Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Van

"You want me to go with you?" I ask, not sure I heard her correctly. I couldn't have. "On your …"

I swallow the word honeymoon rather than say it.

"I mean, not like that . You're not just a replacement groom or something. Obviously."

Her hands disappear as she twists them into the fabric of her dress, swallowed up in soft white. I watch as she starts to slump, her smile falling.

Up until a few minutes ago, Amelia was holding it together pretty well, all things considered. Now, she's like a sheet of ice over the top of a pond, spiderwebbed with cracks. I'm afraid any word I say might break the whole surface. So I shut up.

"Just as, like, a vacation. One I planned with someone else," she mutters, almost an afterthought. "But it could be fun, right—a free beach trip? I know the team has a few days off. We'll be back Wednesday. It's barely four days."

The smile she turns my way is a little off. As in, paired with the too-bright eyes, she looks a little … feral.

"So, what do you think—want to extend this little trip all the way to Florida?"

Warning bells go off in my mind.

Given all that's happened today, falling apart is totally to be expected. I've been surprised how calm she's been. How poised. How normal . Then she got off the phone with her friend, attempted to toss her garter out the window, and now asked me to go on a trip she planned with her ex-fiancé.

It's a total trick question. A trap. The kind of invitation with no right answer. A quiz designed to make you fail. The song of a siren perched up on a rock, leading a ship and its men toward doom and ruin.

This particular siren has a vulnerable look in her blue eyes and about a hundred yards of white fabric bunched up around her as she blinks over at me, waiting for my answer. She looks like a wounded marshmallow.

But, like, a really attractive wounded marshmallow. One I definitely shouldn't eat.

Or go on vacation with.

Amelia is beautiful. Hot , really, though I don't typically look at women in their wedding dresses and think about their hotness.

Actually, maybe hot doesn't quite work. It's a descriptor based solely on physical attributes.

But if we are talking about looks, Amelia is, objectively speaking, hot.

Her hair is the color of the local honey I bought at the farmer's market while doing a charity event with the team. Amber blond—a deep, rich color. Her eyes are an icy blue—piercing—but despite the cool color, the expression there is soft and warm. Not cold. Even back at the church in the middle of everything, I noticed the way her eyes stayed kind .

It's the way her kindness and whatever else shines through her physical beauty that makes her offer so tempting.

Because when I look at Amelia, I see more . I feel more.

More than what I usually feel when I'm around a hot woman.

More than I've wanted to have with another woman.

More, more, more.

The night we met, I remember feeling like I could talk to her for hours. Maybe I would have if her dad hadn't shown up. I definitely would have asked her out.

Amelia is fun. Spunky. Sweet. Open and honest in a way not many people seem to be these days. The way I wish I could be. She's the kind of woman my sisters would love. I mean, they'd love for me to settle down, period , but only with someone who earned a stamp of approval from all three of them, which is a near impossibility since they're so different.

Yet somehow, I know Amelia would immediately have all three sisters' endorsement.

Actually, I have a sort of half endorsement from them already.

The night Amelia and I met, I sent a message to our sibling group text. A simple: I met someone.

But since I never talk to them about dating, this was an event. I barely told them anything about her, not even her name, so it was a little easier to quell their excitement when later I had to text them that it wasn't going to work out. For months after, they hounded me about the woman from the restaurant who got away, which only made it harder for me to forget Amelia.

None of these thoughts should be crossing my mind. Not when we're barely an hour past the moment she would have said "I do" to some other guy.

In short, Amelia is not someone I should be taking any kind of overnight vacation with. Not with her fragile emotional state.

And not with how much I enjoy her company.

Definitely not with the low hum of attraction inappropriately buzzing along my skin.

Oh, and let's not forget the kicker: she's Coach's daughter.

He would destroy me if I made a move on Amelia. Maybe even for thinking about her being hot. He'd murder me, then have my body dragged behind the zamboni at The Summit as a cautionary tale.

That's if my teammates didn't kill me first. I think even Parker might advocate for my murder. And then find a way to plan social media content around it.

All things considered, the fact that Coach is her dad takes Amelia's offer from probably a bad idea to run far away and run fast .

I lift a hand from the wheel to scratch at my stubble. How can I let her down easy—without hurting her feelings or making her feel rejected?

