COMING July, 2026

firefighter Romantic Comedy

Running from a wedding… into a fake fall romance!

Fleeing her wedding and a toxic relationship in her white gown, Peyton jumps on the first bus out of town—and straight into billionaire Liam Rockwood. Literally. Distracted by her search for a place to stay, she steps into the street and sends the town’s most eligible bachelor crashing off his bike!

Liam is furious. His suit is ruined, he’s late for an event at his hotel, and now the runaway bride responsible is trying to check in. Worse, the small-town rumor mill quickly decides Peyton must be his secret new wife.

When Liam’s father arrives ready to celebrate the “happy couple,” Liam makes Peyton an offer: a temporary marriage of convenience. She gets protection against her vindictive ex, a home, and a fresh start. He gets the wife his family expects.

As crisp fall days turn into cozy nights, they carve pumpkins, steal kisses in the corn maze, and share secrets in the dark. Suddenly, their fake marriage starts feeling dangerously real. But falling was never part of the plan…

PRE-ORDER in eBook:

Fall For Me – Chapter One

Peyton

Being a runaway bride is terribly inconvenient. Nothing romantic or momentous like in the movies. No handsome ex-boyfriend whisked me away from the altar, begging me to choose him.

No, I did this to myself.

Turns out the hardest part of running away from your wedding isn’t making the decision, but doing it in a dress designed to prevent escape.

The bustier of my wedding gown must’ve been engineered by someone who studied medieval torture devices rather than fashion. The boning digs into my sides, turning every breath into a struggle. My lower half fares no better with the skirt smothering me in an avalanche of fabric that wraps around my ankles like tentacles and turns each step into a potential face-plant. And the tattered train drags behind me, collecting street grit like a filthy mop that gains weight the longer I walk.

Why did I let Matt’s mom convince me that more is more and let her pay ten thousand dollars for me to slowly suffocate in silk?

Each step hurts. The stilettos that seemed a good idea in a plushly carpeted bridal boutique send a fresh bolt of agony from my mangled toes up to my scraped heels every time my feet hit the ground.

The early evening air nips at my bare shoulders. I wrap my arms around myself as I shiver on the sidewalk of a random town somewhere on the Lake of the Ozarks, where the bus line ended. The early October weather that was supposed to be atmospheric and romantic in my fall wedding fantasies is just plain cold.

“It’ll be magical,” the wedding planner had said. “Think of the foliage in the photos.” No one mentioned I might end up freezing to death on the shore of a podunk small town if I bolted. Not that I’d planned to bolt.

The wind whips across my back, slicing through the delicate, impractical fabric of my gown. More goosebumps rise along my arms and shoulders.

How stupid to run away in just my dress, but I hadn’t picked out a bolero or a cape to go with it. I’d counted on the champagne to keep me warm. I thought that by evening, I’d either be tipsy enough not to feel the chill or flushed from dancing. Or both. Also the reception was indoors.

Should I turn the train into a shawl? I check behind me, but the fabric is more gray than white by now, and I’d rather not drape myself in street grime.

A bolt of lightning cracks across the sky. Behind me, dark clouds gather on the horizon, and the air smells of rain. Getting soaked would be the perfect cherry on my abandoned wedding cake: five layers of Madagascar-vanilla chiffon with champagne sponge, topped with sugar magnolias rimmed in edible gold.

My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

I should’ve stolen the damn cake before I left.

I blink the image away and hobble on as my teeth clatter. What was wrong with being a summer bride? In June, I could’ve fled barefoot on a beach somewhere, hair loose in the breeze instead of having my scalp turned into a pincushion for bobby pins.

But hey, nothing says “fresh start” like hypothermia.

Speaking of summer, this wind-beaten town must be a tourist hotspot in the warmer months. Perched right on the edge of the lake, its main street slopes up from the water, crisscrossed by string lights. The road is lined with stores, their picturesque windows marked by wooden signs hanging from wrought-iron brackets and decked in pumpkins, garlands of autumn leaves, pinecones, and other quaint fall décor. But despite the festive effort, the street is deserted now.

I pass a coffee shop, The Daily Grind, closed. A hair and beauty salon, Dye Hard, closed as well. A bookshop, Shelf Indulgent, its window brimming with colorful paperbacks I’d spend too much time admiring despite the shop also being closed. But I’m freezing off, and I need to keep moving. I pass a bakery, a general store, a florist, a hardware store—all closed. The only open place is a faraway pizzeria, A Slice of Heaven. The restaurant overlooks the harbor, where water laps against the docks, moored boats creak in their slips, and the wind looks twice as vicious. I should move more inland.

I stop in front of a clothing boutique, squinting through the darkened glass. A display of scarves and sweaters mocks me from the other side. I tug at the locked doorknob, as if my desperation might somehow override their business hours.

It doesn’t.

The wind picks up again, sending a shower of russet leaves spiraling down around me. A leaf lands in my hair, joining the wilting roses. I pick it out, crumpling it in my fingers.

Main Street is very charming until you realize nothing is open. Every window is dark. The entire town has tucked itself into bed early even if it’s Saturday night. They must’ve wanted to escape the wind that keeps howling off the water like it wants to personally escort me to Pneumonia.

Which begs the question: Where the fuck am I?

I fled the church with nothing but my phone. I have no money except what’s in my digital wallet. No jacket, no change of clothes, no plan whatsoever beyond the primal need to get out, get away.

Fingers clumsy from the cold, I unlock my screen. I put it on airplane mode before anyone could realize I was on the run. And it’s been like that since I climbed out the chapel’s stained-glass window, sprinted to the station, and jumped on the first bus out of town without checking the destination.

