Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

Amelia

"Let me get this straight," Morgan says. "Drew and Becky checked into the honeymoon suite this morning but Restaurant Robbie drove them out with a pitchfork?"

"Van. Yes. But without the pitchfork."

"A flaming torch?" she asks hopefully. "A sword?"

"Just with words. And possibly some threats."

"Okay," Morgan says. "I can believe it. But now you're sharing the honeymoon suite with Restaurant Robbie?—"

" Van ."

"—because they didn't have any other rooms."

"Correct."

Morgan is quiet for a beat. I'm sitting on the balcony, still in my pajamas, watching the beach below. Sweating a little because even in the shade with a fan overhead, it's a hot, cloudless day. A beautiful, ripe peach of a day, ready for the plucking.

But I'm alone in the gorgeous, airy honeymoon suite, hanging on the balcony watching other people living resort lives down below while I'm huddled out here on a call with my best friend. In somewhat of a panic, I might add.

Van left almost an hour ago for the fitness center, claiming he needed to get in a quick work out.

Which could be true. It probably is. I mean, hockey is his job, so needing to work out makes logical sense.

But he was quiet after we left the lobby. After what he said to Drew in the lobby.

Quiet on the ride back up to the tiny room we shared last night. Quiet while I packed. Really quiet when the front desk called up to say he would need to check out of this room as the hotel is completely booked. Quiet as we moved all of our stuff—still in Walmart bags—up to this suite, which is like five times the size of where we stayed last night.

Despite that, when the door closed behind us, I swear the room felt more like a closet.

Because after what Van said to Drew in front of half the hotel, something shifted for me, but also based on his uncharacteristic silence, for him. For us.

Or maybe he regrets what he said? Or regrets that I overheard?

If Amelia were mine? I'd never let her go.

The tug of longing in my chest nearly bowled me over as I listened to Van's words.

Yesterday, he asked if I was just marrying Drew because my dad wanted me to, and I said no. And it's true. Drew's bad behavior didn't strangle out my desire for marriage. I still want to have what Dad and Mom did—almost as badly as Dad wants that for me.

I think I wanted it so badly in fact, I focused on the what and picked the wrong who .

And now … I don't think I'm stupid to imagine Van as a potential who . I felt it the night we met—this instant connection, a spark of something bigger. There was something different between us then, and the same something is different now.

The problem isn't the who ; it's the when .

How can I trust my feelings after they've been put through a wood chipper?

I know I'm a complete mess. Even if I don't feel it yet.

"I'm not sure whether I should warn you away from having a rebound or cheer you on," Morgan says, almost like she portaled into my brain and rooted around in my thoughts.

I flinch at the word rebound . That's not who Van is. Not who I want him to be, anyway.

"What if," I ask slowly, glancing behind me at the empty suite just to be sure Van hasn't returned. "What if Van is more than a rebound?"

Another, longer pause. "You think you feel something real, Milly?" she asks. Carefully, like I'm a hardboiled egg she's trying to peel in one go. "Already? I'm not trying to be rude. It's just … you were supposed to get married yesterday."

"I know. "

"I mean, I'm all for you taking some risks. Blowing off some steam. You deserve to have a few days of a sort of fantasy life."

Sure. All that sounds good. Only, I don't agree that this is just a fantasy or blowing off steam. Is it?

"But I would be a bad friend if I didn't tell you it sounds totally out of character for you to fall hard for someone right after your engagement and wedding fell apart. I mean, this isn't you. It sounds like maybe denial or transference or something."

"It's not so ridiculous," I say, sounding more defensive than I feel. What I actually feel is hurt. Deeply wounded. And afraid of what truth might be in her words. I touch Mom's ring and take a slow breath before I continue. "I told you the night I met him how different it was. I talked about him for weeks. Wondered why he left and what could have been. Remember?"

"Oh, I remember. You were a mess. Then Drew happened. He was basically a rebound for a relationship that never even happened. Listen, I'm not saying your feelings for Van aren't real."

