Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

Amelia

After dinner, the scent of the ocean draws me toward the open patio doors along the back of the building. The breeze lifts my hair from my neck as I tug Van along with me. I stop just outside the doors and take a deep inhale. There's music spilling out, another wedding happening in the same spot where they seem to happen daily at ten, two, and six.

A familiar weight lands on my shoulders. I open my eyes to see Van watching me with a tiny smile, amusement sparkling in his brown eyes.

"I'm going for a walk on the beach," I tell him, feeling suddenly exposed. "You don't have to come if you don't want to."

"Are you sick of me?" he asks, gasping dramatically and pressing a hand to his chest.

I smile. "Not even a little."

He leans close, lips grazing my ear. "Then stop trying to get rid of me. Want to stop for a drink first?"

I've avoided drinking alcohol almost the whole week, aside from the half a glass of champagne on the plane. I'm usually a total lightweight, but that didn't affect me. Normally, a beer or a glass of wine and I get loopy.

But it's the last night. It feels right. Celebratory.

So we stop by the little thatched roof bar by the beach and I order a pi?a colada.

Van looks surprised. "No Diet Dr Pepper tonight?"

I love that he knows my drink. Though I guess he watched me guzzle it all week long. "Feels like a good night for a pi?a colada."

"I didn't think you liked drinking."

"More like … drinking doesn't like me."

"Morgan said something about that," Van says, taking his beer and handing me my drink.

It has a little umbrella and a slice of fresh pineapple, which is delicious. "I'll probably give half to you," I tell him, taking a sip as we wander away from the lights and the noise.

But it's like a frozen dessert, and I suck down almost half before a brain freeze makes me pause in the sand, groaning. "That's it. You get the rest."

But Van sets both drinks down on a table near some lounge chairs. He takes my hand, tugging me toward the water. When he slides his hand out of mine, a surge of disappointment rises. At least until he wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. I rest my head against his chest, breathing in his sharp, masculine scent.

We reach the damp, packed sand and start along it. A little shorebird out past his bedtime zips ahead of us, chasing the waves in and running back out.

Van gives me the side closest to the ocean, and the water rushes over my feet and up my ankles, then recedes so it can do so again. It's cold, but invigorating.

I'm going to miss this when we're back in the mountains. I wish I could scrunch up North Carolina like an accordion so Harvest Hollow could keep it's charming mountains but also not be such a long drive to the Outer Banks or other beaches.

I lean into Van, also wishing we had the technology to bottle up moments like this, revisiting them whenever we'd like to. The reality of tomorrow being our last night hangs heavy over me.

I'm going to miss this. Miss him.

You don't have to miss him , I remind myself. You just need to admit what you want and see if he wants the same thing .

I think he does. But it's hard to imagine this man with the larger-than-life personality and the very busy and very public job wanting the same thing. Wanting me.

There's attraction, sure, but would Van want more with me? Even thinking it makes me feel like the pick-me girl—like I'm somehow different from all the other girls before.

But he introduced himself as Robbie. I'm not sure why my brain circles back to this fact. Maybe because of his sisters? Who also seemed shocked when he said he was on vacation with me. So … maybe this is something real for him too.

I struggle to picture this easy banter, this physical closeness at home in Harvest Hollow. It's hard. And I definitely have trouble imagining the conversation with my dad in which I explain how I fell in love with a man I barely met in less than a week. I know there are people who have this kind of story, or even a faster love at first sight kind of relationship. But it has to be so rare.

And it sounds … impossible. Improbable. Imagined.

I curl my hand around Van's back, sliding it up his untucked polo shirt until my palm finds his warm skin. We walk in silence, the water rushing over our feet, then back out.

Everything seems heightened. The stars, brighter. The crash of waves, deeper. Van's muscles rippling under my hand as he walks. The sense of loss knowing we leave tomorrow, weightier.

"Permission to speak freely?" Van asks after a moment.

I hesitate. "Yes?"

"Don't sound so sure, Mills."

"It's just … usually people are about to say something rude when they ask that. You know like, don't take this the wrong way but I hate your face."

