Page 16 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

“Will do. But I’ll let your dad beat up Uncle Bobby a bit first, okay?”

“Agreed.”

Morgan gives Amelia a quick hug before giving Drew a sharp kick to the shins as she heads out into the hallway.

Amelia snorts, then turns her ice-blue eyes up to me. For someone whose life just imploded and is literally standing among the fallout, she seems way too calm. But it’s there in her eyes—a gathering storm.

“Are you sure you don’t mind helping me escape?” Amelia asks, and the way she bites her lip has me thinking things I shouldn’t be thinking. Not when she’s wearing a wedding dress.

And not when there has to be a whole maelstrom of emotions underneath the surprising calm she’s wearing now. I hope by the time the storm comes she has someone with her to walk her through.

I wish it could be me.

Unlikely.

Especially not when she’s gone from pressing a champagne bottle to my aching face to looking suspicious when she heard Coach call me by a different name.

At some point, I’ll explain why I ran out like a coward that night. But first, we need to get out of here.

Especially before Coach sees her leaving with me. I have a feeling he wouldnotapprove. Even if I’m just playing the chauffeur.

I force my gaze back up to her eyes. “I always wanted to be someone’s getaway car.”

When she hesitates, hazarding a gaze toward the chaos behind us, I take her hand. “Come on. I’ve got you.”

CHAPTER 4

Amelia

“Where to?”Robbie asks, the engine of his SUV purring to life with the push of a button.

Some people might be in awe of artificial intelligence or advancements in biotech. Me? I’m forever astounded by starting a car with the press of a finger. Maybe because my dad is of the opinion that cars should be driven into the ground. And since Toyotas never die, my little Camry may outlive me. I certainly don’t see a push-button ignition in my near future.

Robbie—or Van?—clears his throat.

“Right. Where to, where to, where to,” I mutter, like Dorothy clicking her heels together. As though chanting the words will give me an answer. It doesn’t. My brain feels like it’s been bleached. “Um, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t plan my escape very well.”

“I think you’re doing just fine.” He glances over, a wry grin on his lips. “You got out. That’s the important part. Keep thinking, and for now, I’ll just get us out of here. You know, in caseyour idiot ex-fiancé tries to chase after you.” He puts the car in reverse, then pauses, turning to fully look at me, his dark eyes intense. “Unless … youwanthim to chase after you?”

“If he does, will you run him over?” I deadpan.

“Yes,” he says. No hesitation. And a small, pleased smile. A wicked one.

I love it.

I mean,assumingwe’re both kidding. I wouldn’t literally commit homicide or ask anyone else to do so overDrew. He’s totally not worth the jail time.

But I do think there should be laws in place over this kind of thing. Fines. Legal ramifications. A scarlet letter. Just not … vehicular homicide.

Would heactuallyrun Drew over?

I study Robbie’s—Van’s—profile as he turns out of the church parking lot, headed west toward the mountains. When we met his head was almost shaved. I even reached up to run my fingers over the rough stubble at one point that night. Now, it’s longer and softer. A bit unruly.

It suits him.

He has a wide, square jaw covered with a neatly trimmed beard; a nose that’s either been broken a lot or is naturally somewhat crooked; and a scar threading through his eyebrow, extending down near the outside corner of one eye.

And let’s not forget the hint of a tattoo peeking out where his shirt’s unbuttoned.

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