Page 51 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

Twisting Mom’s ring, I try to look at Van without turning my head, but I can only see his black dress shoes, winking as he shifts his weight.

Is he as nervous about this as I am?

Because despite how comfortable I feel with Van, we’re about to share a single hotel room with a single bed.

Both of which turn out to be even smaller than I expected.

I mean, I knew it wouldn’t be the suite Drew showed me pictures of when he booked the resort. But I also didn’t expect a space barely big enough to fit a bed and a couch.

“That’s not a king bed,” I blurt. “Is it?”

Van is frozen just outside the door, like he’s a vampire, needing an invitation to enter. His eyes scan the room, landing on the bed. “No,” he agrees. “Not unless there’s such a thing as a Florida king, which is somewhere between a twin and a double.”

“It’s fine,” I say, as much to myself as to him. “We’ll try to get a manager or something to move us to the suite tomorrow.”

“Right,” he says. “Tomorrow.” He’s still standing just outside, keeping the door propped open with one dress shoe.

“Are you coming in?” I ask.

He starts to step inside, then hesitates, his eyes meeting mine. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

I wonder which part ofthishe means. Thethiswhere I’m sharing a room with a man I’ve spent a sum-total of less than twenty-four hours with in my whole life?

Or thethiswhere we’re practically going to be sleeping on top of each other?

Probablynotthethiswhere I’m feeling an unsettling attraction toward him.

I can only hope he can’t tell. Because the last thing I want is for Van to think I’m looking for some kind of rebound hookup. Oranykind of rebound.

“We’re both adults,” I tell him, but the crack in my voice undermines my words, making me sound like a teenage boy in the middle of puberty.

“Right,” he agrees.

When he still doesn’t move, I drop my bags on the bed and stride the four steps it takes to get to the door, dragging Vaninside by his shirt sleeve. It seems important right now that I touch fabric, not skin.

The door slams behind him. A very final sound. One that has me swallowing hard and smiling too wide. Because the room suddenly feels like a trash compactor, the walls inching closer and closer as all oxygen seeps from the room.

We are standing in the narrowest part of the room, between the bathroom door and a tiny closet. Only one lamp near the bed offers any light in the room. Should have thought of that before I yanked him in here. Van’s face looks dangerously handsome cast in shadow, his eyes inky and dark as they hold my gaze with an intensity I can’t quite read.

Whatever exhaustion I felt during our meal downstairs has evaporated completely. I am now wired. It feels as though every cell in my body has been activated, and they’re all tiny satellites, tuned to Van.

“Night swimming,” I blurt, and he blinks like I’ve broken him out of a trance.

“What?”

“We should go swimming. Now.”

“You’re not tired?” he asks.

“Not anymore. Are you?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. When he speaks, it’s in a rough rasp. “Not even a little.”

“Then it’s settled.” I dart back to the bed, grab the two bags with my new Walmart digs, and sidestep Van on my way to the bathroom.

Before I can step inside, his fingers curl around my wrist. “Hey,” he says, whatever expression his face held moments before replaced with a divot between his brows and concern in his dark eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep? You practically face-planted into your salad at dinner.”

“I …”

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