"You're not?"

"No. I'm saying they might not be. And I don't know how you'll actually know in the span of a few days on vacation with him. Which is why I think you should be very careful," Morgan says, shocking me.

I would have assumed the wild child to my rule-following people-pleasing self would tell me to let loose and go for it.

Her warning is not what I want to hear. And like Van said, I get to make the rules here.

"But when you suggested I come here, you said I should have a good time."

"Right. But you're talking about more than a good time. If you think that there's something real here, potential for more with Van, then you don't want to act on it. Not now."

"Why not?" I know I sound stubborn. Borderline whiny. Because my best friend is telling me I can look at a cake, but I can't have it and I certainly can't eat it too.

No cake. No eating.

No fair .

"Because you've been through something huge, Milly. You're probably still processing. Or in denial. Right now, you're probably not feeling like yourself."

She's right about that. But it's not a bad thing. I feel free. Hopeful. Curious and actually excited to see what comes next. Relieved I didn't make the biggest mistake of my life. I feel itchy to write. Brave, like maybe instead of looking for another boring office job dictated by my degree, I'll look for something to do with what I actually love instead.

I worried that waking up today would be a shock. That I'd crack open my eyes, remember the whole horrible ordeal with Drew, and collapse.

Instead, I woke up and saw Van, sprawled out on the couch. I smiled. Remembered the day we had. How he cared enough to force Drew to confess. Cared enough to be my getaway driver and then my travel companion. He made me smile. Even laugh. He wiped tears from my cheeks in a bathroom stall.

Who does that?

The kind of guy you keep . That's who.

Now Morgan is saying to ignore that. She's telling me not to act on the things I feel just because of what I've gone through in the last day.

Okay. Fine. It is very logical. I see where she's coming from. It's good advice. Best friend advice.

Normally, it's the advice I would be giving her .

But I don't want to hear it. I certainly don't want to take it.

The sound of a door closing has me turning around again, peering through the glass.

What I want is the man who glances everywhere until he sees me on the balcony. A man whose whole body relaxes when his eyes find mine. A man whose sweat-soaked shirt sticks to his body like a second skin. Whose dark hair is a mess. Whose smile sends my insides veering off a cliff and into a freefall.

"Milly?" Morgan says.

I'm still watching Van, who points toward the bathroom, lifting his brows in question. When I nod, he grins, then peels off his shirt, leaving it on the floor as he walks into the bathroom. Okay—a little gross. But the man has to have some flaws. The last thing I see is his smooth, muscular back, the ink of his dragon's tail curling over his ribs.

What Morgan's saying is smart. I should definitely take her advice. Totally.

"I've got to go," I say, getting to my feet.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"No," I tell her. "But I will be."

Of this one thing, I'm absolutely sure. Everything else? As the Magic 8-Ball would say, Ask again later .

"You're writing." A pleased smile accompanies the statement.

A shirtless chest accompanies Van.

I glance away lest I get caught accused of ogling him again and stretch out my hand. It's cramping around the pen from twenty or so minutes of nonstop writing.

The moment I hung up with Morgan, I came inside, opened up the new notebook I bought, and put pen to paper. I'm a little surprised to see that while Van was showering, I've filled four pages front and back about how to survive your wedding falling apart. It's a mix of rules, inspired by Van's suggestion yesterday, and stream-of-consciousness feelings.

"I guess I am."

"Awesome." He rubs a small, white towel over his hair, then tosses it in the general direction of the bathroom.

"For a man whose car is ridiculously neat, you seem to have a different approach to living spaces." I nod toward the sweaty shirt, still on the floor, and then the towel.

Van picks up both. "I'm in vacation mode," he says. "Or maybe I'm just leaving breadcrumbs behind so you can find me."

I laugh, and as he approaches, I close my notebook, suddenly feeling shy.

"I don't want to interrupt you," he says.

"Yeah you do."

