Page 42 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

“I’m not worried. Look! I did put some stuff in the cart. But I’m buying these,” I argue stubbornly, clutching the multipack ofcotton boy shorts to my chest, which hopefully hide most of the two bras.

“Your loss.” Van looks like an oversized mutant child as he puts one foot on the cart and pushes off with the other to glide down the aisle.

“You’re going to get us kicked out,” I call. He only laughs.

Somehow, Van looks totally in his element here. Not that Walmart specifically is his element. He is absolutely not a People of Walmart kind of person.

It’s more that I have yet to see Van look uncomfortable today. In every situation he’s been thrown in, he lands on his feet, adapting and going with the flow like wherever he is, he’s meant to be there. Despite the fact it’s ten o'clock at night and he’s in Walmart wearing dress shoes, suit pants, and a shirt that seems to get unbuttoned a little more each hour. I’m less distracted by his tattoo now that his very defined six-pack is partially visible.

Not that I’m looking!

No. I’m really not. I’m staring at the pack of panties and the two bras in my hand—wondering if the sixteen-dollar bra is really that much better than the three-dollar one. Heck, I should get them both and then do a test. Then again, the airport will probably find my bags tomorrow, so I don’t need two bras but just in case?—

“Gimme.” Van’s hand reaches out, snatching the underwear and bras right out of my hands and tossing them at the cart. He misses, and now two bras and a pack of neon underwear skitter across the tile floor.

I didn’t even notice him coming back down the aisle.

I scramble to grab the underwear, pulling them to my chest again. Van eyes me, hands on his hips and eyebrows raised.

“You don’t need to be weird about this. It’s just underwear, Mills. We all wear it.”

“You wear bras?” I deadpan, and he laughs.

“No. I don’t wear bras.” He reaches in the cart and plucks out a package of boxer briefs, holding them up and waving them. “See! Underwear. Everybody wears it.”

Okay. I didnotneed this visual.

He’s chosen dark colored boxer briefs—black, navy, charcoal gray—and all I can think about is the fact that the shirtless dude modeling them on the package has got nothing on Van.

“Don’t make it a big deal.” Van says, tossing the briefs in the cart. This time, he makes it.

He’s right, of course. It’s just … okay, maybe I’m a little uptight about some things. Including underwear. Uptight is such a negative word.

Private. That’s better.

“Sorry if I don’t go flashing my panties to every Tom, Dick, and Harry hanging out in Walmart.”

“I’m sorry, did you say my name?” A man with bushy gray eyebrows and a circa-2000s soul patch steps into the aisle, holding a blender in one hand and a pair of work boots in the other.

As one does in Walmart.

“What?” I say.

“I’m Harry,” he says, tapping his chest with the blender. “I thought I heard you say my name and something about … panties?”

Van snorts, and the man—Harry—drops his gaze to the underwear and bras still clutched to my chest. This feels like a strange sort of life lesson, like the reason why no one should walk around Walmart holding—and arguing about—undergarments.

Had I just put them in the cart like Van asked, we would not be having this conversation.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I did say your name, but I was talking about the metaphorical Harry.”

“The who-what now?” Actual Harry asks, his bushy brows drawing together in consternation.

“Sorry—just a bit of confusion here.” Van tugs the undergarments from my hands for the second time and drops them into the cart.

“Hop on,” he says, tipping his chin toward the back of the cart.

And even though I was just chastising him for riding on the cart, I grab the handle and step up with both feet. I’m not quite prepared for the heat of Van’s body against my back as his hands grasp the handle next to mine. He pushes us down the aisle and away from Actual Harry.

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