"You hate my face?"

I poke him in the ribs and he laughs. "No, dummy. It was an example."

"So, you admit you like my face?"

A little too much.

"How about we get back to what you were going to say originally. Permission granted, by the way. Speak freely."

Van is quiet for so long I forget he wanted to say anything at all. Then I get nervous again about whatever he wanted to say.

"Well?" I ask. "Are you going to speak freely or not?"

His fingertips trail over my arm, making me shiver. Even my legs feel shaky.

"This has been the best few days I can remember," he says finally, voice gruff, and I trip over an uneven place in the sand.

Or maybe I tripped over his words, because they're not at all what I expected. He steadies me, his hand warm and strong on my shoulder. He pulls me closer, sliding his hand down to the curve of my hip.

"Seriously?" I ask.

He nods, then shoots me a sideways look, his smile soft. "Yep."

"Maybe you just needed a break from hockey?" I ask. "I know from Dad the schedule is brutal."

The Appies work hard . During the season, I barely see Dad, and the players have extra press and charity events and things I don't even know about.

But I immediately wish I hadn't brought up my father. Van stiffens, his fingers tightening on my hip. It's easy to forget out here that they have their own relationship apart from me. Not a great one.

What would Dad say if I brought Van home?

No—what will Dad say when I bring Van home?

Because I realize in this moment, despite Morgan's warnings and my own doubts and the ludicrousness of the last few days, this is something. It's real.

And it's big.

If Dad has an issue with Van, he can get over it.

And if I can't bring myself to be brave enough to tell Van how I feel, this all may be a nonissue.

"I think it's more about the company," Van says, and my heart takes this as its cue to run amok, beating wildly in my chest.

I don't know how to respond, so I go with teasing. Trying to play it off while also tucking it away into my core memories. "All those ladies at the pool today, huh?"

He snorts, but when I glance over, his expression is sincere. Vulnerable. Definitely not his typical cocky mask. I sway on my feet, thoughts humming.

"It's you , Mills."

"Oh," is all I can manage.

Van bumps his hip into mine. "Now's the time when you say, ‘Me too, Van. I love having you around too!'"

I laugh at his high-pitched impression of me. "That's not how I sound."

"It's a little bit how you sound."

"Shut up."

"I will. But only after you tell me how much you enjoy my company." Van drops his hand and takes a few quick steps ahead, then turns to face me, walking backward with his eyes fixed on mine. "I'm waiting."

He's teasing. But our conversation has shifted to encompass something larger than companionship and a walk on the beach.

My mouth goes dry. This is it—another opportunity to speak up. To tell him how I'm really feeling. A second chance after I froze in the restaurant and couldn't form the words. But I'm still processing how it's possible to feel so much for someone I've only just met in such a short time.

How did I get so addicted in so short a time?

How will things change when we go back home?

The idea fills me with a deep and echoing emptiness. An ache that has me pressing one hand to my chest, like I can shove all these big feelings I shouldn't be having back inside my body. Or down a mineshaft.

As the silence stretches, Van's smile falls, and he turns around, giving me his back. He pauses, waiting for me to catch up. I do, stumbling again over every divot in the sand until Van hears me struggling, and turns with a frown to wait.

But his expression is closed. His hands hang limp and loose at his sides.

"It's okay," he says, and though I can see the corner of his mouth curling up, there's no smile in his voice. "You don't have to say anything. I promised myself I wouldn't push."

"No, Van. That's not it."

I place my palm flat against his chest, my fingertips ending up just inside the V of his shirt collar. They rest on the plume of smoke curling up from his dragon's mouth and I'm momentarily distracted by the crisp ink. My fingers curl, grasping the hem of his shirt as my gaze snaps up to his.

I open my mouth, but words vanish at the tempest brewing in Van's dark eyes.

I do have something I want to say. But I'm still struggling with getting the words from my head to my mouth. They're getting lost in translation somewhere in the short space between.

So, I decide to forgo words and go all in with one risky move.

I lift up on my toes and press my lips to his.

