Page 87 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

He nods, then shoots me a sideways look, his smile soft. “Yep.”

“Maybe you just needed a break from hockey?” I ask. “I know from Dad the schedule is brutal.”

The Appies workhard. During the season, I barely see Dad, and the players have extra press and charity events and things I don’t even know about.

But I immediately wish I hadn’t brought up my father. Van stiffens, his fingers tightening on my hip. It’s easy to forget out here that they have their own relationship apart from me. Not a great one.

What would Dad say if I brought Van home?

No—what will Dad saywhenI bring Van home?

Because I realize in this moment, despite Morgan’s warnings and my own doubts and the ludicrousness of the last few days, this is something. It’s real.

And it’s big.

If Dad has an issue with Van, he can get over it.

And if I can’t bring myself to be brave enough to tell Van how I feel, this all may be a nonissue.

“I think it’s more about the company,” Van says, and my heart takes this as its cue to run amok, beating wildly in my chest.

I don’t know how to respond, so I go with teasing. Trying to play it off while also tucking it away into my core memories. “All those ladies at the pool today, huh?”

He snorts, but when I glance over, his expression is sincere. Vulnerable. Definitely not his typical cocky mask. I sway on my feet, thoughts humming.

“It’syou, Mills.”

“Oh,” is all I can manage.

Van bumps his hip into mine. “Now's the time when you say, ‘Me too, Van. I love having you around too!’”

I laugh at his high-pitched impression of me. “That’s not how I sound.”

“It’s alittle bithow you sound.”

“Shut up.”

“I will. But only after you tell me how much you enjoy my company.” Van drops his hand and takes a few quick steps ahead, then turns to face me, walking backward with his eyes fixed on mine. “I’m waiting.”

He’s teasing. But our conversation has shifted to encompass something larger than companionship and a walk on the beach.

My mouth goes dry. This is it—another opportunity to speak up. To tell him how I’m really feeling. A second chance after I froze in the restaurant and couldn’t form the words. But I’m still processing how it’s possible to feel so much for someone I’ve only just met in such a short time.

How did I get so addicted in so short a time?

How will things change when we go back home?

The idea fills me with a deep and echoing emptiness. An ache that has me pressing one hand to my chest, like I can shove all these big feelings I shouldn’t be having back inside my body. Or down a mineshaft.

As the silence stretches, Van’s smile falls, and he turns around, giving me his back. He pauses, waiting for me to catch up. I do, stumbling again over every divot in the sand until Van hears me struggling, and turns with a frown to wait.

But his expression is closed. His hands hang limp and loose at his sides.

“It’s okay,” he says, and though I can see the corner of his mouth curling up, there’s no smile in his voice. “You don’t have to say anything. I promised myself I wouldn’t push.”

“No, Van. That’s not it.”

I place my palm flat against his chest, my fingertips ending up just inside the V of his shirt collar. They rest on the plume of smoke curling up from his dragon’s mouth and I’m momentarily distracted by the crisp ink. My fingers curl, grasping the hem of his shirt as my gaze snaps up to his.

---