Page 81 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

I pause here, eyes closed, the world muted around me, allowing myself a weightless, peaceful moment.

Well.Almostpeaceful. Because my brain seems intent on playing a slideshow featuring Van front and center. His cocky smile as he perfectly landed on a platform earlier when zip lining. The teasing smile he gave me when we were playing in the ocean the first night. The way he looks when arguing vehemently about Keanu Reeves—even when he’s dead wrong about Keanu’s talent.

The way his mouth grazed my skin on the sunset cruise as we stood at the railing, the sway of the boat and Van’s nearness making me unsteady. His kindness. His attentiveness. His taut, inked skin on display where he’s lying on the lounge chair.

My lungs are burning, along with the rest of me. I push off the bottom, propelling myself toward the surface. Gasping as my face breaks free, I’m instantly warmed by the sun as I take in a few quick breaths, my fingers finding the edge of the pool. I cross my arms on the concrete and rest my chin on them, my body floating behind me as I gently kick my legs.

But then I frown, noticing a bevy of women surrounding Van’s lounge chair. It looks like they’re trying to get him to sign things—no, to signthem. The woman closest to him is leaning over at an uncomfortable angle, gesturing to her chest, a permanent marker in her hand.

Who even brings a permanent marker to a pool?

For a few seconds I just gape, processing. Only a few people this week recognized Van. Almost all of them were harmless. A little kid had Van sign a t-shirt. A couple wanted a picture with him. All a little starstruck. No one—aside from our flight attendant—stepped over any lines.

But these ladies sailed right over any lines of decency.

Van smiles, but it’s not any of the ones I’ve grown used to—not the cocky smirk or the teasing half smile or the full, genuine one. It looks more like he’s baring his teeth. He holds up bothpalms in a gesture clearly meant as a politeno. I can read it from here. But the woman with the Sharpie is undeterred.

I swallow down the acidic taste of jealousy, telling myself I have zero claim on this man. But then I see the tightness around his mouth and the way his whole body has gone rigid, and jealousy bleeds into protective anger.

Van turns his face away from the woman thrusting her chest in his face while waving the marker at him. But this leaves him face-to-thigh with another woman.

His sunglasses are still hiding his eyes, but I swear when he glances my way, I can feel his eyes lock with mine.

And maybe I’m imagining it, but I also sense him sending out an S.O.S. over the concrete pool deck.

I’ve hoisted myself out of the pool and am marching over before I’ve even thought about it. Still dripping as I reach Van and his cluster of unwanted ladyfans, I nudge my way between them and then plop right down on the lounge chair next to him. It’s a thin sliver of space, and I practically plaster my wet body to his.

His arm curls around my back and he shifts, making enough room so I don’t fall off, but not so much that there’s even an inch between us. I feel him relax against me.

“I’m cold,” I say in a whiny, baby voice. The kind I suspect is right in the middle of these women’s repertoire, though I’m currently pretending they don’t exist. I let my fingers walk a path up his chest, tracing the dragon’s scales, until I reach Van’s chin, where I run my fingers over his bristly, two-days’ growth of stubble.

“Do you want to go back up to the room?” he asks, one dark brow arching above his sunglasses.

“Maybe. It’s awfully crowded out here.” I lean closer, letting my lips brush his jaw close to his ear. Not quite a kiss. Not quite not a kiss either. “I wouldn’t mind some privacy.”

I didn’t mean the words, already charged with double meaning, to come out so huskily. But I can’t be sorry when they have the effect of scattering the women. One by one, their shadows over us disappear, letting the sun beat down on me again.

“That was quite a performance,” Van says.

Honestly? It wasn’t a performance at all.

I wastotallyjealous, and can’t even deny it to myself. But sure—let’s go with that. I’m performing. And I’m only curled up against Van to help him escape the women. Yep. That’s why.

“I learned everything I know from Keanu Reeves,” I say, and this makes him laugh. Head thrown back, smile wide, chest bouncing beneath me. If it weren’t for his arm anchoring me, I think it would have thrown me off the chair. “I hope it’s okay that I stepped in. You looked uncomfortable or I wouldn’t have interrupted.”

Van doesn’t miss the shift in my tone. “I appreciate the rescue,” he says, tugging me closer.

But I feel a chill, one deeper than the cold water still dripping from my hair and suit. Because we’ve existed mostly in a bubble, Van and I. These women were a slap in the face reminder of what life is like at home for Van—the well-known hockey player who only casually dates. The one who has promised me nothing.

I start to get up, but Van’s arm tightens and he angles his head back so he can see my face. With his sunglasses in place, I can’t tell where he’s looking. Not until he pulls them up with his free hand, revealing those expressive dark eyes.

“What is it?” he asks.

“I don’t want to share you,” I say. “It’s selfish.”

He laughs. “You don’t need to share me. And it’s not selfish.” When he sees the expression on my face, his laughter dies and his brows pull together. “Mills?”

“I just … kind of forgot about reality. Or about you maybe wanting to meet someone here. Someone who isn’t me.”

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