The Cowboy's Runaway Bride

Chapter Three

The next morning when Chelsea’s eyes fluttered open, it took her a moment to remember that she was safe in the sanctuary of Juliette’s spare bedroom, where there was enough floral damask to rival Queen Mary’s gardens at the Regent’s Park. There were roses everywhere: on the duvet, the curtains, the wingback chair and tufted ottoman. It was so Juliette and it warmed Chelsea from the inside out.

She luxuriated in a long, slow, full-body stretch and then squinted at the clock on the nightstand to check the time. It was after nine o’clock. She should get up and get a wiggle on. Really, she should, she thought as she sank deeper into the warm bed.

Her body and mind had needed the rest. It dawned on her that this was the first time she’d slept through the night without waking since her life had blown up in the press last week, when she’d been humiliated and reduced to being the subject of lewd jokes and perverted voyeurism. Her ex-boyfriend had recorded them without her permission and released the footage, yet she was the villain. Her siblings couldn’t look her in the eyes. Her parents didn’t even want to see her face, much less help her solve the problem. They had made it perfectly clear that it was her problem. She needed to make it go away—or at least go away until it had passed.

Recently, it had been the last thing she’d thought about before she went to sleep and the first thing on her mind when she’d awoken. Until today.

This morning the first thought that had crossed her mind was flowers.

She felt safe here. Not that the press couldn’t find her in Celebration, Texas. But with neighbors looking out for neighbors and scaring away those who didn’t belong the way Ethan Campbell had last night, it would certainly make it more difficult for anyone to sneak up on her the way the reporters had in London.

Chelsea pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, determined to exorcise the media demons. She drew in a measured deep breath, held it for a few beats and exhaled.

Visions of the reporters went away, but thoughts of Ethan Campbell remained.

In the light of day he didn’t annoy her as much as he had last night. Of course, she was rested this morning and that made the whole world look better.

She took another healing breath and reminded herself everything would be okay.

Eventually.

She would put her life back together and maybe even look back at this time and laugh. Well, perhaps not laugh. That was pushing it, but she was resilient and she would be fine soon enough.

In the meantime, she had a lovely place to stay and the company of a good friend with whom she looked forward to catching up.

She’d have to figure out how to be helpful and not get under foot. She and Jules had roomed well together at university because they understood each other’s quirks and idiosyncrasies. She knew Juliette well enough that she was confident she would be able to size up how her friend felt about Chelsea’s invasion the moment she walked through the front door.

Chelsea would not outstay her welcome—though deep down she hoped Juliette would be just as happy to see her as Chelsea was to reconnect with her.

But she was getting ahead of herself. First, tea. Before that could happen, she must get up and put the kettle on. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, stood and pulled on her fuchsia yoga pants.

After Ethan had grudgingly growled off and left her alone last night, Chelsea had made a mad dash outside to get her handbag and suitcase out of the car. She’d managed to make it back inside without drawing any more attention to herself. Or, who knows, maybe Ethan had informed the town that Jules was cool with her being there. She hoped he hadn’t told too many people. Juliette had lamented before that people in her hometown could be rather nosy. Some considered it close-knit and neighborly. But Jules had confessed that sometimes, despite good intentions, having the entire town in your business felt a little stifling. As Chelsea drew water and set the kettle on the stove, she hoped they wouldn’t be in her business—or, more aptly, in Chelsea Allen’s.

As she waited for the water to boil, she had a nose around Juliette’s cottage. It was cozy and neat as a pin. A mix of old-world charm with modern accents, it was as posh and unique as Juliette herself.

The overstuffed sofa was piled with throw pillows in luscious jewel tones and rich floral patterns. The rough-hewn parquet floor was laid in a herringbone pattern that looked as if it had been lifted from a Belle Époque Paris apartment. The walls were painted a warm, welcoming shade of pale blue, which set off the white crown molding that hugged the tiptops of the home’s tall walls. An antique Persian rug anchored the room and presented an interesting contrast to the modern wood-and-glass coffee table.

Chelsea had studied interior design at university and had even done a short stint at a high-end London firm. She loved what Juliette had done with the place. It was as spot-on as any project Chelsea might’ve planned.