Or worse, unwanted?

Especially when that's the opposite of the problem I'm having here. I want to go too much.

"I probably shouldn't. I mean, I can't."

Any pretense of an excuse zips right out of my brain. Leaving me to sound like a first-class jerk. I think even the dog ate my homework would have sounded better than just I can't . Full stop .

"No problem," Amelia says quickly, too quickly, waving a hand. "Kind of a silly idea. Morgan suggested it. Just so I wouldn't be …"

Alone . She doesn't say the word out loud, but she doesn't have to. It's right there between us, making me feel like the scum of the earth for saying no.

Amelia just found out her fiancé was cheating with her cousin. Now all she wants is to not take their intended honeymoon by herself.

I drop my hand to my chest, which feels tight at the thought.

Coach's daughter , I remind myself. On the heels of an epic breakup.

Coach's daughter. Whom you're absurdly attracted to.

Amelia is like a bad idea sandwich. Or no—a bad idea buffet .

Nope, nope, and more nope.

Amelia struggles with her dress, finally managing to shove enough of it up out of the way to release her feet. She puts them up on the dash. "Is this okay? My toes on your nice car?"

I glance over. Normally, I don't love people messing with my stuff. Putting their hands—much less their feet—on my gear, my place, my car. But for some reason, I don't mind Amelia's small feet with their light pink toenails on my dash. I'm not, like, a foot guy or anything, but her toes are cute.

"It's fine."

I reach a stop sign at the bottom of the hill. We're at the end of my thinking and audiobook route. Instead, I ask, "If you're going on your trip, should I drive you to the airport? Do you have bags packed somewhere?"

"Morgan has them. But I could always buy new stuff if I need to. I have Drew's credit card. Would it be bad to max it out?"

"He'd deserve it if you did. And then some."

"I'll think of some more creative form of justice," she says, making me smile. "I just need time."

"Let me know if you need help. I'll happily help you deliver creative justice."

Ameila tilts her head back and laughs. It's tinged with a little bit of hysteria. "Good to know. Do your services extend past getaway driver and creative justice wielder?"

"You'll never know the extent of my skills." I say it in an over-the-top flirty way. Trying to keep things light and teasing.

"Wow," she says dryly. "Do these kinds of lines work on women?"

"Typically, I don't need lines."

It's true. But I'm leaning into this a little harder than necessary. Am I trying to show off or scare her off? Unsure.

"You do know that's gross, right?" She tilts her head toward me, toes curling a little on the dash.

"You do know I'm kidding, right?" I ask.

She arches an eyebrow. It's cute. "Are you? Because I heard you're the bad boy of the Appies."

"Who told you that?" I feign shock even though I'm very aware of the reputation I've earned—no, more like cultivated —on my team. It's not really true, especially considering some of the real bad boys in professional sports, but I lean into the label anyway.

It's an easy recipe: keep all talk to surface-level stuff, act like you don't really care about anything, and flirt with any woman who breathes. Place in the oven at 350 for an hour, and you've baked yourself a bad boy.

"A reputable source." She pauses. "Is it true?"

"Eh. Not exactly. I guess it depends on what you mean by bad boy."

Something about Amelia losing respect for me doesn't sit right. I don't love the look she's giving me now. Like she believes whatever she's heard, and it really does bother her.

Given the way her day turned out, I suddenly want to dispel any notion she has of me being a bad guy. I'm for sure nothing like Drew and don't want to get lumped in with his kind.

"I mean, maybe comparatively I guess I could be considered a bad boy. Only because we've got some legit Boy Scouts on the team."

The Appies is a different kind of organization. I've played for a handful of teams, and I could feel something new the first time I walked into the Appies' locker room. The guys and the whole organization, really, isn't like anything else I've known. People talk about teams forming a brotherhood, but often it's just talk. A bullet point on a press release.

With the Appies, it's the framework underpinning the whole group and the reason why so many guys don't want to get called up to our affiliate team and are happy to sign contracts here long-term.

I mean, sure—the money's better than most minor league teams too. That doesn't hurt. But there's money elsewhere. We stay for the team.