I needed to save battery and become unreachable. But I’m down to 15 percent anyway. A red bar of impending doom.

I hover my thumb over the airplane mode toggle. The moment I turn this off, reality will flood back in. I’ll be tossed into the world where I left Matt standing at the altar in front of two hundred guests. The world where my family is probably having a full-blown, Chardonnay-fueled meltdown.

But I have no choice. I need to figure out where I am, find somewhere to sleep while I can still use a virtual card to pay, and get warm. I can’t survive without the internet.

I tap the icon.

The phone convulses in my hand, buzzing frantically as notifications fill the screen. The numbers tick up like an unbridled slot machine:

Missed Call: Mom (17)

Missed Call: Dad (11)

Missed Call: Matt (23)

Voicemail: Mom

Voicemail: Matt

52 new messages

Mom

Where are you???

Peyton, answer your phone. We’re worried sick

Matt is devastated

I doubt devastated is how my fiancé—ex fiancé?—is feeling. Angry. Self-righteous. Vindictive. All would be better suited.

Mom

His family is furious

Yeah, this is more the vibe with the VanCamps.

Dad

Bug, what happened?

Please call us. Let us know you’re safe

I reply only to my parents with a short message to let them know that I’m alive and swipe the rest of the messages away. But more crop up underneath. Notification after notification invades the screen, stacking on top of each other so fast I can barely read them.

Emma

Okay, honestly? Leaving the groom at the altar if you weren’t feeling it: hero move. A heads-up would’ve been nice, though. I could’ve been your getaway driver

Are you okay?

I’m hiding six bottles of champagne in my car. Send me your location. We can get trashed

My best friend and maid of honor is the only person I’d want with me. But first I need a location to send her. I swipe her messages away, too. More follow.

Cousin Greg

Hey sweetie, Cousin Greg here. Sorry to hear the news. Is the open bar still happening, or should we head to Applebee’s?

Aunt Mable

May I take the centerpieces home? The roses are dying, and it seems like a waste

Great Aunt Shirley

I knew your mother shouldn’t have let you eat carbs this week. It clouded your judgment

Rebecca (second cousin)

Mom’s live-stream of the empty altar has gone viral

I’m getting drunk now as her social media has become more popular than mine

Also, is it okay if I hook up with Matt’s brother, or is there a waiting period?

A wave of nausea sloshes in my stomach, making me want to throw up. I shove it down. I can’t deal with any of them now. With a few frantic taps, I enable the Do Not Disturb mode, silencing the assault. The buzzing stops. I push the thought of the wreckage I left behind into a locked box in the back of my mind to reopen later. Or never. Never sounds nice.

I tap the map app. A little blue dot pulses, showing my location. I’m in a town I’ve never heard of called Blue Crescent Harbor. The name suits the curved shoreline of the bay.

I zoom out, confirming I’m still in Missouri. About two hours north of Springfield, where I’m from.

I switch to a travel app and search for “Hotels near me.”

Several options pop up, most with reasonable rates. Thank goodness they’re open even in the off-season.

At the top of the list is a place called “Rockwood Resort” with five-star average ratings, wide-angle pictures of luxury balconies overlooking the water, an infinity pool, and a swanky lobby. The room price per night makes me wince.

It’s four times what the others cost. But it’s also the closest option, less than half a mile away according to the map.

My feet throb in protest at even that short distance just as a raindrop lands on my screen, then another on my shoulder. Perfect timing. The storm that has been brewing all evening is making good on its promise while I’m still out in the open.

Between the cold, the pain in my feet, and the impending downpour, money seems like the most expendable resource.

My bank account can recover. My toes might not.

I search for an Uber, but the closest car is forty minutes away. I’ll be frozen by then. Resigned, I tap on the resort’s “Get Directions” link.

Two blue lines appear on the map, one lining the coast, the other continuing down Main Street with a right turn at the end onto Lakeside Drive. The second is two minutes slower, but the downtown buildings promise a little shelter from the elements. I tap that one.

A calm, disembodied female voice tells me to proceed to the route. I follow its instructions, my gaze locked on the phone, watching as my location dot inches forward. Another raindrop hits my screen. I wipe it away with my thumb, leaving a smear across the glass.

I trudge on. Each step feels like I’m walking on broken glass. I consider taking the shoes off, but limping barefoot on dirty, wet-cold concrete seems even worse.

My train catches on a crack in the sidewalk. I slip, catch myself, tug the fabric free, and keep stumbling ahead.

The hem of my skirt keeps catching under my shoes. I hold the excess fabric up with one arm, but it is not enough.

I trip again, and this time, my ankle gives out. My heel skids off the edge of the curb, and I pitch forward, landing in the middle of the street. I fly my arms out to keep upright, barely holding on to my phone as the underskirts snare my feet more tightly and I land on my hands and knees.

A sound rips through the quiet evening. A deep, guttural rumble that vibrates through the asphalt and up into my bones.

I lift my head and freeze. A beam of light, blindingly white, is rushing toward me. It pins me in its glare. The rumble escalates into the deafening roar of an engine pushed to its limit as a red sports motorcycle barrels down the street at full speed.

I register its advancement in fragments. The lacquered gleam of the bike. The dark figure hunched over the handlebars. The screech of brakes. And the smell of burning rubber filling the air.

The bike fishtails, the front wheel jerking to one side as the rider fights for control. But the headlights still fill my vision, inexorably rushing toward me along with the certainty, bone-deep and absolute, that I’m about to die.

In a wedding dress.

On a random street in an unknown town.

My last thought, absurdly, is that getting hit by a motorcycle sounds less painful than taking one more step in these heels.

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