She picked up a small obsidian elephant from an end table and traced a finger over its smooth, curved surface. She’d brought it back from Africa for Juliette.

A year out of university, she’d landed a great job with a design firm, but then she’d learned about the international aid organization Voluntary Service Overseas and its world aid efforts.

She’d grown up so privileged it seemed the perfect way to give back. Everyone thought she was crazy when she made the decision to leave her design job, which her sister, Victoria, had helped her land, in favor of shipping off to Africa.

Despite the rolled eyes and reproach she’d received from her family and their accusations that she refused to grow up—and this sojourn was just an excuse to put off true responsibility—she maxed out her time in Africa helping to further the organization’s poverty-ending efforts.

She’d been changed by her experience.

When the cost of a frivolous designer throw pillow could feed a starving family for a month, decorating the homes of the überwealthy seemed wrong on so many levels. After she aged out of VSO, Chelsea couldn’t bring herself to go back into the design business. Instead, she took a job with the non-profit End Hunger London, which garnered more familial huffs and eye rolls because it wasn’t one of their chosen charities. However, because of her family’s connections, she was able to draw a respectable amount of recognition and support to the organization.

Even though she never sought personal attention, for a short while, the press deemed her an angel. Until they grew bored with that and they decided to turn her into the devil.

The minor tabloid attention had actually worked in her favor for a while. After she’d helped get End Hunger London up and rolling, she was ready for a change. The prestigious London firm Hargraves Designs had courted her and hired her as a designer. It was the time for a change. She’d worked for the greater good—and would continue to volunteer and use her high-profile status to raise awareness. It just seemed like the right move. But everything fell apart after Hadden’s revenge.

Hargraves wanted edgy, not skanky. They’d let her go, without even giving her a chance to defend herself.

Determined not to turn loose of her good mood, Chelsea returned the elephant to its place and pushed the memories from her mind. She spied several other things that Juliette had purchased when the two of them had traveled together during school—a hand-blown vase from Murano, a beautiful mirror made from vintage plates by Austrian designer Christine Hechinger. The memories made her smile.

But the thing Chelsea found the most endearing, and the most interesting by far, was the plethora of pictures her dear friend had scattered about the place in frames on the walls and on easels as centerpieces of shelf and tabletop arrangements.

Chelsea didn’t have to look hard to find several pictures of herself with Juliette. But she couldn’t locate a single photograph of Jules with Ethan Campbell. Not that she was looking—or at least she hadn’t realized she was looking until it registered that she found his photographic absence strangely satisfying.

On the phone, Jules had denied anything but a platonic, neighborly friendship with Ethan, but they’d only spoken about him for a moment. Then again, Juliette certainly wouldn’t have used that opportunity to regale Chelsea with details of a friends-with-benefits arrangement with her hunky neighbor. Not with Ethan standing right there.

Actually, it might’ve been better if she knew that Juliette had hooked up with Ethan, even casually—especially casually—because according to the friendship code that would make Ethan off-limits.

And how ridiculous was that thought? But wait...wasn’t that guy, that professional bull rider that Juliette had a thing for, named Campbell, too? John... No... Was it Jude? Jude Campbell. Yes. That was it. She hadn’t heard Jules mention him in ages. She made a mental note to ask about the connection when Juliette got home.

In the meantime, Chelsea didn’t dwell on either of the Campbell men as she soaked in the rest of her best friend’s home, focusing on what a treat it was to be there at last.

Though Juliette was born and bred in Celebration, the United Kingdom had always held a special place in her heart. Chelsea used to tease her about being an anglophile because she had loved everything British. Jules had, of course, returned to Celebration, and that was where she had started her business, but her friend had infused enough of England into her Texas home that she had taken the culture with her. The best of both worlds, Chelsea mused as she lifted a frame containing a photo of a corgi puppy. Ahh, this must be Franklin. Juliette had been so excited when she’d texted with the news that she was adopting a puppy from a litter of a corgi that belonged to a local friend.

