Page 82 of Runaway Bride and Prejudice

He tightens his grip on me. “The thought didn’t even cross my mind. Not with them or anyone else.”

I scoff. “Says the guy who told me he doesn’t need pickup lines.”

Van sits up a little straighter, tugging me with him and not giving me even an inch of reprieve. “Maybe I should clarify a few things.”

“Maybe it’s not my business,” I mutter.

“I have a reputation,” he continues, ignoring me. “Partly earned and partly encouraged. It’s true I’ve dated a lot. And if I don’t want to use lines, I don’t need them. I’m a hockey player with an active social media following. My DMs are full of offers if I want them.”

This makes me swallow hard, the jealousy from a few minutes ago rearing its roaring head again along with a sick twist in my gut. I know this. And I know he isn’t bragging. He’s not even saying it like it’s a good thing. More like listing out the things that come standard with a job: a cubicle, bad coffee in the break room, and Monday morning meetings at nine.

“I’ve kept things casual in the past,” he continues. “But casual isn’t the same ascareless. And I’ve had plenty of dates that didn’t end in bed, Mills. Just dates.” He touches my chin gently, tilting my face up toward his. “If I’ve kept things light, it’s because I take commitment seriously. And I hadn’t found the right woman for that.”

Hehadn’t.

As in … past tense?

As in … he’s found that woman now?

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” he asks.

I can’t read the expression in his eyes, other than to know he’s being sincere. It seems important to him that I understand, and he scans my face, waiting until I nod. I understand.

IthinkI understand.

He smiles—a real, full one that lightens something in me.

Van gets to his feet in a swift motion, then gently tugs me up with him, wrapping a soft towel completely around me, holding it closed at my chin. It’s kind of adorable.

It also puts his face close to mine.

“Come on then, Mills. Let’s head back up to the room and decide what’s next on our menu.”

He means activities—the jet ski rental or the dolphin excursion we discussed earlier. But the ache in my belly is for something else. For promises and declarations. Confessions, maybe. A whole different menu.

Too soon, I chide myself, but holding back is starting to hurt.

As though me thinking about not seeing Drew conjured him into place, he and Becky are at the restaurant. The resort has three inside: a rooftop restaurant we chose for tonight, two off the lobby, plus a sports bar and then an outside casual grill we’ve frequented. It seems we’ve been picking different places the last few days. Until now.

“I thought maybe they left,” I say.

“We can go.” Van’s hand lands on my lower back as though ready to steer me right back out the door.

I watch Drew with Becky for a moment since they haven’t seen us, taking a sort of internal temperature of how I feel. There are vestiges of anger and hurt, especially where Becky is concerned. The family connection will make her actions moredifficult to manage. There are still wisps of humiliation and embarrassment, and I can trace my sudden insecurities at the pool to the two of them.

But mostly, I just feel relieved that I’m here, standing with Van instead of seated with Drew. And based on their tense expressions and the way Becky is practically using her menu as a shield, I think they’d rather be somewhere else too. There is almost a twinge of sadness for Becky. Because Drew isnota catch. And if she can’t see that—well, I guess that’s the bed she made for herself.

Van’s fingertips press into my back, his touch making me draw my spine up straight. “Mills?”

“No,” I tell him. “We’ll stay.”

“Are you sure?”

I watch his brown eyes as they scan my face, feeling a hot bloom of pleasure at his attentiveness. When I grin, his eyes dart briefly to my mouth, then up to meet my gaze.

“I’m good. Promise.”

He nods, then splays his palm wide over my back as he gently urges me forward to the hostess stand.

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