It's a tiny kiss. Short, soft, a little bit awkward and a whole lot hesitant, as though I'm fourteen and this is my first-ever kiss. And it feels that way to me—like this one brief touch erased any kiss before it. The press of his mouth to mine hits some kind of reset button in me, leaving me new and naive and innocent.

Van's whole body goes still. Underneath my palm, still splayed over his chest and half inside his shirt, he's not even breathing.

Did his heart stop? No—there it is, a faint pulse barely registering under my fingertips.

But more importantly, I realize—his mouth does not move.

He isn't kissing me back.

As my heels settle once more on the sand, the drop back down feels like a freefall from a tall building. Ending with a splat on the sidewalk.

My hand falls away from Van's chest. I stare down at my bare toes, still perfectly pedicured from an appointment the day before the wedding. The heaviness in my stomach moves from an ache to more of a cramp.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I thought?—"

Van's hands curl around my upper arms, tugging me closer, and when I look up, his eyes are wild, his lips are parted, and his breath is coming in short pants.

"What did we say about apologies?" he whispers. "Because I refuse to be sorry about this."

And then he's the one kissing me.

Only it's not a quick, chaste press. There is nothing awkward or innocent or hesitant here.

It's a claiming, a confession, completely consuming. His mouth is hot, the press of his lips firm as one hand travels up my arm and tunnels into my hair. Like he's been dying for days to do this.

His other hand finds my waist, sliding around until he's nudging me closer, fingertips along my spine.

No space between us, breaths mingled, and our words spoken solely through motion.

I grip the front of his shirt so tightly a button pops off. He must feel it because he chuckles. I swallow the sound, hungry for it, for him.

I don't want this moment to end, and at the same time, I want to have five thousand more moments just like this one.

A lifetime of this.

"Van," I murmur.

"Mills."

His lips drag away from my mouth, reluctantly, like it's work to pull back. But then he kisses across the swell of my cheek and along my jaw and just beneath it, as he nibbles my neck.

The firm press of his lips and the insistent scratch of his facial hair is the perfect combination. It leaves my legs shaky and my skin buzzing. I'm holding onto him now not because I'm desperate for him—though I am—but to keep my knees from buckling.

The slap of a rogue wave high against our legs sends us both stumbling. I'm almost certain it's the only thing that could have pulled us apart short of an alien invasion or maybe the jaws of life.

My dress is soaked up to my thighs and so are Van's shorts, though only the very bottom. The perks of being tall. We stare at one another, then burst out laughing. He sends an arc of water my way. I gasp as even more of my dress gets drenched.

"You looked like you needed to cool off," he says.

I gape at him. The man I was just kissing. Who seamlessly transitioned back into our playful back-and-forth without missing a beat.

"Me?" I can't even find words to splutter out a comeback so I scoop up water in my hands and splash it his way.

I didn't aim, but all the water manages to hit the crotch of his shorts, instantly making him look like he wet his pants. He glances down, propping his hands on his hips. When he looks back up, the glint in his eyes has me taking a few steps back, my heart taking off at a dead sprint.

"Is this how you wanna play, Mills—dirty?"

His words, or maybe the throaty tone of his voice, makes me tremble. I've never been like this with anyone—embracing passion and playfulness like two sides of the same coin. It only works because the currency is trust.

The only way I'm able to be this way with Van, to be so myself, is because I trust him.

"I'll play any way you'd like," I tell him, my own voice a ragged whisper. "But … you'll have to catch me first!"

I'm already running before I finish, tripping over my feet and the tangle of my wet dress. Van reaches me in seconds, hoisting me up and helicoptering me around on his shoulders until I'm gasping for breath while laughing, my damp dress sending out sprays of water.

When Van sets me on my feet again, I'm so dizzy, he has to hold me up. His rough hands cup my cheeks as he bends to kiss me again and again and again.

Light, playful kisses with him smiling against my mouth. He pulls back, thumbs sweeping my cheekbones the way he did the other night. Only now, there are no tears to wipe away.

"Is this okay?" he asks, eyes fixed on my mouth as one thumb brushes the corner.

