The Trouble with Runaway Brides

I should not still be hung up on my high school girlfriend.

I’m a billionaire, with a penthouse in New York City, a private plane, and was recently crowned one of Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors.

She’s engaged to my rival. A real prick of a guy whose family is about as famous as mine. So, pictures of the happy couple are plastered everywhere, and it’s driving me insane.

The last time I spoke to her was my freshman year of college, and I never imagined I’d bump into her at a crowded restaurant in the busiest city in the world. But fate had other plans, and when I innocently suggest that the press wouldn’t bother with her wedding plans if she held it in our small Alaskan town where we grew up, I had no idea she’d take me seriously.

Now, I find myself helping her plan the wedding at my dad’s luxury resort while the town’s gossip app follows our every move, afraid that their golden boy will get his heart broken twice by the same girl.

But that’s impossible because she stole my heart when we were fifteen, and never gave it back.

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