Page 38 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

The woman’s cheeks flame, and she quickly steps back. “I’m sorry.”

I don’t look at Van. Instead, I watch as she walks away in her navy suit.

A head with soft white curls appears over the top of the seat in front of us, and an older woman grins at me. “Good for you, honey.”

I smile weakly before she drops back down in her seat. “Thanks?”

A champagne flute appears in front of me, and I take it with a shaking hand. Van’s fingers close around mine, steadying me.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Fine.” My voice is a coiled spring. “Does this happen often?”

He gives a little shrug. “Sometimes.”

Which I’ll take to mean more often than I want to know. I also don’t want to know if Van would have brushed the woman off had I not been here. He did say he dates a lot. I swallow.

Still cupping my hand, Van leans close, his lips brushing my ear. “For the record, jealousy looks hot on you, Mills. Even if you’re pretending.”

He leans away, dropping his hand, and I take a quick swallow of champagne. I feel the cool liquid travel all the way down my throat.

The problem is I’mnotpretending. The part about marrying Van may have been a straight-up lie, but the desire to do bodily harm to the flight attendant—or at least settle for a verbal beatdown—is viscerally real.

I’m not possessive so much as I’mpossessed. I can practically taste my own jealousy underneath the dry fizz of the champagne. It’s sickly sweet and heady. Maybe in shoving down my feelings about what happened with Drew and Becky, I’m forcing all of my other emotions to the surface. Like I can only holdso manyfeelings back at one time.

Or maybe I’m just … not myself.

“You started it with your lies,” I mutter, which is also true.

Van takes a slow sip of champagne. “When did I lie?”

“At the counter. You told the man we were newlyweds.”

“No, I didn’t. I simply walked up to the counter and saidnewlyweds. Notwe are newlyweds,” he says. “Was the implication there? Yes. But I didn’t outright lie.”

I think back to the exchange and realize he’s right. His ability to be so casually deceptive—and believable—terrifies me.

“Oh, you’re good,” I tell him. Meaning, of course, very, very bad.

“So, did you change your mind about keeping up the charade?” He lowers his voice. Not like anyone could hear us over the plane’s engine. “You want to stay married to me, Mills?”

My cheeks flush at the mere idea of Van and me and marriage. “No.”

“You sure? It might come in handy now and again.” He finishes his champagne, watching me.

I lift the flute to my lips and let the smallest amount roll over my tongue while I consider. While I do, I feel Van’s attention on me. It’s oppressive. Not in a wholly bad way, but more like an unignorable presence, a barometric pressure shift.

“It’s probably a bad idea,” I tell him.

“Okay,” he agrees easily. “But if you change your mind, we can always pull the married card when it suits us. You know—for upgrades, free stuff.” He grins. “Scaring off handsy flight attendants.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine.” Eyeing the glass in my hand, I say, “I probably shouldn’t have much more of this or I might start an actual cat fight.”

Van smiles. “You can cat fight if you want to. You can pretend to be my wife. Or not. You get to make the rules, Mills.”

I lift my half-full glass and clink it against his empty one, holding his gaze as I say, “Cheers to rewriting the rules.”

Moments after he finishes the champagne, the flight attendant reappears—of course—and I practically throw the glasses at her with a glare. Van chuckles, winks at me, and then leans his head against the window.

---