Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Amelia

So warm. Soooo nice and warm.

Was that my alarm? I groan. Definitely don't want to get up. Five more minutes. Maybe ten.

I burrow my face deeper into my pillow, reaching for another one to put over my head. But my hand closes around something not so soft instead.

I thought I got rid of this stupid pillow—the memory foam one that I ordered off an infomercial and turned out to be as heavy as a boulder. I squeeze.

Not memory foam.

Not … a pillow?

More like?—

"Time to wake up, gorgeous."

The sound of Van's low, gritty voice instantly floods me with memories of the day's events. I tense and go completely still. Like maybe if I don't move and don't open my eyes, this won't be real.

Because I am not in bed, being woken up by my alarm.

I'm on a plane after I did not get married. A plane that is no longer moving.

And even before I open my eyes to survey the damage, I'm very aware of how I'm practically lying on top of Van, my head nestled into his chest, lips brushing the bare skin between the open buttons of his shirt. One hand fisted in the material and the other … the other is not squeezing an infomercial pillow but his leg .

Not just his leg—his upper thigh. Like, way upper thigh. Almost to his hip.

I snatch my hand away and sit up so fast the edges of my vision go black. All I can see for a few seconds are Van's amused brown eyes and his upturned mouth.

And did the stubble on his face grow while we were en route? Because it already seems darker, and fuller. Sexier.

No! Not sexier.

Okay, objectively, yes—sexy. It's not even a point up for debate.

But I can't have feelings about his objective attractiveness. It's simply a truth universally acknowledged.

MOVING ON.

"We shall never speak of this," I whisper, wiping a hand over my mouth just in case I drooled. " Never ."

"You don't kiss and tell—got it."

My cheeks are flaming. "I don't—we didn't. There was no kissing ," I hiss, really hoping I'm right. I may have slept through thigh groping, but I wouldn't sleep through a kiss. "And nothing to tell."

Van says nothing. His widening smirk—says a lot.

Wait. Did I … do more than just snuggle him in my sleep?

"No," I whisper. "I didn't. I wouldn't!" Blood surges to my cheeks. Panic claws at my chest. I grab Van's arm and squeeze as I lower my voice. "Did I kiss you in my sleep?"

For a long moment, Van says nothing, and I wonder if it's possible to literally die of embarrassment. The way my heart is sputtering in my chest and the air is struggling to pass through my lungs, I think maybe it is. They keep defibrillators on planes, right?

Then Van's smile shifts to something less devilish and more soft. Almost … tender. He reaches out, fingertips grazing my cheek as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

"Relax, Mills. I'm just messing with you. I'm the one who pulled you over here and said to rest. You needed it. We're fine. There was no kissing. Okay?"

I nod dumbly, grateful for the easy out he just gave me.

But then he leans closer, his breath hot on my neck as he says, "Besides, kissing me is not the kind of experience you'd be able to sleep through. Though you might dream about it …"

I poke him in the chest, hard , and he laughs and allows me to shove him away. "Shut up, you."

But as I sit up and start to gather my things, I catch sight of a red smudge peeking out of Van's open shirt right next to his tattoo.

A perfect imprint of my lips on his skin.

"You don't need to do this," I repeat, but the stubborn man I'm calling my travel companion for the next four days doesn't listen.

"I'll take the Range Rover," he says to the man with the nametag. "Always wanted to drive one of those."

I want to scream.

After we got off the plane, we ran into trouble. Starting with—my bags not making it to Tampa. It's late, and there was nary a person at any counter to help us, only an automated number to call and report the missing bags.

Which means now Van and I are both only wearing the clothing on our backs. Between us, we have one phone and two wallets, though mine isn't particularly helpful considering my financial situation.

Then we got to the rental car counter, where it turns out I can't pick up the car we reserved. Or should I say Drew reserved. In only his name.

The issue isn't that I'm a day early to pick up the car. The issue is that Drew didn't put my name on the reservation. Guess he assumed he'd be the only one driving it.

The man behind the counter refused to give me information on our reservation or any credit toward a new vehicle. Nothing. It's like I don't exist.

Because I'm not Drew.

At that point, Van whipped out his black credit card for the second time tonight. I'm keeping a mental tally in my head of how much I owe him, and it's already too much. A last-minute, first-class airline ticket and now he's renting a high-end car? I'll be paying him back forever.

Especially since I'll have to look for a new job.

Oh, and did I mention I used up my pretty meager savings and last paycheck to cover the final payment of my credit card?

Someone should really explain to college kids how those cards work. Especially considering the way companies pass them out on college campuses like parade candy or Oprah in that one meme: You've been preapproved! And you've been preapproved! You've all been preapproved!!!!

