Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Amelia

Flying first class really is top-notch. But our seats and the exorbitant price Van paid to get us in them is not why we've had such excellent service. We've barely taken off and the flight attendant has been hovering better than any helicopter mom at the playground.

"Are you sure you don't need anything?"

I'm all set to tell the toothy woman looking only at Van that no, for the third time, we don't need any overpriced airplane food or beverages. What we—okay, I— need is for her to stop trying to flirt with the famous hockey player she recognized the moment we stepped on the plane.

But she hasn't been getting my hints. Or Van's hints, which consist of leaning against the window pretending to be asleep. She's the reason I took the aisle seat to begin with—to keep Van out of reach after she kept trying to help him find his clearly marked seat when we boarded.

Before I can tell her again that we don't need anything, Van gives a dramatically loud yawn and stretches. Leaning away from the window and giving me a wink, he puts one big hand on the seat in front of me and the other behind my head until I'm caged in.

A proprietary move. One that has my stomach cartwheeling toward a cliff.

He's close enough to give me a slight buzz from whatever cologne he's wearing. And to get a peek at the tattoo on his chest, which is a little easier since he undid two more buttons on his dress shirt. I suppose this is his version of travel casual when you came straight from a wedding: black pants, belt, and a shirt unbuttoned halfway to his navel.

I still can't see the whole tattoo, but now I know the lines curling up out of his shirt collar are flames. Black outlines; no color. But as for the full image, I'm still not sure.

"We'd like two glasses of champagne, please," Van says, his eyes never leaving mine.

I normally hate when men order for a woman. If they ask first—sure. Or if they want to make a recommendation, that's great. Maybe in those cases, a woman might find this romantic. But most of the time, it just comes across as the pinnacle of mansplaining. Like, I'll help the little lady out because reading a menu is hard work and decisions such as this are best left to the men-folk .

I'm not sure why Mr. Misogyny speaks in my head with a cowboy's drawl, but he always does. No offense to cowboys.

Drew ordered for me all the time. And what's worse—I let him. It should have been written down in a list of red flags. Instead, it was one of many things I tried to ignore through a gritted-teeth smile.

Somewhere along the way, I told myself that love was about compromise … which I guess only applied to me , since Drew never compromised.

Somewhere along the way, I also told myself I was in love. An even worse mistake.

Just as I'm about to protest out of principle—even though champagne sounds perfect right now—Van's fingers land lightly on the back of my neck. He cocks an eyebrow as he glances at me.

"Unless you want a different drink?" he says. "Maybe something harder?"

Earlier in the car, Van said he didn't need lines to pick up women. I think he was trying to be funny, pushing a certain narrative that may not be accurate. But it's clearly based in some truth. Because I, for one, am practically ready to eat out of Van's hand.

The man is potent . Even when he's not trying to be.

And if this is him not trying, him just pretending so we can ditch the overzealous flight attendant, I'd hate to see Van's charm dialed up to even a medium setting. I'd melt right into this lovely faux leather seat.

When his fingertip strokes my neck, I'm a goner.

"I'm sorry—what was the question?" I ask as Van slowly, lightly trails his fingers down my neck to my shoulder, stopping when he reaches the collar of my shirt.

He toys with the fabric, and I swear, it's like his touch has some kind of direct line to my heart. The effect is not unlike jumper cables or those paddles they're always using in medical dramas. Though I'm not sure if he's shocking me to life or frying my engine.

"Is champagne good, or would you like something else, Mills?" he asks, his brown eyes warm. Amused. Alluring. The scar through his eyebrow adds a delicious edge of danger to the whole look.

Bad boy, indeed.

A tiny shiver flows through me. "Champagne is great," I say, my voice wobbling a little. It'll pair perfectly with the bubbles still coursing through my blood.

"Are you celebrating something?" I'm jarred by the flight attendant's voice. I forgot for a moment she was here. And when I glance up, I see her big smile has gone slightly brittle with Van's show.

Clearly, I'm not the only one affected by the potent powder keg of man seated beside me.

The man who leans even closer, his smile curling up on one side in a way that has my stomach clenching. One finger drags slowly back up my neck and pauses at my hairline.

He's like a genetically engineered apex predator—all the languid, powerful movements of a jungle cat mixed with the paralyzing venom of a snake bite. That's the only explanation for the way I'm sitting here, slack-jawed and totally unable to do more than blink.

"You could say that," Van murmurs, his gaze on my mouth.

Say what? What did she ask?

Oh, right—are we celebrating? Yes, we are. Pretending to celebrate, that is. Because at the front counter, Van managed to sweet-talk his way into two first class seats next to each other on a mostly full flight—the last one of the night—to Tampa because we're newlyweds.

Considering the events of the day, it's only like, an eighth of a lie. Not a white one but maybe just a little greige. Technically, we did come straight from a wedding where one of us was—supposed to be—the bride. And we are heading toward a honeymoon.