I'm not sure how or why or when the Appies became this way. The vibe definitely doesn't trickle down from Larry Jensen, the owner. Total douchey dudebro who sees things—and people—in terms of dollar signs. Which we earn him plenty of.

Maybe the vibe comes from the players or the other staff or just the right combination of personalities. Coach is a big part of it. The assistant coaches too, who take their cues from him.

Then there's Parker, whose social media strategy crafted an image that maybe in turn crafted us into something different. Something bigger. Better. She's a good influence and adds her own happy brand of sunshine to any room she walks in.

Unless any of us are out of line, and then the Boss comes out.

If I happen to embrace being the bad boy of the Appies, it's just an easy fit. Ever since I was a kid, I was the one most likely to be sent to the principal's office. For talking out of turn or talking back or just talking too much. Maybe for the odd prank here and there, but what kid hasn't put plastic wrap over a toilet seat or rigged a bucket of water over a doorway?

Until now with Amelia, I've never really minded the label. A bad boy on our team is still better than the best behaved player anywhere else. Plus, I honestly follow the same sort of rules the guys and I set out for each other, which includes respecting women. I just happen to have dated a lot of women. Respectfully.

"And you're not a Boy Scout?" she teases, but I can hear the question underneath her words. "Why the bad boy label then? Is it the tattoos?"

"It's probably because I run my mouth a lot."

She gasps dramatically. "You?"

"And … I've dated a lot," I admit.

"Ah." One syllable. Then she glances away from me.

"I won't get serious unless I find someone I want to be serious about." Someone like you , I think. Definitely not the time to mention how I thought this the night I met Amelia. "But I'm not, like, some kind of serial player. I don't, like, date and dash."

She snorts, but a tiny smile returns. "Never heard that one before."

"I just made it up. But it's true." I pause. "I don't want to give you the wrong idea about me."

"You don't have to explain."

But I want to. "I'm not a bad guy. I wouldn't be here if I were."

"I know." Her voice is soft, barely more than a whisper. Then she reaches over and brushes her fingertips across my arm.

Even with my cotton shirt between us, her touch hits me like an electric current, a jolt zipping up my arm and making goose bumps rise on my skin.

"Thank you for being my getaway driver," she says.

When she starts to lift her hand away, I cover it with my big one, holding her there. I like the way it feels, having her small hand wrapped in mine.

"Look—what you've been through today is really hard. Not everyone would sail through it unscathed. But I can already tell that you can. You will. You are . You're going to make it out just fine."

"Yeah?" she asks, glancing over at me. "You think?"

"I know ," I tell her, reluctantly removing my hand and putting it back on the wheel.

She gives my arm a last squeeze before curling her hands back in her lap. I drag my fingers through my hair, suddenly feeling hot.

"Whatever, Mills," I say. "It's not a big deal."

"It is, though. Everything you did for me today—it means a lot. Most people wouldn't do this for a stranger."

Amelia doesn't feel like a stranger to me. And I'm not sure what to make of that. Or why it bugs me to hear her say it.

"Wait," she says, turning to face me. "Did you just give me a nickname? You called me Mills."

I think back. "So I did." It just kind of slipped out. But I like it. "Is that okay? You already have a bunch of nicknames."

"New rules, new nickname." She grins over at me. "Mills is great. Do you have any other names or nicknames I should know about? Besides Robbie and Van."

"The guys sometimes call me Vanity."

This makes her cackle. "I can see why."

I reach over like I'm about to pinch her again, and she swats my hand away. "Better than Ego, which is what they call Alec. He's way too pretty for his own good. Also, I'm not vain. Just … confident."

"Right. That's what we're calling it these days. Where does Van come from?"

"My full name is Robert Chaplain Van de Kamp."

"That sounds very fancy. Is your family …" She trails off, and I can almost see her wrestling with how to ask politely if my family is as snooty as it sounds.

"Are they filthy rich snobs?" I suggest.

She laughs. "Yes, that."

"Some of the Van de Kamps are big players in oil and gas. There's a company in Houston, but my branch of the family is only loosely tied to it."

"How does your oil and gas family feel about you playing hockey?"

"My sisters are supportive," I say. "And I don't really care about what my parents—or their spouses of the month think."