Okay, so my dad did explain them to me. I half listened, then ignored all his advice in lieu of things like ordering pizza, upgrading to a new laptop, buying new, adult clothes right after graduation. Plus any wedding stuff over the past year that Dad deemed "unnecessary."

I didn't go nuts. But I also paid the minimum most months, falling right into the credit card company's clutches until I was up to my eyeballs in stupid debt, growing steadily because of the thing I wish I'd listened to my dad about: interest .

Dumb. So dumb. But I learned my lesson, paid off the card little by little and then dumped all my remaining money into paying it off this week so I could get married debt-free.

Which would have been fine. Except now I'm not married, which means I'm all debt-free with nowhere to go and no money to not go there with.

My lease ended this week, with my stuff in boxes at Drew's place. Now, living with Dad will be more long-term until I can find something else. And my bank account is sitting pretty with a big fat three-figure sum total.

I don't even have the option of starting a whole new mountain of mini-debt with the credit card I just finished paying off. Because I cut it up.

My whole life right now feels like a collection of tiny bad decisions all stacked up in a Jenga tower. And Drew pulled out a key piece right at the bottom, sending everything crashing down.

"Mills." Van's big hand lands on my shoulder. Squeezes twice.

"What?" This comes out a little snappier than I meant it to. I sigh, my shoulders slumping. "Sorry."

"No apologies, remember?"

"Right. The rules." His fingers gently knead my shoulder, then slide up to the back of my neck. I'm not even into massages—usually I'm too ticklish—but Van's strong fingers almost have me groaning right here at the Avis counter.

"What's the deal?" Van asks. "Are you okay?"

"I just hate that you're paying for stuff. But …" I swallow, then work up the courage to meet Van's eyes. "I'm kind of in a bad financial place right now. All things considered."

"Look—I was thinking about taking a trip during this break anyway. And I would have spent money on that. So, stop worrying. I'd probably have spent way more in Vegas."

"What were you going to do in Vegas?" I ask.

I'm immediately sorry because the kinds of reasons men might go to Vegas aren't all ones I want to think about.

He shrugs. "Maybe catch a few hockey games. A show or two."

I'm immediately dying to know what kinds of shows Van would attend. Music? Magic? One of those sexy revues where the women do high kicks with feathers and sequins?

"But mostly blackjack," Van says, and the sudden tightness in my chest eases.

"You like blackjack?"

"I do. And it does not love me back. So, really, you're saving me from myself. And from the house taking all my money."

I don't know if any of this is true or if Van's lying, but I find myself happy to believe him. And then I find myself saying, "I've never played."

It's the thinnest of veiled requests. Me basically begging him to teach me.

Van grins and says, "Guess we'll have to pick up a deck of cards with the rest of our supplies."

Right. Because now neither of us has any other clothes than the ones we're wearing. No toiletries either.

So we stop at a Walmart before we get to the tiny island resort, which is separated enough from the mainland to make leaving to buy things a pain. I'm sure everything at the resort will be way overpriced.

But I draw the line at letting Van buy me underwear. It's embarrassing enough that he's paying for my clothes—bad enough that we're buying Walmart clothes. I have not shopped at Walmart in years. While it's greatly improved from what I remember, it is not my typical style. If I could afford it, I'd buy everything from Anthropologie. As it is, I cannot without the power of my credit card, so my typical style is pairing one nice, special piece with bargain finds from Ross or H&M.

Tonight, all my finds are bargain. And I may burn them when I get my actual bags. If I had to describe this style it's very bright. And very rayon.

They carry a few of the makeup brands I use, and I try to stick to the essentials: face wash, moisturizer with SPF, foundation, concealer, blush, and mascara. I don't want to appear too high maintenance, though if I'm being honest, I'm medium maintenance. If it weren't for the ridiculous amount of freckles I have always hated, I probably wouldn't wear more than moisturizer and mascara. But I do have freckles. And some PTSD from being constantly teased about them when I was little.

I also grab a new notebook in a cheerful yellow with a honeycomb design and a pack of pens in case I have ideas and need to write. I'm never without a notebook and feel better once it's in the cart along with a pair of flip-flops, sunscreen, a fluffy towel, and a beachy book in case I feel like reading.

It bothers me that Van is going to have to pay for all this. But I'll allow it.

I will not allow him to pay for the bras and underwear.

"Just put your stuff in the cart, Mills," he says. "We've been over this. I've got the money. I'll cover it, and I don't want you to worry about it."

"I'm not worried. Look! I did put some stuff in the cart. But I'm buying these," I argue stubbornly, clutching the multipack of cotton boy shorts to my chest, which hopefully hide most of the two bras.

"Your loss." Van looks like an oversized mutant child as he puts one foot on the cart and pushes off with the other to glide down the aisle.

"You're going to get us kicked out," I call. He only laughs.

Somehow, Van looks totally in his element here. Not that Walmart specifically is his element. He is absolutely not a People of Walmart kind of person.

