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Dirty Past

Dirty Past

Description : Dirty Past
South Carolina is seriously lacking in skyscrapers.

The Deep South—right now, it’s all rolling green fields, cowboy boots, and barbecue. A million miles away from the bustling streets of Upper Manhattan that I’ve lived in my whole life. The numerous state parks, the lakes, the mountains—they’re all alien to me.

And they’re all, thankfully, so much more charming than endless summers in the Hamptons.

I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and glance at the clock on the dashboard. The Hamptons—the place I should be right now.

Preparing for my wedding in four days.

Yep. I’m that girl. The runaway bride, the jilter, the disappearing act.

I fully expect panic to be ensuing at my parents’ sprawling house as they wake and realize I’m no longer there. Knowing my mother, she’ll be having some kind of miniature breakdown, ensuring all eyes are on her, while my father paces and angrily shouts into the phone for someone to find me.

He’ll call all of the NYPD, demanding they pull their heads out of their asses and utilize every resource they have at their fingertips. My mother will continue to hyperventilate and be seen to by a flurry of people, namely the people whose family I was supposed to marry into.

And he—Matthew Hamilton, my darling betrothed, my perfect dream—my utter bastard of a fiancé. He’ll have his mask in place, every traumatized word falling from his lips a lie. His anger will be barely contained by the necessity for his pretense.

I shift in the seat and wince. My back is stiff from one break in nine hours of driving—through the night, no less.

No. I grit my teeth. The pain isn’t from driving, although it probably hasn’t helped. I won’t make excuses anymore....