She was eager to meet the little guy. Since Jules was away, someone must’ve been watching him. Too bad she couldn’t go pick him up and have him here when Jules got home. She’d do just that if she knew where he was, but she didn’t. And she didn’t want to call Juliette and risk interrupting her at work. But she could text her, and Jules could answer at her convenience. After a momentary hesitation about whether or not it was smart to venture out, she made up her mind that while she would mostly keep a low profile, she had no intentions of sequestering herself while she was here. Nothing said sketchy like a guest who holed up in the house. Plus, she wanted to see where her friend lived.

When they were at university together, Chelsea had wanted to visit Juliette’s hometown—she used to joke that she wanted to meet a real cowboy—but Juliette had always steered away from spending their holidays here and they had opted for more exotic locales such as Paris, Milan and Ibiza. After they graduated, though they’d taken care to keep in touch, they both had gotten so bogged down with life after university—Chelsea going to Africa and Jules putting all her time and resources behind her wedding planning business—that they hadn’t seen each other in person in three years. If there was one upside to this scandal pushing her away from London, it was this chance to reunite with her best friend.

She sent the text and the kettle whistled. Chelsea returned to the kitchen, turning off the burner. She opted for the Taylors of Harrogate Yorkshire Gold from the selection of fine loose tea in Juliette’s cabinet and spooned two teaspoons of the leaves into the mesh strainer, set it in the cup and poured steaming water over the top.

Her tea hadn’t even had time to steep properly before Chelsea heard keys rattling in the front door.

What in the world?

She wasn’t expecting Juliette until this afternoon—possibly even early evening. If Ethan was back, letting himself in without even the common courtesy of a knock, she would have several choice words for him. He might have a key, but that didn’t mean he was free to use it and enter at whim while she was here alone.

She left her tea on the kitchen’s marble-topped counter and walked into the living room, steeling herself to make it clear she wasn’t pleased. She’d had it up to here with guys who thought they could push their way in and—

“Chelsea!” Juliette stepped into the living room, leaving the door wide open as she rushed toward her friend. “You’re here! You’re really here. I’m so happy to see you.”

For the tiniest fraction of a second something that resembled disappointment zinged through Chelsea. But it wasn’t disappointment. How could she be disappointed that Jules was here and she wasn’t going to get the chance to tell off Ethan Campbell when the last thing she wanted was him barging in?

And she was elated to see Juliette, whom she was so busy enfolding in a warm hug that Ethan Campbell completely left her mind.

Well, maybe not completely.

“It’s about time you got here,” Chelsea said, holding Juliette at arm’s length to look at her. “You’re just as gorgeous as ever.”

And she was. With her perpetually tanned olive skin, long, dark hair and sky blue eyes, she had always been an exotic beauty. Only now she seemed more...grounded. More sure of herself. And why not, with her business booming?

“I left early so I could get back as fast as I could. Now that you’re here I may never let you leave. But what’s going on? What the hell has Hadden Hastings done now? You know I never liked him.”

Why wasn’t she prepared for this? She knew she was going to have to tell Juliette the whole story. But she struggled to find the words.

“You must be exhausted,” Chelsea said. “Why don’t you kick off your shoes? I just boiled some water. While you’re getting comfortable, I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

“That sounds heavenly.” Juliette gave Chelsea another quick hug before she disappeared down the hall. “But I want to hear everything. Every last detail.”

That was what she was afraid of.

When Juliette returned, she’d traded in her business suit for a soft-looking pink tracksuit.

“You were in San Antonio?” Chelsea asked, hoping to distract her by changing the subject.

Juliette nodded as she plated a couple of muffins and set them and the two mugs of tea on a wooden tray.

“It was a gorgeous wedding. The daughter of a big family that made a fortune in the spice trade.”

“The spice trade? What is this, the fifteenth century?”

“Believe it or not, I think that’s when they started the company.” The two went into the living room and settled themselves on the couch. “But enough about them. What’s going on?” Juliette sipped her tea. “Is your mother being impossible again?”

“I wish it were that simple.” Chelsea ducked her head. “So I take it you haven’t heard?”

“What’s going on?” Concern overtook Juliette’s face. “You said something about a video Hadden sent to the media. Is everything okay?”