It's more that I have yet to see Van look uncomfortable today. In every situation he's been thrown in, he lands on his feet, adapting and going with the flow like wherever he is, he's meant to be there. Despite the fact it's ten o'clock at night and he's in Walmart wearing dress shoes, suit pants, and a shirt that seems to get unbuttoned a little more each hour. I'm less distracted by his tattoo now that his very defined six-pack is partially visible.

Not that I'm looking!

No. I'm really not. I'm staring at the pack of panties and the two bras in my hand—wondering if the sixteen-dollar bra is really that much better than the three-dollar one. Heck, I should get them both and then do a test. Then again, the airport will probably find my bags tomorrow, so I don't need two bras but just in case?—

"Gimme." Van's hand reaches out, snatching the underwear and bras right out of my hands and tossing them at the cart. He misses, and now two bras and a pack of neon underwear skitter across the tile floor.

I didn't even notice him coming back down the aisle.

I scramble to grab the underwear, pulling them to my chest again. Van eyes me, hands on his hips and eyebrows raised.

"You don't need to be weird about this. It's just underwear, Mills. We all wear it."

"You wear bras?" I deadpan, and he laughs.

"No. I don't wear bras." He reaches in the cart and plucks out a package of boxer briefs, holding them up and waving them. "See! Underwear. Everybody wears it."

Okay. I did not need this visual.

He's chosen dark colored boxer briefs—black, navy, charcoal gray—and all I can think about is the fact that the shirtless dude modeling them on the package has got nothing on Van.

"Don't make it a big deal." Van says, tossing the briefs in the cart. This time, he makes it.

He's right, of course. It's just … okay, maybe I'm a little uptight about some things. Including underwear. Uptight is such a negative word.

Private . That's better.

"Sorry if I don't go flashing my panties to every Tom, Dick, and Harry hanging out in Walmart."

"I'm sorry, did you say my name?" A man with bushy gray eyebrows and a circa-2000s soul patch steps into the aisle, holding a blender in one hand and a pair of work boots in the other.

As one does in Walmart.

"What?" I say.

"I'm Harry," he says, tapping his chest with the blender. "I thought I heard you say my name and something about … panties?"

Van snorts, and the man—Harry—drops his gaze to the underwear and bras still clutched to my chest. This feels like a strange sort of life lesson, like the reason why no one should walk around Walmart holding—and arguing about—undergarments.

Had I just put them in the cart like Van asked, we would not be having this conversation.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "I did say your name, but I was talking about the metaphorical Harry."

"The who-what now?" Actual Harry asks, his bushy brows drawing together in consternation.

"Sorry—just a bit of confusion here." Van tugs the undergarments from my hands for the second time and drops them into the cart.

"Hop on," he says, tipping his chin toward the back of the cart.

And even though I was just chastising him for riding on the cart, I grab the handle and step up with both feet. I'm not quite prepared for the heat of Van's body against my back as his hands grasp the handle next to mine. He pushes us down the aisle and away from Actual Harry.

I find myself giggling as Van picks up speed. "This has to be against store policy," I tell him, even as I'm grinning.

His voice rumbles near my ear. "Do you always follow the rules, Mills?"

Yes. Honestly, I do.

I follow the rules, but what's more, I think I often treat other people's expectations of me—especially my dad's, but also Drew's—like rules as well. The thought starts to make my stomach sour.

But then Van gives us another push and we're flying, laughter bubbling up out of me.

"Like I've been saying, it's time to make your own rules," Van says, then swerves to avoid a woman with a cart full of canned goods, not slowing down at all. Not bothered by her glare.

Van's words send my brain humming, the idea for a new post taking shape. I should write about this experience—what to do when you find your fiancé cheating on the day of your wedding.

The rules for being a runaway bride.

Then I give my head a little shake. Who am I kidding? This is the Saturated-with-Information Age—there are likely thousands of books and blogs about this very thing. I bet someone has already penned a Runaway Bride for Dummies book.

But even if it's already been written, the college professor in the one creative writing class I took once said that every story has been told but not by you in your words. Seth Godin says only you have your distinctive voice and that hoarding it is toxic.

So … why not?

My fingers itch to open the package of pens and start writing in the yellow notebook.

Later.

Because now, I'm busy leaning into a very warm, sturdy chest of a man encouraging me to fly.

"We're definitely going to get kicked out," I say, gasping for breath as my giggles turn into full-blown laughter.

"They'd have to catch us first. And I'd like to see them try."

As I grip the handles for dear life, my cheeks start to ache from smiling so big. I can't remember the last time I felt this happy.

With a cart full of bargain clothes, rolling at a quick pace through Walmart, with Van pressed close to my back, his laughter in my ear. Breaking so many rules and for once, thinking about making my own.