I can tell she wants to ask more questions, and I'm relieved when she doesn't. Talking about my parents' many marriages would definitely ruin the mood. Mine, anyway.

"So, we're meeting up with Morgan to get your bags, and then I'll take you to the airport?"

"I guess that's the plan." Amelia deflates a little. "But Van—you don't need to drive me. I can get an Uber or … pick up my car." She pauses, drops her gaze to her lap. "I think it might be decorated. You know with Just Married in the windows and stuff. That will be fun."

She laughs but doesn't sound amused.

"I can see it now—me pulling up to the airport in that and getting out in my wedding dress. Alone."

I hate that idea. And the way she seems to have deflated, even though I can tell she's trying to hide it.

"I'll take you to the airport," I tell her, trying to keep my voice both firm but light. "I'm seeing this through. Yeah?"

Amelia nods quickly, but she doesn't lift her head. Still sad. I want to distract her. To drag her out of whatever thought dungeon she's locked herself up in. My stomach rumbling gives me an idea.

"What's your getaway meal going to be?"

"Huh?" Finally, she lifts her chin, looking over at me with wide eyes.

"It's another rule. You get to pick a getaway meal. The opposite kind of food from wedding food. Like … ribs. Or wings."

"So far, you're making all the rules."

"They're good rules. And feel free to add your own any time. So, what'll it be?"

Amelia huffs a laugh, looking at all the fabric bunched in her lap. "Food sounds …"

I wait, feeling like my heart is beating in my throat. It's a dumb idea. But no one's ever accused me of having brilliant ones. I'm winging it here.

"It sounds great," Amelia finally says, grinning. "And I want pizza rolls. With marinara and ranch. And a soft serve cone from McDonald's—the kind with the hard chocolate shell. Do they still make those?"

"Only one way to find out. Let's go see about those dipped cones."

Thirty minutes later, my previously pristine car smells like garlic and pizza grease. Normally, my eye would be twitching. I don't usually even eat in this car. But there was something so satisfying about watching Mills dig in, tearing into a pepperoni roll with the ferocity of a starving lion. And then devouring a dipped cone, which it turns out is still on the McDonald's menu. They're shockingly good, if a little messy.

"There she is," Amelia says, pointing.

I recognize her friend with the wild blond hair, standing by a small hatchback and waving animatedly. I'm barely parked when Amelia hops out and the two hurl themselves into a hug that almost looks painful.

I wonder why Morgan's not going with Amelia on the trip. She must have some valid reason—work or something else. Because she definitely seems like a committed friend.

I fiddle with the radio, stealing quick glances but trying not to be too nosy. Even though in reality I'm basically like a teenage girl when it comes to other people's business.

Both women turn, looking my way. Are they talking about me? I lift a hand, and Amelia waves back, then shakes her head vehemently at something Morgan says before they hug one more time. When Morgan opens the back of her car, starting to unload Amelia's bags, I hop out.

"I've got these." I grab the two rolling bags, placing them in the back of my SUV. Amelia hugs Morgan one last time, sniffling, and then stuffs herself and the wedding dress back in the front. When I close the back hatch, I find Morgan standing there, arms crossed.

"Hey," I say a little uneasily.

She narrows her eyes and lowers her voice. "Thanks for taking her to the airport."

The most unthankful sounding thank-you I've ever heard. In fact, she sounds suspicious. She doesn't give me time to respond before she jumps back in.

"But why are you doing it? Why did you do any of this—forcing Drew to own up, driving Milly around, taking her to the airport? You barely know her."

I don't really have an answer for this. I mean, at the start, I was just thinking about making sure Douche the Groom didn't get away with cheating.

Then, I was concerned because I didn't want to see Coach's daughter marrying a guy like that.

I became the getaway driver because I had a car. And maybe also because I wanted to.

Now … it's more personal. But I can't really explain why I feel this connection with Amelia. Probably because I don't understand it myself.

What's more—I don't really want to explain it or examine it too closely. Today is a very go-with-the-flow kind of day. And this flow is taking me and the runaway bride to the airport.

"It's the right thing to do," I say, scratching my cheek. This answer earns me a suspicious look. "Plus, I respect Coach. Which means, by extension, his daughter falls under my protection. Why all the questions? Weren't you the one who told Amelia I should go with her on her honeymoon?"