For the record, I thought playing newlyweds was a terrible idea and, had he warned me, I would have stopped him. For a whole host of reasons—not the least of which being how much I loved the way Van wrapped a possessive arm around my waist, staring down at me with pure, unadulterated adoration.

Correction: fake, manufactured adoration.

But Van already committed us to the lie by the time I realized what was happening. I figured it wasn't a huge deal since we're under no obligation to keep up now. It's not like airports are known for communication between the front desks and the people working the gate or the flight crew. I seriously doubt Thomas radioed ahead and told Jill at the gate to welcome the newlyweds.

This flight attendant clearly did not get a memo. Still—we boarded together. Shouldn't she have at least assumed we could be together and not tried to get Van's attention every five seconds? Guess not.

"Great," she says, sounding like she's dry-swallowing a bitter pill of disappointment. "Be right back with your drinks."

The moment she's gone, I manage to shake off whatever spell Van has me under. Leaning forward, I use two fingers to pluck his hand off of my person and drop it in his lap.

"What was all that?" I hiss.

Clearly unperturbed, Van shrugs and pulls out the in-flight magazine and starts flipping through. "What was all what?"

"You—with the leaning and the touching and the sexy voice."

Van pauses his magazine perusal and gives me a flirty side eye, which I don't think I knew was even possible. "You think my voice is sexy?"

His pitch is low, the tone gritty. As though he's taken the sexy dial and cranked that puppy up a few more notches.

I poke him in the chest, careful to avoid bare skin. "You stop it right now."

"Stop what?" He grins, but then it drops and his expression turns sincere. "Look—she was clearly not giving up. And you were clearly getting jealous?—"

"I was not jealous! Just annoyed. On principle. For all she knows, we could be together. And you being some famous hockey player "—I put this in finger quotes, which makes Van snort—"doesn't make you property for public consumption."

"Fine. Since you were clearly getting annoyed on principle "—he finger quotes me right back—"I thought I'd make sure she knows I'm not available. Is that okay?"

"Yes. But there's no need to be so …" His grin grows, and my words sputter out.

"So … what?" he teases. "I'm just being myself."

Slowly, and with the devilish smirk to measure all other devilish smirks against, Van lifts one finger to his mouth. Slowly, his tongue darts out and he licks the tip, and then uses it to turn the next page of the magazine. Which he is not even pretending to read.

I need some kind of Van vaccine. Just a little injection of the real thing so my body can train to fight him off. Otherwise, I'm honestly in trouble here. You'd think, given my very recent breakup of an engagement, attraction to another man wouldn't even come into play.

And it probably wouldn't under any other circumstance with any other person.

But my travel companion happens to be the one exception.

Even last night at the rehearsal dinner—which now feels like it took place centuries ago—my stomach dropped and then I felt a whole body something when I caught sight of Van—a.k.a. Restaurant Robbie at a table across the room. There was a flash of hope, followed immediately by disappointment and guilt for feeling anything at all when my fiancé was seated beside me.

Whatever connection we felt the night we met snapped right back into place when Van drove me away from the church. But I refuse to fall prey to some weird rebound second-chance crush. It's a terrible idea.

Morgan would disagree. She'd cheer me on while watching with a bowl of popcorn in her lap.

But I'm not Morgan. I'm me . The woman who was wearing a wedding dress until an hour and a half ago. And who is now fending off inappropriate feelings inspired by the ridiculous flirt sitting next to me.

I snatch the magazine from Van's hands, quickly roll it up, and whack him in the shoulder. "No!" I say firmly, like I'm scolding a dog. Not that I'd actually hit a dog with a rolled up magazine. But Van can take it. "Bad. No!"

He actually giggles. Which only makes me swat him harder. Because it's kind of adorable. And that makes me angrier.

"Why are you—ow!" he says. "This is worse than my pinching!"

"I'll stop if you stop with all the flirting and the touching and the pretending!"

Van's face shifts, and before I can blink, he's trapped my magazine-wielding hand in his. Our faces are much too close as he says, "Who said anything about pretending?"

A throat clears. "Sorry for interrupting, but here's your champagne."

At the sound of the flight attendant's voice, I pull my hand away from Van. The magazine slips from my fingers and falls somewhere below our feet.

Van, whose brain hasn't shorted out like mine, takes the champagne flutes. "Thank you."

I don't miss the way the flight attendant shoots her shot. Rather than just letting go quickly, she releases slowly, dragging her fingernails over Van's hand. This happens literally right in front of my face.

The nerve! Van made it clear we're together, and she's still trying? I find myself with a violent urge to rip those gel tips right off her nails.

What is happening to me?

I am not a person who believes in physical violence. And here I am—beating Van with a magazine and wanting to rip off our flight attendant's gel nails. I'm not quite unhinged—yet—but I'm getting there.

