Page 36 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

The man ispotent. Even when he’s not trying to be.

And if this is himnottrying, him justpretendingso we can ditch the overzealous flight attendant, I’d hate to see Van’s charm dialed up to even a medium setting. I’d melt right into this lovely faux leather seat.

When his fingertip strokes my neck, I’m a goner.

“I’m sorry—what was the question?” I ask as Van slowly, lightly trails his fingers down my neck to my shoulder, stopping when he reaches the collar of my shirt.

He toys with the fabric, and I swear, it’s like his touch has some kind of direct line to my heart. The effect is not unlike jumper cables or those paddles they’re always using in medical dramas. Though I’m not sure if he’s shocking me to life or frying my engine.

“Is champagne good, or would you like something else, Mills?” he asks, his brown eyes warm. Amused. Alluring. Thescar through his eyebrow adds a delicious edge of danger to the whole look.

Bad boy, indeed.

A tiny shiver flows through me. “Champagne is great,” I say, my voice wobbling a little. It’ll pair perfectly with the bubbles still coursing through my blood.

“Are you celebrating something?” I’m jarred by the flight attendant’s voice. I forgot for a moment she was here. And when I glance up, I see her big smile has gone slightly brittle with Van’s show.

Clearly, I’m not the only one affected by the potent powder keg of man seated beside me.

The man who leans even closer, his smile curling up on one side in a way that has my stomach clenching. One finger drags slowly back up my neck and pauses at my hairline.

He’s like a genetically engineered apex predator—all the languid, powerful movements of a jungle cat mixed with the paralyzing venom of a snake bite. That’s the only explanation for the way I’m sitting here, slack-jawed and totally unable to do more than blink.

“You could say that,” Van murmurs, his gaze on my mouth.

Say what? What did she ask?

Oh, right—are we celebrating? Yes, we are.Pretendingto celebrate, that is. Because at the front counter, Van managed to sweet-talk his way into two first class seats next to each other on a mostly full flight—the last one of the night—to Tampa because we’re newlyweds.

Considering the events of the day, it’s only like, an eighth of a lie. Not a white one but maybe just a little greige. Technically, we did come straight from a wedding where one of us was—supposed to be—the bride. And weareheading toward a honeymoon.

For the record, I thought playing newlyweds was a terrible idea and, had he warned me, I would have stopped him. For a whole host of reasons—not the least of which being how much I loved the way Van wrapped a possessive arm around my waist, staring down at me with pure, unadulterated adoration.

Correction: fake,manufacturedadoration.

But Van already committed us to the lie by the time I realized what was happening. I figured it wasn’t a huge deal since we’re under no obligation to keep up now. It’s not like airports are known for communication between the front desks and the people working the gate or the flight crew. I seriously doubt Thomas radioed ahead and told Jill at the gate to welcome the newlyweds.

This flight attendant clearly didnotget a memo. Still—we boarded together. Shouldn’t she have at least assumed wecouldbe together and not tried to get Van’s attention every five seconds? Guess not.

“Great,” she says, sounding like she’s dry-swallowing a bitter pill of disappointment. “Be right back with your drinks.”

The moment she’s gone, I manage to shake off whatever spell Van has me under. Leaning forward, I use two fingers to pluck his hand off of my person and drop it in his lap.

“What was all that?” I hiss.

Clearly unperturbed, Van shrugs and pulls out the in-flight magazine and starts flipping through. “What was all what?”

“You—with the leaning and the touching and the sexy voice.”

Van pauses his magazine perusal and gives me a flirty side eye, which I don’t think I knew was even possible. “You think my voice is sexy?”

His pitch is low, the tone gritty. As though he’s taken the sexy dial and cranked that puppy up a few more notches.

I poke him in the chest, careful to avoid bare skin. “You stop it right now.”

“Stop what?” He grins, but then it drops and his expression turns sincere. “Look—she was clearly not giving up. And you were clearly getting jealous?—”

“I was not jealous! Just annoyed. On principle. For all she knows, we could be together. And you being somefamous hockey player”—I put this in finger quotes, which makes Van snort—“doesn’t make you property for public consumption.”

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