I spin and my wet rainboots slip on the floor, knocking me to my ass as Church steps into the room behind me. He closes and locks the door, looking down at me with a brow raised in questioning.

“Miss Carson,” he says, almost like a soft chastisement that makes me wrinkle my nose. “You ran from me.”

“I wasn’t running from you,” I protest weakly, looking away toward the miraculously clean space under my bed. Never in my life have I managed to keep a clean room, but Church tidies it up for us. He says he likes to do it, and I can’t decide if he’s full of shit or if it really does please his OCD or something. “I just had to get something.”

Church squats down in front of me as I reluctantly drag my gaze from the dust-bunny-free zone and back to his aristocratic face. Cheekbones for days, skin like alabaster, a mouth that can make sunbeams but also go sharp as a knife. My heart is already pounding like crazy from my mad sprint across campus, but now I feel like I might pass out.

“You ran all the way over here in a wedding dress and rainboots to grab something?” he questions, and I nod. Words won’t come. I’m not sure what to say. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be feeling. “Do tell.”

“My nightstand drawer, next to the packer penis.”

Church smiles and stands up, stepping around me to slide the drawer open and coming up with a small wooden box. It’s decoupaged with old magazine photos, just some relic from an elementary school art class. But when he opens it, sliding off the top and peering inside, he’ll see it: my mother’s hairclip, with all the pearls and lace. She wore it at her own wedding to my dad, when she was just a teenager.

“This?” he asks, coming back around and sitting on the end of my bed. Church leans forward and tucks some of my blond curls back, using the clip to keep them in place. “Tell me about the clip, Charlotte.”

“It was my mom’s,” I say, looking down at my poofy lap. “She wore it when she married my dad.”

“You came all the way back here to get it?” Church clarifies again, and I shrug my shoulders, my black rainboots sticking out from underneath the full skirts. “Why?”

“Have you seen The Proposal?” I ask, turning to the side to look at him. He’s so … perfect looking, dressed in the crisp champagne colored blazer and slacks, his tie straight, his shirt free of wrinkles.

“Just once,” he supplies, putting an elbow on his knee and watching me carefully. “Why?”

“They have a fake engagement, too, but at the end, the girl runs away from the wedding.”

“And this is what you meant by Sandra Bullocking?” Church asks, and I nod. His smile gets a little wider. “Interesting idea, to turn an actresses’ name into a verb. I like the way you think, Chuck.” He pauses for a moment to consider my explanation. “So the clip was truly inconsequential then. You were running away.”

“I was running away to protect you,” I say, twisting the fabric around in my hands. “You and your awesome mom, and your really nice dad, and all your sisters …” I pause for a moment, trying to untangle my feelings. “And I did want my mom’s clip.” My mouth turns down into a sharp frown.

“Come,” Church says, standing up and offering out his hand for me to take. I grab on and let him haul me to my feet, brushing off the back of the dress. Hopefully I haven’t gotten it too dirty. It didn’t even occur to me until now that I could’ve seriously stained or torn it on the way over here. “Sit with me.” He pulls me down onto the bed next to him, holding my hands in his. One of his thumbs lazily traces the surface of the ring. “Is that it? You think that by running away, you’ll protect me?”

I look up, from the ring to his face, watching me without judgment, just a hint of concern glinting in his eyes.

“I don’t want to unpack … all of this,” I say, gesturing at my chest to indicate the strange mix of feelings resting there.

“Why not?” he queries, turning my hands over and then running his thumbs along the pulse points in my wrists. “Are you afraid you’ll hurt my feelings?” I shake my head, shrug, and then nod, just a mess of contradictory body language. “Do you believe I actually have them now? Or am I still a possible psychopath waiting in the wings?”

I snort.

“No, I don’t think you’re a psychopath anymore. The way you grieved for Ranger in the woods …” I trail off, because neither of us wants to talk about that day just yet. Maybe one day, but not today. “If I were gone, wouldn’t you guys be safer? If I left, then the Fellowship would leave you alone.” I study Church’s face for a moment, searching for clues.

“If we’re dealing with any of the families that I currently suspect, then there is no getting away. I could hire you a private security team, but I imagine the Fellowship would want to tie up loose ends. They’d come for you; you’d never feel safe, and you’d never truly be alone.”

“But at least you guys wouldn’t be in danger,” I mumble, wondering why my stupid heart won’t stop beating so fast. “And then we wouldn’t have to lie to your family about getting married.”

Church releases my hands and leans back on the bed, his palms flat against the comforter, ankles crossed.

“You’re very concerned with our well-being, aren’t you?” he asks, but I don’t know how to respond to that. I am. I’m a million times more worried about them than I am myself. “Are you afraid of getting married? Or maybe you just don’t like the idea of marriage?”

“My parents got married when my mom was young. My dad was so in love with her, I thought they’d be together forever. Even when they got divorced, even when she went away to rehab. He still loves her, but she doesn’t love him anymore.”

We sit in silence for a moment before Church gets up and retrieves us a pair of coffees in glass bottles from his cute little mini-fridge. He hands one to me and then sits just a few inches closer than he was before.

“Maybe I thought their divorce didn’t bother me, but it does?” I ask, wrinkling up my face. “That sounds pretty pathetic, huh? To be upset about divorce? I mean, half the population has divorced parents. And really, I think high divorce rates are good—it means people aren’t taking abuse and shit from their partners anymore.”

“But?” Church asks, as I twist the top off my coffee and take a sip.

“But, I guess … if my parents didn’t make it? Why would we? Maybe the way I feel about you guys is just crazy teen stuff. Besides, that’s another problem with marriage, right? I can only marry one of you.”

The smile that takes over Church’s mouth surprises me.

“Only legally, but there are other ways to be committed.” I blink back at him in shock as his face takes on this determined edge. “Not to sound like an asshole, but maybe your parents didn’t care about each other the way I care about you.”

Whoa. Far from sounding like an asshole, his statement floors me. He may as well have admitted that he feels like we’re written in the stars or something. My palms get sweaty, and I swipe them on my bedspread to keep from messing up the skirt.