"That doesn't mean I trust you."

I chuckle. "Okay. You just want me to take a trip with her."

"She said you said no."

"I … did."

Her gaze is assessing. And frankly, a little terrifying. So is the way her red lips peel back in a smile. "But you're thinking about it."

I glance toward the front seat. Amelia is twisted in her seat, watching us through the back window. I offer her a shrug. Glancing at Morgan, Amelia rolls her eyes and turns back around.

"Look," Morgan says, lowering her voice. "I'm just concerned about her. She seems okay right now, but that's what worries me. And I'm afraid if she goes alone, when she cracks, no one will be there to help pick up the pieces."

"So, you don't trust me, but you also want me to be that person?"

She purses her lips. "If I could, I'd go. But I can't leave work. And I'm going to do my best to take care of all the un-fun stuff while she's gone, so when she comes back, there will be less for her to do. It'll be like the wedding never almost happened." She pauses and purses her lips. "You stepped in when a lot of guys would have walked away."

"Thanks."

"Also, you're the only one I can think of."

"I take back the thanks."

"I don't need it. I only need your assurance Amelia will be okay— if you change your mind and decide to go."

"I won't."

"Okay." She definitely doesn't believe me.

Honestly, I'm not sure I believe me. I remember Amelia's face when she tried to toss her garter out the window. The wide eyes and the slight shake in her hands. I think of how she keeps twisting the blue ring on her finger and burying her hands in her dress.

Then I try to imagine leaving her alone in front of the airport.

"But … if I did happen to go, she'd be safe with me."

The five seconds—I count them—while Morgan watches me with cool gray eyes stretch long, making my fight or flight instincts pick up. I remember Amelia comparing Morgan to Liam Neeson earlier.

Finally, she nods. "Cool. Because I'd hate to have to hunt you down and make you suffer."

"You and Coach both," I mutter.

We stand there, both nodding at each other for a few seconds before I say, "Cool. So, um, can I go?"

Morgan steps back, waving her hand in a go ahead motion. "Yep."

A tension I didn't realize I've been holding releases with a slow exhale. Maybe too soon, as her dismissive wave turns into dragging her thumb across her neck in a terrifying warning.

Just as I'm about to open up the door, she says, "Oh, and keep her away from alcohol."

"She's a lightweight?"

Morgan laughs. "More than a lightweight. Treat her like a Gremlin. Except it's not feeding after midnight; it's anything more than a few sips of alcohol."

"A Gremlin?" I frown, sure I'm missing a reference.

"Dude—I'm a little concerned if you don't know basic pop culture references."

"I'll google it," I tell her, then hop in the car.

"What are you googling?" Amelia eyes me curiously.

"Gremlins?"

"Classic movie," Amelia says through a yawn. "Don't get them wet or feed them after midnight."

"Apparently," I mutter, wondering how I'm the only one who doesn't have an awareness of Gremlins .

Amelia dozes off on the way to the airport while my mind won't stop racing, weighing the merits of going with her against the merits of not ticking off my coach by putting myself in a situation designed to test my self-control.

It feels stupid to go.

It feels cruel not to.

I wouldn't let any of my sisters go alone.

But I don't feel particularly sisterly about Amelia.

Will I be able to resist Amelia if I spend days on end with her?

Will I be able to live with myself knowing she's possibly breaking down when she's all alone?

By the time I pull up to the curb, my stomach feels like I've been downing shots of battery acid.

Amelia wakes up with a wide yawn, looking adorably sleep-rumpled. "Are we there already? I must have fallen asleep."

"My dad always used to call that time traveling. When you'd fall asleep while driving or flying and then wake up at your destination."

Amelia grins. "Time traveling. I love it."

Her smile fades as she glances up at the airport doors. They slide open as a woman with two children and ten bags waddles through. A woman follows, and is swept off her feet and into a passionate kiss by a man holding up a sign.

"Well. I guess this is it."

"I'll help with your bags," I say, needing something to do.

But when I get the bags up on the curb, I realize Amelia hasn't gotten out of the car. I step closer to her window, then gesture for her to roll it down. She does, but she won't meet my gaze.

"What's up, Mills?" I ask, leaning on the car.