I press a quick kiss there. "I started it."

"And you're under no obligation to continue," he says. "If you were just testing the waters or if you're feeling some kind of way about the wedding?—"

I interrupt Van with a kiss. Slow and lingering.

"This is about no one but us," I tell him, finding his eyes but not pulling away enough to see them as more than a too-close blur. "You and me, hotshot. It has nothing to do with him or everything that happened. Other than the fact that those events led us here."

And I'm so glad they did.

"I don't want you to feel rushed," Van says. "But also …" He drops his voice to a rough whisper, leaning his forehead on mine and shifting his hands from my cheeks to my neck. "This means something to me, Mills. The way I feel about you is not casual."

My hands had been loosely curled around his waist, and I lift them now, cupping his prickly jaw in my palms.

"It's not casual for me either. More like … monumental. And I'll be honest—it scares me."

"The last thing I want is to scare you."

"It's the good kind of fear. Like zip lining when I first stepped off the platform."

Van smiles, and I trace his Cupid's bow with a fingertip, dodging when he tries to nip me. "I'd prefer an analogy with fewer reptiles, please."

"Frisky's going to get offended at some point."

"Frisky?"

"Your dragon. I named him."

"You named him Frisky? Why not, like, Killer or Draco or Brutus?"

I drop one hand, tracing the lines on his skin, more visible now that I've ripped the button off his shirt. "He likes his name." I switch to a baby voice. "Don't you, Frisky? Don't you just love your name like a good dragon? Yes, you do!"

Van growls and hoists me up again, this time throwing me over a shoulder so I'm hanging down his back. I don't mind the view of his muscular backside as he strides across the sand.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Not sure yet."

I lift my head, drawn by music and laughter from the wedding in the distance. With fairy lights strung up over the sand and an actual acoustic band playing beach music punctuated by the pounding waves, it's magical.

I tap Van on the back. "Might I make a request? Look over there."

Van turns, pausing as he sees the wedding I'm pointing to. "The wedding?" He sounds confused. Maybe a little concerned.

"Why not crash the reception? Maybe just for one dance."

Van hesitates. I can feel tension coiling in his back. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

The funny thing is that my own failed wedding didn't even occur to me. Which feels like a massive step. And further confirmation that what's happening between me and Van isn't some kind of emotional rebound.

I smile. "Positive."

A moment later, Van sets me back on my feet and takes my hand in his. I'm glad because I'm so overwhelmed with emotion and maybe exhaustion and possibly the effects of the pi?a colada that I need his steadying presence.

My brain feels like a mix between a spinning top and one of those kaleidoscopes you turn as a kid, the colors bursting and shifting against a backdrop of light.

There's no security or any kind of barrier outside the designated wedding area, and no one notices as we slip into the crowd. The moment we do, however, the song changes from something slow and romantic, with couples swaying on the small dance floor, to "Shout" by the Isley Brothers.

Van raises his eyebrows, a clear challenge as the swaying couples turn to boogeying couples all around us. With a grin, I throw my hands up.

This is how we spend the next hour, laughing and touching and kissing as we dance at someone else's wedding until my feet are sore.

And then, feeling warm and loose and euphoric from the sum total of this evening and the last few days, I lift on my toes, tugging Van down until I can whisper in his ear.

"I have an idea," I tell him, heart jackhammering away. A bad idea or a great one—I don't know. It may be right —it feels right — but what I'm absolutely sure of is that it's reckless.

A big, scary thing for the day. A stepping off the platform in order to fly.

And I want it more than I've wanted anything. "Pop quiz, hotshot?"

He presses a kiss to my mouth before putting his lips to my ear. There's no reason to whisper, but we're both doing it anyway, and it makes me laugh. "Okay. Shoot."

"Yes or no."

"Yes or no what? "

"That's the quiz," I tell him.

"Are you going to tell me what I'm saying yes or no to first?"

"Nope. Yes or no, hotshot. In or out."

He hesitates for a moment, and my heart beats so fast I almost change my mind. But then he flashes me a grin and says, "Yes. Whatever it is, I'm in."