Page 17 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

It drove me nuts the night we met, and I spent too long trying to figure out what the ink peeking out of his V-neck was.

Now, his suit jacket is in the back, tossed casually like the man dares wrinkles to defy him, and he’s unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt. I still can’t get a good look at the tattoo though.

I realize with a hot flush of shame that I’m staring. Admiring him, if I’m being honest. Then my gaze snags on the swelling in his face. Tomorrow, it will be worse. Guilt pricks me.

He took not one buttwohits on my account. And he barely knows me.

“Your face.” I start to reach out, then drop my hand to my lap in a fist. “Does it hurt?”

He shoots me a quick glance, as though my words or maybe the shift in my tone surprised him. “Nah. I mean, it’s a little sore, but no biggie. I get hit all the time. Just usually not by an angel statue and my coach’s fist.”

He chuckles, a low sound that makes my skin hum like a plucked string.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a wince, studying the red mark on his cheek. There’s a tiny scrape too, one that might scab over tomorrow. “Sorry about everything.”

Van frowns. “None of this was your fault. No apologies from you. It’s a rule.”

“I didn’t realize there were rules for being a runaway bride.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Yeah?” I ask. “Whose rules are they? Is there a list somewhere?”

“The rules are yours to make.” He shoots me a quick look and an even quicker smile.

“Butyou’rethe one who said no apologies is a rule.”

“Fine,” he concedes. “That’smyrule. The rest are up to you.”

I like this idea. New rules for what will be a new chapter in my life.

Though I’m not at all ready to think about that new chapter too hard. Because there are a whole lot of wayward sections of my old life I have to deal with first. Wedding gifts to return, finding a place to live since I moved in with my dad temporarily, and—ugh—finding a new job.

Because a few months ago, I made the ill-fated decision to apply at Drew’s company. We don’t work in the same department, but the company is small enough I won’t be able to avoid him. I can’t go back. It was a realization I had the moment I took off his ring.

“Are you comfortable?” Robbie asks. “Do you have enough room?”

“As comfortable as I can be. This thing isn’t exactly made for car trips.”

I gesture toward my dress, the skirt puffing up around me like spray foam insulation in a crawlspace. The gown is gorgeous if not horribly uncomfortable. My ribs ache from the bodice, which has some serious boning, which is seriously oppressive. It is definitely not a dress meant for car rides. Even in SUVs as spacious—and surprisingly clean—as this one.

I shouldn’t have made the assumption that all hockey players would have messy cars that smelled like stank hockey gear. The interior of this car actually smells fantastic. Or maybe that’s him?

I managenotto lean over and sniff him, though I’d like to know if the clean, masculine scent is him or some kind of hidden Sexy Dude Smell air freshener inside the car.

He notices my not-so-subtle perusal of his vehicle, frowning as he glances around the car. Hopefully he didn’t notice me sniffing.

I swallow down a laugh because I cannot believe I’m sitting here in my wedding dress, thinking about how good hesmells.

“What?” he asks.

“Your car is clean.” A stupid thing to say. Especially because it reveals that I expected it not to be.

“I have two,” he says with a grin. “My Jeep has all the hockey gear.” He pauses. “And all the mud.”

Mud? Okay, I guess he’s one of those guys who does the whole off-roading thing. And he’s also a guy who does the whole two-cars thing. I know Dad’s team has reached some kind of superstar level for AHL in the past few years, but maybe I didn’t realize how well the Appies were doing. Or maybe Robbie—Van—has family money.

I might have gotten along with him from the very moment we met, but I know almost nothing about him. Including his actual name.

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