"I don't know about this," she says, glancing past me toward the various travelers saying their goodbyes and filing into the airport with their bags.

"Which part? Talk me through it."

She nibbles at her bottom lip, and I force my gaze away from her mouth.

"The part where I'm about to get out of your car wearing a wedding dress and look like the jilted bride traveling alone. And the whole idea—I mean, I should probably stay and help Morgan and my dad sort through the mess. Taking a vacation right now feels … weird."

The tightness returns to my chest. No one has ever accused me of being a bleeding heart. But maybe it's because I don't choose to show that side to many people. Just my sisters, who know all my secrets. And hold them over my head often. With glee.

Which might be why I don't share with many other people.

"Hey." I touch Amelia's chin, lifting it until she meets my eyes. I don't like the indecision I see there. "There's nothing jilted about you. Okay? What happened today had zero to do with you and everything to do with Drew's poor choices. You get that?"

She nods, but her eyes only gain a fraction of the brightness they held before. "Yeah. You're right."

She still doesn't get out of the car, and I see her fiddling with her ring again. Walking into the airport in a wedding dress will certainly draw attention. Attention and questions to answer. Which is probably the last thing she wants right now.

"Hang tight," I say. Tossing her bags back into the car, I jog around to my seat and then follow signs for the parking decks.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

I snag a ticket from the machine on the way into the lot, then find a spot between two parked trucks. I cut off the engine and turn to Amelia. "You can change in here. The windows are tinted, and now you've got cover on both sides. I'll stand guard in back, just in case."

"Thank you." She reaches across, squeezing my arm again. "Could you maybe bring me my clothes? I have what I was planning to wear after the reception on top in the smaller rolling suitcase."

"Yep."

I open the back again, unzip the smaller rolling back and see a skirt and folded shirt … with a bra and underwear right on top that I'm desperately trying to ignore.

Nothing to see here , I tell myself. Nothing to think about . Nope. Nothing at all. Block it from memory.

I tuck the undergarments between the shirt and skirt, then hand them through Amelia's open window without making eye contact. Then, I wait, leaning against the bumper and ignoring the way the car bounces as Amelia must be wiggling in and out of her dress.

I imagine Coach standing a few feet away, glaring at me. It helps.

After a few minutes, Amelia emerges from the car, saying "Ta-da!"

She's dressed in a flowery skirt that brushes her knees and a soft t-shirt, her hair fully loose around her shoulders, a darker gold glow in the dim lights of the parking deck. She looks great. I swallow.

"What about the dress?" I ask.

She wrinkles her nose. "Do you mind if I leave it in your car while I'm gone?"

"Nope. Let me know if you want me to burn it."

"Not without me," she says with a laugh, then she turns pensive. "I'm not sure what I'll do with it, but I have some ideas. Later. If you get tired of keeping it, you can always give it to my dad."

I can only imagine the kinds of looks and comments I'd get from the team if I showed up at The Summit with her wedding dress. I'm already afraid to check my text thread.

"Thanks for everything, Van."

With no warning, Amelia leans forward, giving me a tight hug. She smells like fresh, clean linen with a hint of lemon. I take the tiniest sniff, lowering my nose to her soft hair. The hug is so brief I don't have time to hug her back before she lets go.

She clears her throat when I'm just standing there, blinking at her.

"My bags?" she says.

"Right."

I pull the rolling bags from the car and then shove my hands in my suit pockets, where my phone starts to buzz.

"Thanks again," she says. "I'll, um, see you around?"

Unlikely. I don't know when or if our paths will cross again. Despite living in the same town and having her dad in common, we've only met twice.

The thought makes me sad, and I remind myself I barely know her. Somehow, this situation has left me feeling a false sense of connection. Like a trauma bond, but a little lighter. A light trauma bond. I'm sure it will fade.

"Take care of yourself, Mills," I tell her. "And remember—if you need help with revenge …"

"You're my guy."

I like the way those words sound on her lips. More than I have a right to.

She looks like she wants to say something else, then turns and walks away, head held high and bags rolling behind her. I wait by the back of my SUV until she's safely on the elevator in the corner of the parking deck, giving me what looks like a forced smile as the doors slide closed.

