Well, maybe. Her situation was likely such a hot topic that folks wouldn’t bother to jabber about a puny altercation where the interim Chief of Police had been injured.
“I need a date,” she said, wiping back more of the blasted tears.
Judging from the look he gave her, he was either about to call the mental hospital or laugh at her attempted joke. Nope, no laugh. She hoped this idea of hers sounded better than it was. Actually, she hoped it not only sounded better, but that it was better. Because it didn’t sound very good in her head.
“Date as in the fruit or a date?” he asked.
“Date.” Which, of course, would require some clarification. Chief McKinnon had moved to town several months ago, but their paths hadn’t crossed enough for an actual introduction. “I’m Sophie Granger. I’m head of marketing for Granger Western.”
“I know who you are. You’re getting married—” he checked his watch “—in about fifteen minutes. But judging from your dress and the fact that you want a date, I’m figuring things didn’t go as planned.”
“No.” And that single-word answer was a huge understatement. It also brought on more crying. “My fiancé, Brantley Barnwell, came by the dressing room at the church and said he couldn’t marry me after all.”
Sophie was sure she was still in shock. Exhausted, too. And hungry since she’d been dieting for two months to fit into this breath-choking dress. Maybe she should have asked for a date of the fruit variety after all. But sadly that shock wouldn’t last, and she needed to fix this before she fell into a puddle of despair and more tears.
And anger.
Really, really pissed-off-bad anger.
Anger that she hadn’t aimed at Brantley since he’d hightailed it out of there only minutes after delivering the worst news that Sophie had ever heard.
I don’t love you.
He’d added a whole bunch of I’m sorry’s, I’m an asshole, I can’t believe this happened. Which hadn’t helped. But then that was asking a lot of mere apologies and ramblings. Nothing would have helped except his saying this had all been just a prank and that he loved her after all.
“I didn’t want my family to see me like this,” she went on. And she just kept going on and on. “Right after Brantley left, I wrote a note saying that I needed a little alone time and hung it on the dressing room door so my family would see it. Then, I climbed out the window of the church. It’s muddy from all the rain and I landed in a new flower bed. My shoes got stuck so I had to walk here barefooted.”
“And no one stopped to give you a ride?”
She shook her head, dabbed at the tears again. “The streets are empty. Nearly everyone in town is already at the church waiting for the wedding.”
Just saying that punched away at some of the shock. Punched at her gut, too. Thankfully, she hadn’t eaten anything or she would have driven down her dignity another notch by puking.
“Are you, uh, drunk?” he asked.
“Maybe a little. Brantley brought me a bottle of Jose Cuervo when he delivered the news, and I had some sips.”
Actually, she wasn’t sure just how much she’d downed before climbing out the window. Sophie also suspected the tequila was the reason she hadn’t noticed the mud until it was too late to save her shoes.
And it had almost certainly influenced her decision to come up with this date plan.
Chief McKinnon huffed, scrubbed his hand over his face and then winced when he encountered that cut on his head. “Look, Miss Granger, I’m sorry for what happened to you, but instead of looking for a date, you should just go back to the church and be with your family.”
“God, no!” She couldn’t say that fast enough. “That’s the last place I need to be without a plan. One of my brothers is there. My cousin, too. My best friend. And my mother.” Especially her mother. “They’d go after Brantley and beat him up. Then, you’d have to arrest just about everyone in the vicinity who’s related to me.”
He nodded. Stood. Handed her a fresh Kleenex. “I’ll go to the church and calm them down.”
“You’d stand a better chance getting this mud off tulle. Once they learn what’s happened, there’ll be little chance to calm them down. No, the best way to handle this is my date idea.”
He cocked his head to the side, studied her as if he were indeed about to call the mental hospital to come and get her.
“Don’t you see?” she asked, but didn’t wait for him to answer. “If you and I leave now, I can say I ran off with you. We wouldn’t really run off, of course. We could just go somewhere for a couple of hours, but I could tell my family I had second thoughts about marrying Brantley and that I couldn’t help myself, that I had to have one last fling.”
“That’s the tequila talking,” he insisted.
Possibly.
Probably, she amended.
Sophie didn’t usually have to make critical decisions and plans while under the influence, and once she sobered up and got out of the dress so she could breathe, she might be able to come up with something better. For now though, this was all she had.
“If your family thinks you’re with me, it’ll make you look bad,” the chief added. Clearly, he was grasping at straws here.
“I don’t think I can look any worse, do you?”
He didn’t argue, not with that anyway. “Basically, you want me to lie for you?”
She nodded. “But it’s for the sake of keeping peace and preventing an assault. I hate Brantley for what he did. Hate him with every fiber of my being.”
That shock was finally wearing off. Some of the tequila, too.
Fast.
Hell in a handbasket.
How had it come to this?
The hurt shoved away the anger so fast that Sophie didn’t even know it was coming. She caught on to the desk to steady herself. That didn’t help, either, and since her knees were too wobbly to stand, she just sat on the edge of the desk. Of course, she knocked things over, but she couldn’t help it.
She was no longer an engaged woman. No longer about to become Brantley’s wife. In fact, she wasn’t sure who she was and prayed that was a temporary effect of the hurt and the lack of oxygen. Because at this exact moment, she felt something she’d never felt before.
Broken.
“I would ask if you’re okay,” Chief McKinnon said, “but I already know the answer. You’re not. And that’s why you’re not thinking straight. If you just go to your family with the truth—”
“But I don’t want them in jail,” she added, just as the eighteenth round of tears came.
He glanced up at the ceiling as if seeking divine guidance. “Why me?
