Page 39 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

I cross my arms. “You can just… sleep like that?” I grumble.

Before I have time to protest, Van sits up, lifts the arm rest between us and puts his arm around me, pulling me over until I’m leaning on his chest. Beneath my cheek, his muscles arefirm, but somehow perfectly snuggleable. His hand slides gently up and down my back, and just like that—I’m back to being totally paralyzed by him. Or maybe just so relaxed I don’twantto move.

“One of the perks of having me as a travel buddy is that you don’t have to get a crick in your neck while sleeping. Consider my pec your personal pillow.”

“A pectoral pillow,” I mutter, and he chuckles.

“You got it. Now, you’ve had a helluva day, Mills. Rest.”

Maybe I should be bothered by this too—Van’s bossiness. Him telling me to rest. But Van seems to perfectly anticipate my needs. He isn’t being controlling but considerate.

His command to sleep—along with the pec pillow and his gentle hand stroking my back—has an almost instant effect, and I find my eyelids heavy and my mind drifting away.

“Thanks, Van. For … everything.”

He says something in a low voice, but I only hear a rumble, and I fall asleep thinking about purring jungle cats.

CHAPTER 7

Amelia

So warm.Soooo nice and warm.

Was that my alarm? I groan. Definitely don’t want to get up. Five more minutes. Maybe ten.

I burrow my face deeper into my pillow, reaching for another one to put over my head. But my hand closes around something not so soft instead.

I thought I got rid of this stupid pillow—the memory foam one that I ordered off an infomercial and turned out to be as heavy as a boulder. I squeeze.

Not memory foam.

Not … a pillow?

More like?—

“Time to wake up, gorgeous.”

The sound of Van’s low, gritty voice instantly floods me with memories of the day’s events. I tense and go completely still. Like maybe if I don’t move and don’t open my eyes, this won’t be real.

Because I amnotin bed, being woken up by my alarm.

I’m on a plane after I didnotget married. A plane that is no longer moving.

And even before I open my eyes to survey the damage, I’mveryaware of how I’m practically lying on top of Van, my head nestled into his chest, lips brushing the bare skin between the open buttons of his shirt. One hand fisted in the material and the other … the other is not squeezing an infomercial pillow buthis leg.

Not just his leg—his upper thigh. Like,wayupper thigh. Almost to his hip.

I snatch my hand away and sit up so fast the edges of my vision go black. All I can see for a few seconds are Van’s amused brown eyes and his upturned mouth.

And did the stubble on his face grow while we were en route? Because it already seems darker, and fuller. Sexier.

No!Notsexier.

Okay, objectively, yes—sexy. It’s not even a point up for debate.

But I can’t have feelings about his objective attractiveness. It’s simply a truth universally acknowledged.

MOVING ON.

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