As hot tears began to burn her eyes, Chelsea shook her head. She tried to console herself with the thought that if Juliette hadn’t heard about the scandal, maybe it hadn’t made its way across the pond.

Juliette reached out and put a hand on Chelsea’s arm. “Honey, talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Hadden’s quite proud of himself, I’m sure.”

Chelsea drew in a deep breath. She just needed to say it. It was like jumping off the high dive; if she thought about it too long she would paralyze herself.

“Before Hadden and I broke up, he filmed us having sex. Once word got out that Thomas might be a contender for prime minister, Hadden gave the tape to the media.”

Juliette nearly snorted her tea and was overcome by a coughing fit. When she finally regained her composure, she said, “Are you kidding me?”

Chelsea shook her head. She couldn’t force words around the lump of shame that always swelled in her throat when she tried to talk about this.

“That little turd. You could sue him. You could sue him and the media that released it. They didn’t have your permission.”

“No, they didn’t have my permission. I would’ve never allowed it. I would’ve never allowed Hadden to record us if I had known. The problem is, I don’t have solid proof that Hadden was the one who released the footage. Obviously, you and I both know it couldn’t have been anybody but him. There was no one else in his flat while we were intimate—”

Her voice broke and she stared at her hands in her lap. She was so ashamed. Even telling her best friend in the world made her feel as vulnerable and dirty and humiliated as the moment she first found out.

“How dare he?” Juliette railed. “It’s called slut-shaming, you know? God, I hate that term. It doesn’t do the female gender any favors. Even though it’s not intended to be derogatory toward women, it sounds like it is. It is a misnomer. It should be sex-shaming. Please know I am not by any means calling you a slut. You’re not. You’re the victim here. Don’t you see that? This is the epitome of double standards.”

“I appreciate your support. I feel pretty crummy right now. I feel shameful and dirty, but I will never allow Hadden to force me to play the victim. You know me better than that. However, my family thinks they are the victims. They want me to disappear, just go away—” she made a shooing motion with her hand “—until this whole ugly mess blows over. I am officially a liability to Thomas’s future. So I have been cordially invited to get lost. Thank you for taking me in. I couldn’t think of anywhere else I wanted to go.”

Juliette threw her arms around Chelsea and enveloped her in another of her famous bear hugs. “I am so glad you’re here, honey. Though I wish it were under different circumstances. This isn’t your fault, Chels. Hadden is a misogynistic pig. He’s a creep. Why is he getting no flack and you’re taking all the heat? Why are we not prosecuting him?”

“Because he blurred out his face in the footage. No one can prove it’s him.”

“And the fact that you dated him for over a year never entered into the tawdry equation?”

“Of course people have speculated, but there’s no proof.”

Her face burned and she buried it in her hands. Juliette reached out and rubbed her back.

“I am just incensed about this. I mean, I know you would never willingly open your bedroom door. It’s such a violation of privacy. But here’s one thing I don’t get. Why is it still so shameful for a woman to embrace her sexuality, but a man gets points for dipping his wick?”

“That’s the age-old dilemma,” Chelsea mused. “One would hope that by now we’d evolved beyond that pathetic double standard. But times like this prove it’s alive and well because everyone has branded me a slut and seems to be taking great pleasure in shaming me.”

“But you are not a slut! I know the tabloids went to town on you a few years ago when you worked for End Hunger. They tried to turn you into the poster child for party girls. What was that creep’s name who kept hounding you?”

“Bertie Veal. He’s still up to his antics. He’s the one who broke the news about the tape. I just hope he doesn’t get wind that I’m here. If he does, I’ll have to leave because I don’t want him to start bothering you. Let’s hope he doesn’t remember we were university roommates.”

“Bertie doesn’t remember me. I was never on his radar. But he was pretty obsessed with you. Actually, I think he had a crush on you, but he knew you were out of his league. It’s like the playground bully who pulls a girl’s ponytail when she won’t pay attention to him. Bertie needs to get a life.”

“Sadly, selling stories to the paparazzi is his life. After Hadden sold him the tape of us, Bertie has been insufferable.”

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