Page 73 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

Flavor profiles deals with food, so?—

“You make a nice pillow,” Amelia murmurs, and her lips graze my skin. She sighs. “Warm.”

“Thanks for the massage. I think I might actually be able to look both ways before crossing the street now.”

She giggles, her hand finding mine as she links our fingers together.

“What do you want to do today?” I ask.

“We did what I wanted yesterday,” Amelia says, propping up on an elbow to look at me. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, sleepy. The lopsided bun piled on her head looks like it will fall out any second.

She’s so beautiful. Just like this.

But her elbow is in my gut. I grunt and reposition us so that she’s looking up at me but not stabbing my organs.

“This is your week, Mills.”

She’s already shaking her head. “Ourweek.” I like the way that sounds. She must too because she smiles and bites her lip. “So, how should we spendourday?”

I slide my fingers from hers and reach out to tap her nose. “I like your freckles.”

She makes a face. “Really? I hate them.”

“Why?”

“Maybe if I just had a few, it would be fine. But I have so many.”

It’s true. She does have a lot. I could see how this might make a person self-conscious. But they suit her.

“I wouldn’t change a thing about you, Mills.”

The words come out husky and low, carrying the full weight of my sincerity. As I watch, the freckles in question fade under the rush of red in her cheeks.

“Same.” One side of her mouth curls up in a tiny smile. “But don’t let it go to your head, hotshot. Although”—she sinks herhand into my hair and my eyelids fall halfway shut— “I don’t think you’re half as cocky as you want people to think you are.”

“That so?”

She starts to rub my head, her nails lightly scratching my scalp. If I could purr, I would. I want to keep my eyes on her but they flutter closed.

“I don’t think you’re such a bad boy either. In fact, you’re kind of a sweetheart.”

She’s wrong, but I’ll play along. “Mm-hm. Don’t tell the guys.”

“Oh, I plan to tell everyone,” she says. “I’m going to have it tattooed on my body somewhere.”

My eyes crack open. “Your first tattoo will be for me? I’m flattered.” When she doesn’t say anything, my eyes open wider. “Wait—do you already have a tattoo?

“Maybe.”

I haven’t noticed any, and I’ve seen her in two bathing suits this week. The turn in conversation has my blood thumping. “Yeah? Where?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

I would. Very much. And it must be written all over my face because she giggles and pushes off me to stand up, stretching her arms overhead.

“I’m kidding. No tattoos. I’m not against them or anything. I just haven’t found a design I love. Plus, my dad …” She trails off, catching herself.

“Your dad isn’t into tattoos?”

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