"Yeah. I do." He grins, nudging my bare foot with his own. "But seriously, if you're in the middle of something, I'll go out again. Give you peace. Or wander to another end of this giant suite and you'll never know I was here."

"Other than your breadcrumbs ."

He laughs. "Other than that."

Honestly, the suite is big enough to share with another person and not know they're here. This living area is bigger than the one in Dad's house, and though the kitchen doesn't have more than a sink, fridge, and some appliances, the dining table seats twelve. The sectional sofa could hold almost that many and there are a few chairs around as well.

The bedroom has its own seating area, and the bathroom is the size of my bedroom at home. I think the walk-in shower is the size of my whole bathroom.

Everything is done in pale pinks and turquoise, an upscale beachy feel with potted palms and flowers everywhere, gauzy curtains hang over the sliding doors in here and the private balcony off the master bedroom.

It's gorgeous. But I couldn't help but feel a tiny pinch of regret that it means now there will be a whole room and a closed door between Van and me. I won't wake up a few feet from him, able to reach out and touch him if I wanted.

Sheesh . One night and I'm already thinking about withdrawal. Maybe Morgan was right.

I set down the pen and shake out my hand. "I need a break. My fingers might permanently freeze in this position otherwise. How was your workout?"

His eyes cut away. "Okay. The fitness center is decent."

"But?"

He gives me a sheepish grin. "I ran into some Appies fans, which meant cutting things short."

I remember the woman on the plane and her blatant overtures. I almost ask if they were male or female fans but restrain myself. "Does that happen often?"

Van plops down on the couch and rests his feet on the coffee table near my notebook. "More and more. Things changed a lot in the last eighteen months. It happened fast. The power of social media, I guess. Have you met Parker?"

I shake my head. "I know who she is. But Dad pretty much keeps me from his work world."

"Is that who you were talking to when I got back? Your dad?" he asks, voice carefully and uncharacteristically neutral.

I have a brief moment of panic as I realize one more logical reason to tread carefully with Van, one Morgan didn't realize. My dad. He's kept me away from hockey players because he doesn't want my heart broken by some athlete. And now, I'm falling for the guy on his team he apparently likes the least.

"That was Morgan," I say. "She said she'd tell him I'm fine. He's still pretty upset, and she thought it might make me upset."

"How are you feeling?" Van asks.

I grin. "Shockingly good. Though I feel bad about feeling good, if that makes sense."

He reaches over and gives me a little pinch. "No guilt. It's in the rules."

I tap the notebook. "I actually added that in."

"That's what you were writing?" He looks pleased, and warmth fills my chest.

"I had an idea for a blog post. One that's funny, but also touches on real stuff. A mix of humor and advice. Who knows? Maybe you'll even get a little credit, considering you keep trying to make the rules."

He holds up both hands. "I'll stop. I swear. The rules are up to you. And so is our agenda. So, what are you thinking about doing today?"

I hesitate, remembering the way it felt to see Drew and Becky in the lobby. I may be completely and one hundred percent glad I didn't marry him, but it doesn't remove the sting of the whole thing. Or the awkwardness of standing near my cousin while listening to Van shout at my ex-fiancé, who is now apparently Becky's new official boyfriend.

I'm not sure if they're still here or if they left, and I'd kind of rather not find out.

I pick up the remote. "While you were showering, I happened to find Speed ."

Van's lips twist. "We're at a fancy resort on the ocean, and you want to watch a movie in your pajamas?"

"With room service," I add, wishing this didn't sound as lame as it does. I set the remote back on the table. "You can do whatever. It's not like you have to babysit me."

He stiffens at this, his jaw tensing underneath a layer of dark stubble. "That's not what I'm doing, Mills. As long as you want me around, I'm here. Is watching a movie what you really want to do?"

I hesitate. I'm physically and emotionally wrung out. Escaping into a movie sounds phenomenal. So does sharing a couch and a meal with a shirtless Van.

I'd also prefer not seeing Drew and Becky. Ever again. But definitely not today.

