Page 57 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

Coach said not to, but it’s not for fear of him that I don’t tell Amelia. I mean, letting him think I’m helping him out is a chance to get in his better graces. But I’ve survived being his least liked player this long. He didn’t take me off my line for personal reasons—it wasn’t until my performance started sucking. And there’s no way he could have guessed it had to do with my complicated feelings about his daughter’s upcoming wedding.

Ultimately, I think I don’t want Amelia to think I’m here because of her dad. Like some kind of bodyguard slash babysitter who was hired to do what I’m doing.

I’m here for her. That’s it.

I don’t want her overthinking or rethinking my every move, doubting my reasons for being here. Doubting my words. Doubtingme.

“If so, I’ll handle it. Is there any more coffee where that came from?” I grumble, needing caffeine about as much as I need a new direction for our conversation to go in.

“Coming right up!”

Amelia’s too-bright voice tells me she is the mostmorningof morning people.

Of course she is. The sunshine to my dark morning cloud. I’m glad, though, happy she seems to have been wrong about waking up with a painful crash into her new reality.

She sets her mug down and hops off the bed and into the bathroom, where I guess the coffee pot is? I didn’t notice much last night aside from how small this room is.

After swimming, we took turns changing in the bathroom, where I also took a cold shower just as a reminder of where mybrain needs to stay. When I emerged, wearing the athletic shorts I’m using as pajamas, Amelia had her back turned to me and was already asleep. Locating a coffee pot was the last thing on my mind.

“How do you take your coffee?” she calls. “No—wait. Let me guess.” She leans out of the bathroom door, tapping her lips with a finger. “Black.”

“Close.” I make her wait a few seconds, mostly because I like seeing her riled up. When her eyes narrow and she starts drumming her fingers on the door fame, I answer. “Two creams, no sugar. Maybe three creams.”

Amelia whistles. “Three creams? Wow. Want some coffee with your milk?”

“It’s the perfect ratio. How do you drink yours?”

“Black. One sugar in the raw. If it’s available.”

I wrinkle my nose. “That’sonechoice you can make.”

“Shut up, Mr. Cream.”

“That isnotgoing to be my nickname, Mills.”

“We’ll see. You gave me one without asking how I felt about it.”

“I thought you liked Mills.”

Instead of answering, she ducks into the bathroom again, where I hear the last drips landing in the cup. Didn’t she say she liked it? Did I overstep? But when she comes back out, her smile is smug, like she knew I was suffering while I waited for her answer.

“Don’t worry,” she tells me, handing me my coffee. “I love it.”

Relieved, I settle back on the couch, hearing a few loud pops in my back. Amelia returns to the bed fluffing a pillow in her lap as she sips her coffee.

“Good. Now we can work on finding one for me that I approve of.”

“We’ll see, Mr. Cream.”

“No.”

“I’m open to your suggestions,” she says with a laugh.

“Romeo? Casanova? Handsome?” I tease.

She makes a buzzer sound. “No way. I could always just go with Vanity.”

I groan. “Not that. Please not that.”

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