Page 21 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

Disappointment is a metal vise squeezing my ribs. Or maybe my dress has some kind of tripwire, where if you don’t actually get married in it, the bodice becomes like a bear trap, squeezing the life out of you. Especially if you start getting any kind of ideas about a man than the one you were supposed to marry.

It’s stupid to be disappointed. To think Van’s actions today had anything to do withme.

Just like when he ghosted me at the restaurant, his decisions are about mydad.

“Right. My dad is your coach,” I say, appointing myself Captain of the Obvious.

“I would have done something anyway,” Van says. “I hate cheating. And cheaters.”

I want to ask more questions. About his sisters, about why the mention of cheating has his hands curling tightly around the wheel until I fear it might break off in his hands.

But I chicken out.

“Can I borrow your phone?” I ask instead.

“Here.”

I think Van’s about to hand me his phone, but instead he reaches over, takes my hand, and places it on the steering wheel.

It takes me entirely too long to realize he expects me to steer. That his hands are no longer on the wheel as he lifts his hips and starts digging around for his phone in his back pocket.

“What—no! I can’t steer like this!”

Especially not on a winding road. I am not known for my driving prowess. Just ask Dad’s exorbitant insurance from my teen years. As if to prove the point, my grip tightens, jerking the wheel a little to the right.

“Just hold the wheel steady,” Van says, somehow sounding still unconcerned.

But I am anything but steady. And Iamconcerned. What if a squirrel runs out into the road? Or a deer! Or a bear! I can’t run over nature!

“Is your phone in some kind of locked pants-vault?” I say, my voice coming out squeaky and panicked. “You need to take the wheel!”

We’re climbing uphill, a nasty curve coming up.

“Nah, I trust you.”

The bend in the road is closer. Van isn’t even slowing yet. I stomp on an imaginary brake.

“But you shouldn’t! You barely know me!Idon’t trust me!”

I practically shriek this last part.

“You’ve got this,” he says with far more confidence than I deserve.

He won’t think this when I wrap his shiny SUV around a pine tree.

“And I’ve got you.” Van locates his phone and tosses it in my lap, taking control of the car once more. My palm is sweaty when I peel it off the wheel. But I didn’t kill us, so … celebrate the small victories?

Another un-wedding rule I can add to the list: always celebrate the little things.

“Nice steering,” he says.

“Bad driving,” I snap back. He only grins. “What’s your passcode?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m still breathing heavily from my anxiety about steering his car.

“Never give this out,” he warns.

I scoff. “Who would I possibly give it to?”

“Anyone. But especially your dad. Or my teammates.”

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