"For now. Yes."

"Okay." Van picks up the remote, then tosses me the leather room service menu with the hotel logo embossed on the front. "Then a movie and room service it is."

Two hours and one blown-up bus later, Van and I are reclining on the couch, surrounded by the remnants of half the room service menu, and arguing over whether Keanu Reeves can act or not.

Van is operating under the misguided assumption that Keanu is some kind of robot clone, delivering all of his lines with the same tone and facial expression.

Clearly, he's incorrect.

"Have you even read about his tragic life?" I press a hand to my chest. "So much pain."

"No. I have not read about his tragic life. And that's not what's in question. It's his ability to act ."

"I think we're just going to have to agree to disagree. Or maybe we need more data points!" I reach over and smack him on the thigh. Momentarily get distracted by the width of it. The firmness. Shake my head and drag myself back to the topic at hand. "There's The Lake House , which also has Sandra Bullock and?—"

"Or the John Wick movies, where he maintains the same expression the whole time while killing everyone involved in the killing of his dog."

"His dog dies?" I whisper. "That's awful."

"We could also watch The Matrix movies where he maintains the same expression while knowing Kung Fu. Because the man can't act."

"I don't get it. What do you have against Keanu Reeves? The only thing I can think of is jealousy."

"You think I'm jealous? I'm not jealous. I just think he sucks at his job."

I navigate to the search area, driven by a crazed need for Van to understand the error of his ways, but he plucks the remote from my hand and holds it up. I reach for it, but he lifts his arm above his head.

"Van."

"Mills."

"Give me the remote."

"No."

Without stopping to consider any of the consequences, I launch myself into his lap, holding his arm still with one hand and grasping for the remote in the other.

"Mills," he says, too easily passing the remote from one hand to the other. He grunts when I lean over, my knee going into his stomach. "No more Keanu. You're cut off."

Just as I grab his other arm, he flicks his wrist and sends the remote skittering over the tile floor. The back pops off and the batteries fall out. One rolls under the armchair as we both watch, me still sprawled over him, one hand still curled around his forearm.

But when our heads turn back to each other, we seem to realize at the same time how close we are.

I am draped over his lap, one hand still gripping his forearm while the other is flat on his bare chest. Our faces are just inches apart.

And just like the brief moment in the ocean last night where the tension spun a tight web around us, everything slips away. There's only Van, his breath catching as his gaze drops to my lips. And me, trying to ignore the rising heat making me think stupid thoughts.

Thoughts about kissing him.

Thoughts about rebounds and what Morgan said about timing.

Thoughts about almost making huge mistakes marrying the wrong person.

Van's eyes meet mine, and I swear, I see conflict there, mirroring my own.

Is he afraid of my dad? Worried about the timing of this as well?

Or maybe this is just physical attraction for him, not the bigger thing I'm feeling.

In a move so quick I don't have time to react, Van flips us. I'm on my back, hands pinned above my head as he hovers a safe distance above me.

Too safe.

I want him closer. I want his mouth on mine. I want to not worry about whether this is too much or too soon.

"What do you want to do?" he rasps.

My brain has a mild aneurysm at the thought of answering him honestly. "W-what?"

"Today. We've done enough Keanu-ing today. Time to venture out into the real world. I know I've said you get to make the rules and this is all your choice, but you need a nudge out of the nest."

"Are you a mama bird in this analogy?"

He ignores me. "We're going to get out of this room and do something you want to do. Tell me what you want."

I'm sure he doesn't intend for his words to have double meaning, but I can't stop my thoughts from spiraling out into a lot of things I want … but probably shouldn't have.

"Do you think they have zip lining around here? I've always wanted to go. Drew has a thing about heights so he vetoed it."

"Of course he did," Van mutters, and I want to kick myself because the mention of Drew shifted the air in the room.

Van releases me. Stands. Holds out a hand to pull me up. "Come on, Mills. I want to see you fly."