Free The Goodbye Bride by Denise Hunter

must’ve contacted the police and let them know you’re all right. It must be public record. You’re a missing person, suffering from amnesia, and you’re Audrey Lovett’s great-niece to boot. I guess that’s news. You ready? We need to make this quick.”
    No. Heck, no, she wasn’t ready. But Zac was already out of the truck and heading round to get her.
    He opened her door and took her arm. Her legs wobbled as they marched toward the small crowd. Her heart raced, her lungs struggling to keep up. She clutched Zac’s arm, needing support.
    As they neared, the people turned and headed toward them, microphones in hand, two video cameras. A light flashed, making her blink. Then another. She ducked into Zac, and he put his arm around her, drawing her into his side.
    And then the mob was upon them.
    â€œLucy, is it true you have amnesia?”
    â€œWhere have you been, Lucy?”
    â€œWhat can you tell us about your accident?”
    â€œWho’s the guy, Lucy?”
    â€œNo comment,” Zac growled, turning a shoulder in and plowing through the group.
    Lucy almost had to jog to keep up. They reached the stoop, and she scampered up the steps beside him.
    â€œLucy, how much do you remember?”
    â€œWhat’s your prognosis?”
    â€œWhy’d you leave your wedding?”
    â€œThey’re calling you the Runaway Bride. Any thoughts on that?” They slipped through the door and darted for the stairs. Behind them the door fell closed, shutting out the questions. Zac stayed close as they climbed a flight of steps, then another.
    Her breaths were heavy by the time they reached the top. “What about the super?”
    He pulled two little tools from his pocket. “We’re going straight to plan C.”
    Lucy looked down the stairwell while he worked, afraid the reporters were going to come crashing in the door. Their questions haunted her. How long would they stay out there? Was she going to be trapped here?
    Runaway Bride?
    â€œMaybe we should just find the super. It’ll say on the mailbox.”
    His hands went still, and he angled a look up at her, his eyes intense. “You remember the mailboxes?”
    â€œNo . . . I just assumed.”
    He visibly deflated, then went back to his tools. “I almost have it.”
    A few minutes later he turned the knob and the door opened. He held it for her and she crossed the threshold, finding a light switch on the wall beside her. The apartment smelled like new carpet and lemons. Zac shut the door behind her, fiddling with the doorknob.
    â€œYou’re going to need a better lock. A dead bolt.”
    She entered the living room, looking around at the unfamiliar sleek furniture. The walls were dove gray, the carpet white. The charcoal leather sofa looked like it was built to admire, not sit on. The end tables were glass and metal. On the wall was a Georgia O’Keefe floral print, nicely framed, and a skyline of a city—Portland, she presumed. It was a nicely appointed apartment, but it was not to her taste.
    She felt Zac’s presence as he entered the room. “Nice place. Anything seem familiar?”
    She shook her head. “Zac, this isn’t even my style. Or in my budget. Are you sure this is my place?” What if they’d picked someone else’s lock?
    â€œThe camera crew wouldn’t be here if it weren’t.”
    â€œOh. Right.” She hoped she would get her brain back soon.
    His eyes drifted around the room. “Maybe it was furnished.” He walked toward a table while she wandered down a short hall.
    A nice bedroom. A fancy bathroom with a big garden tub. She stopped in the bathroom doorway as her eyes caught on her red can of Big Sexy Hair. She picked up the mousse and the familiar hairbrush and pulled them close. Her eyes fell on her facial cleanser, and she grabbed that too.
    Zac appeared in the doorway, his eyes dropping to the products she cradled