Van pulls back, a little champagne sloshing over the top of one flute and landing on my lap. He clears his throat, for the first time all day seeming uncomfortable. It only fuels my rage.

I turn to the flight attendant.

"I'm sorry, but are you hitting on my husband? The one who vowed for better or for worse to me just a few hours ago?"

Don't know where those words came from.

Actually, I do. They come from the part of me who was supposed to be married. Who had planned to recite those vows a few hours ago, even if not to this man.

And if I had taken those vows, I would absolutely say something if some rando was hitting on my man.

I am doing women everywhere a service by calling this lady out.

The woman's cheeks flame, and she quickly steps back. "I'm sorry."

I don't look at Van. Instead, I watch as she walks away in her navy suit.

A head with soft white curls appears over the top of the seat in front of us, and an older woman grins at me. "Good for you, honey."

I smile weakly before she drops back down in her seat. "Thanks?"

A champagne flute appears in front of me, and I take it with a shaking hand. Van's fingers close around mine, steadying me.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Fine." My voice is a coiled spring. "Does this happen often?"

He gives a little shrug. "Sometimes."

Which I'll take to mean more often than I want to know. I also don't want to know if Van would have brushed the woman off had I not been here. He did say he dates a lot. I swallow.

Still cupping my hand, Van leans close, his lips brushing my ear. "For the record, jealousy looks hot on you, Mills. Even if you're pretending."

He leans away, dropping his hand, and I take a quick swallow of champagne. I feel the cool liquid travel all the way down my throat.

The problem is I'm not pretending. The part about marrying Van may have been a straight-up lie, but the desire to do bodily harm to the flight attendant—or at least settle for a verbal beatdown—is viscerally real.

I'm not possessive so much as I'm possessed . I can practically taste my own jealousy underneath the dry fizz of the champagne. It's sickly sweet and heady. Maybe in shoving down my feelings about what happened with Drew and Becky, I'm forcing all of my other emotions to the surface. Like I can only hold so many feelings back at one time.

Or maybe I'm just … not myself.

"You started it with your lies," I mutter, which is also true.

Van takes a slow sip of champagne. "When did I lie?"

"At the counter. You told the man we were newlyweds."

"No, I didn't. I simply walked up to the counter and said newlyweds . Not we are newlyweds ," he says. "Was the implication there? Yes. But I didn't outright lie."

I think back to the exchange and realize he's right. His ability to be so casually deceptive—and believable—terrifies me.

"Oh, you're good," I tell him. Meaning, of course, very, very bad.

"So, did you change your mind about keeping up the charade?" He lowers his voice. Not like anyone could hear us over the plane's engine. "You want to stay married to me, Mills?"

My cheeks flush at the mere idea of Van and me and marriage. "No."

"You sure? It might come in handy now and again." He finishes his champagne, watching me.

I lift the flute to my lips and let the smallest amount roll over my tongue while I consider. While I do, I feel Van's attention on me. It's oppressive. Not in a wholly bad way, but more like an unignorable presence, a barometric pressure shift.

"It's probably a bad idea," I tell him.

"Okay," he agrees easily. "But if you change your mind, we can always pull the married card when it suits us. You know—for upgrades, free stuff." He grins. "Scaring off handsy flight attendants."

I roll my eyes. "Fine." Eyeing the glass in my hand, I say, "I probably shouldn't have much more of this or I might start an actual cat fight."

Van smiles. "You can cat fight if you want to. You can pretend to be my wife. Or not. You get to make the rules, Mills."

I lift my half-full glass and clink it against his empty one, holding his gaze as I say, "Cheers to rewriting the rules."

Moments after he finishes the champagne, the flight attendant reappears—of course—and I practically throw the glasses at her with a glare. Van chuckles, winks at me, and then leans his head against the window.

I cross my arms. "You can just… sleep like that?" I grumble.

Before I have time to protest, Van sits up, lifts the arm rest between us and puts his arm around me, pulling me over until I'm leaning on his chest. Beneath my cheek, his muscles are firm, but somehow perfectly snuggleable. His hand slides gently up and down my back, and just like that—I'm back to being totally paralyzed by him. Or maybe just so relaxed I don't want to move.

"One of the perks of having me as a travel buddy is that you don't have to get a crick in your neck while sleeping. Consider my pec your personal pillow."

"A pectoral pillow," I mutter, and he chuckles.

"You got it. Now, you've had a helluva day, Mills. Rest."

Maybe I should be bothered by this too—Van's bossiness. Him telling me to rest. But Van seems to perfectly anticipate my needs. He isn't being controlling but considerate.

His command to sleep—along with the pec pillow and his gentle hand stroking my back—has an almost instant effect, and I find my eyelids heavy and my mind drifting away.

"Thanks, Van. For … everything."

He says something in a low voice, but I only hear a rumble, and I fall asleep thinking about purring jungle cats.