I feel sadder than I have any reason to be when Amelia's out of sight.

And as I climb into my SUV, feeling my phone buzzing again in my pocket, I'm struck by an unease I can't shake.

It feels wrong to leave Amelia alone right now, after everything. I think of the offer to go with her, my pulse quickening at the thought. Then I remind myself of all the reasons it's a bad idea.

But … it's also a bad idea to let her go alone.

Maybe an even worse idea.

I mean, if I go, it's not like I'm going to do anything. Amelia's attractive, yeah, but it would be a friend thing. She's certainly not looking for something right now, and I've been on a dating hiatus for a while. It won't be an issue.

I'm not sure if I believe my own words, but either way, I find myself jogging across the parking deck and pounding down the stairs. I need to find her. There's just no way I'm letting Mills spend a honeymoon alone.

My phone has been buzzing almost nonstop since I helped get Amelia's bags out of the car. Maybe the guys are calling now that the texts are muted.

As I reach the ground level, I finally pull out my phone. It's Coach.

I pause, lingering on the sidewalk and watching the front doors of the airport slide open and closed as people move in and out. "Coach," I say.

"Van de Kamp," he says. "Is Milly around?"

"Not at the moment. We're at the airport. You want to talk with her?"

"That's not why I called. Look—I wanted to say I'm sorry."

"I've had a black eye before. I'll live."

"No," he says. "I mean, for assuming you had something to do with that mess. That was wrong of me."

My throat suddenly feels tight. I tug at the open collar of my shirt. "Ah, thanks."

"After everything you did today, I hate asking one more thing."

I start to move again, weaving through idling cars at the dropoff area in front of the airport. I scan the big windows inside, finally relaxing a little when I catch sight of Amelia waiting in a long line at the counter.

"Morgan says Milly's going on their honeymoon alone." He almost growls the word their , and I try to picture him throwing a chair through a church window. "She said she asked you to go with Milly."

I wait for a series of threats.

"I want you to go with her."

I slow to a stop just outside the automatic doors, which get confused and whoosh open. Then halfway close. Then open again as I drag a hand through my hair.

He's asking me to do what I was already planning to do, so I'm not sure why the request gives me pause. It should feel like a free pass. A stamp of approval.

Weirdly, it feels like as much of a trap as it did when Amelia asked.

If I tell him I was already planning to go, will he forget his apology and assume the worst again?

And if I don't tell him, is it bad to let him think it's his idea?

I guess so long as Amelia doesn't think that's why, it doesn't matter. I wouldn't want her to assume I'm here because of her dad.

"Uh, you want me to go with her?" I ask, then add, "Sir."

"I know it's a lot to ask," Coach says. "I'll reimburse you and?—"

"No need. I wouldn't feel right about taking your money."

That would be way too much like Coach paying me to go with Amelia.

"Obviously, I'll expect you to stay in your own room, and if I hear so much as a rumor of you touching?—"

"No touching. My own room."

"Thank you," he says, relief palpable through the phone. "I can't tell you enough how much this means. I hope you know if I had anyone else to call, I would."

I shake my head. And there it is. Just when I think I'm making a tiny smidge of forward progress, he reminds me that I'm still his least favorite.

"And Van? I'm trusting you with my girl. You understand?"

I do. And I hear the unspoken threat in his voice. "Understood, sir."

And I have every intention of keeping his trust. I'll go with Amelia and watch out for her. Be her friend, though I'm always the guy arguing against guy-girl friendships in the long-term. This is short-term. Special circumstances.

Totally fine.

But as I hang up, Amelia suddenly appears on the other side of the sliding doors. She pauses and glances at me—first in confusion and then with a wide smile. I have to swallow hard. Wondering exactly what Coach's trust entails. And if I'm breaking it right now staring at Amelia's smile the way I am.

I stride through the doors, passing a few feet from where Amelia stands, still smiling up at me.

"Hey," I say.

"Why are you here?" she asks. "Miss me already?"

Oddly, I did.

"Is the offer still open?" I ask, crossing my arms. "For the free vacation?"

Her eyes brighten. "Seriously? You want to come?"

I nod, and then she's launching herself at me, practically hanging off my neck. "You won't regret this," she says.

Somehow, I think she's wrong about that.