from the front of the coach. "We've got a bit farther to go, but hopefully the traffic will be clear all the way to our destination."

Yes. Hopefully an easy run from here to Heathrow, and then I'd find a sympathetic British Airways desk. If I couldn't switch my flight I'd buy a ticket to anywhere. As long as I was in a different country to Steven by nightfall I'd be happy.

"Come here, sweet cheeks, sit by me."

"Behave, I've got work to do," the same woman spoke again.

"Spoilsport."

"Hey, it was worth a try." She laughed.

There seemed to be a group of people on the coach who knew each other. But that was manageable, as long as they stayed away from me.

The engine started, and the coach huffed out exhaust as it revved and then pulled away from its parking spot.

The chatter continued, lots of men with American accents talking over each other, banter, laughter, jibing, plenty of cussing.

I blocked it out and rested my head on the window. I wanted darkness to swallow me. I wanted to wake up and this all be a bad dream and Steven wasn't a cheat and Cheryl wasn't the worst friend in the entire world.

But that wasn't going to happen. I was realistic enough to know this pain was real.

What did happen was I fell asleep. It was blissful. My emotions had a rest from swirling, my anger cooled, and I left my life behind. It must have been some kind of survival instinct for my emotions to just shut my body down.

But then my neck creaked and a pain shot through my right shoulder. I clasped it, kneading hard, and gingerly lifted my head that had been at an odd angle against the window.

I opened my eyes.

What the…?

Four male faces were peering at me. Or was it three? Two looked remarkably similar, all blond hair and blue eyes, and I couldn't be sure I wasn't seeing double.

"You all right there, ma choue ?" the guy closest to me asked. His dark skin contrasted with his bright-red hoodie, and his brown eyes sparkled with curiosity.

I cleared my throat. "Er, yes, fine thank you." Quickly, I looked out of the window again, regretting it instantly when my neck screamed in complaint.

"Are you sure?" he asked, a French accent evident.

"Perfectly." I tightened my lips. "I am perfectly fine." If only he'd leave me alone, take the hint. I wasn't interested in chatting to fellow travelers. It wasn't as if we were all going to be buddies.

"Only we didn't expect to find a bride at the back of our tour bus," he said.

"Tour bus?" I swung back to him.

"Quite unexpected." Another guy moved to sit on the backseat with me. He was huge with thick wide shoulders and a dark buzz cut that seemed to melt into a jawline heavy with stubble.

"I don't know what you mean?" I said, my attention going to a detailed snake tattoo running up his left forearm. "I'm simply on my way to Heathrow."

"Heathrow?" He raised his eyebrows at me. "If that's the airport I think you're talking about, we passed it some time ago. We're halfway to Wales now."

"Wales?" I sat forward and stared out at the fields and farmland whizzing past. "Wales, why…no…turn around, I need to get to Heathrow."

"No can do," one of the blond guys said from over the back of the seat in front of me. His chin hovered over his hands, elbows pointed out to each side. He shrugged. "We're on a schedule."

"A schedule?" I frowned. "I don't understand. I thought…"

"You thought this bus went to the airport?" Snake Tat Guy nodded at my suitcase.

"Yes. I mean…it has a plane on the side."

"No idea why, ma choue . Just one of those things." French Guy turned down his mouth and shrugged. He really was very handsome. Was he a model? Had I seen him on the circuit?

I didn't have time for such wonderings.

"Fuck it!" I sat forward and snatched up my phone from the seat at my side. "Stop the bus. I can't go to Wales."

"Can't do that," Tat Guy said. "Apart from the fact I hear it's illegal to stop on a freeway in England for no good reason, we can't just leave you on the side of the road wearing a…a…"

"A wedding dress, yes, I am quite aware of my attire, I'm not stupid."

"No one said you were, honey." The second blond guy studied me. "But now could be a good time to explain what you're doing sitting here in a wedding dress."

I tipped my chin, searching for a shred of dignity. "I'm sure you can guess." Oh God, the damn headache was coming back, and so was the awful image of Steven and Cheryl kissing. How humiliating this entire day was.

Handsome French Guy held up his hand as if asking my permission to speak.

"What?" I snapped, unable to help myself. Irritation was clawing at every inch of my body.

"Runaway bride, right?" He grinned. "Got to be."

"Aren't you the veritable Einstein?" I frowned.

"What'd he do?" Tat Guy asked. "Dump you at the altar?"

"What! No. Of course not."

Both blond guys laughed.

"Why is that funny?" I demanded of them.

"He'd have to be batshit crazy to do that," said one.

"Yeah, wow, look at you." The other gestured to me. "Fucking gorgeous."

I frowned. I was in no mood for male admiration. "Who are you?" I asked, sensing they were all very much together, as a group, and not just random strangers who had started staring at me and speaking to me.

"I'm Benjamin, or rather Ben, and this is my brother, Theo," Blond Guy said. He gestured with his thumb to the face at his side. "And this handsome dude is Eduardo, and miserable fuck sitting next to you is Dylan."

"Hey, don't be a dick." Dylan frowned and rubbed his snake tat. "I'm just still pissed about last night's result."

Normal me would have asked what last night's result was, but I had bigger issues at hand. "So whereabouts in Wales are we going?"

"Cardiff," Theo said. "Apparently."

"Cardiff! Why?" My mouth hung open.

"We've got a final game before heading home."

"Game?" I rubbed my brow. Fuck, Cardiff. That was so far from Heathrow. So far from anywhere.

"Do you need anything?" Ben asked. "A coffee? There's a machine down there."

"Er…sure…a tea would be good, thanks."

"Tea?"

"Yeah, tea, man, we're in England, that's all they drink." His brother, Theo, nudged him.

Ben disappeared, but almost instantly he was replaced by another curious face. This tall guy had a silvery scar on his bottom lip that went down onto his heavily stubbled chin. "What the fuck?" he said, his eyebrows lifting and his smile dropping.

"Yeah, unexpected, right?" Theo said.

"But…what's she doing on here?" he asked Theo.

"I can speak for myself, you know." I folded my arms and pulled in a breath.

"Dustin, I—" A woman appeared at the new guy's side. "What? Who the hell are you?" She stared at me.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize this was a private tour coach. I'll get off as soon as you can stop and—"

"Are you doing okay, hun?" She peered closer and seemed to search me for physical wounds.

She wouldn't see them. They were all on the inside, mainly around my heart. "I've had better days."

She turned to the man she'd called Dustin. "Did you know about…?"

"No, I've just seen her, too. Must have got on at the last stop."

"She's a runaway bride," Tat Guy said with a shrug, his wide shoulders shifting up and down in a quick, jerky movement.

"Yeah, I guessed that, Dylan." The woman plonked herself between me and him and reached for my hand.

I let her take it, despite not knowing who she was. Her eyes were kind, her pretty face soft, and I got the feeling she had some kind of authority over whatever the heck this bus was full of.

"Listen," she said gently. "You're clearly having an ass of a day."

I nodded.

"So we're not going to kick you off in any old place. But we can't change our route or itinerary, the guys have a Meet and Greet later."

"Okay…" I nodded, hyperaware of all the attention on me. "Thanks."

"And I'm sure you have a very good reason for being here in this…this wedding gown."

I nodded again.

"It's beautiful by the way. Who is it?"

"Westwood."

"Stunning." She blew out a breath and took in the details of the lace. "Really stunning."

I bit on my bottom lip. What difference did a dress make when the groom was a cheating son of a bitch?