Page 2 of Depths of Desire
And just like that, we were back to normal. Whatever static I’d felt was gone, replaced by the easy, familiar rhythm of a friendship built on convenience and earned loyalty.
It wasn’t Rhett I lusted after. In fact, the very idea of Rhett like that made me wrinkle my nose. He was too much like family in all the important ways. Rhett just happened to look a little like my type. Impatient, sometimes cold, rocking an aesthetic body, and seething with misplaced anger and passion underneath the surface.
Besides, I had plenty of similar guys to call up for some fun. When it came to worshiping a toned body or getting a scowl from high above while kneeling for his pleasure, I was well covered. And more than covered, I had a whole list of passing crushes to test out and see if they could lead anywhere.
Rhett rolled onto his side, propped up on one elbow, and scrolled absently through his phone. “You heading out Thursday morning?”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing at the corner of my screen. 12:17 a.m. “Driving.”
“Driving?” He blinked like I’d told him I was going to ice-skate home backward. “To Nebraska?”
I grinned. “Yup.”
“You’re insane.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I like a little peace and freedom before I’m neck-deep in holiday small talk and roast beef politics.”
He snorted. “I forgot your parents do the whole ‘heritage dinner’ with speeches and coordinated sweaters.”
“Don’t forget the ice sculpture centerpiece. One year it was a swan. Last year, a puck with my face in it.”
Rhett grimaced. “Nightmare fuel.”
I leaned back in my chair, arms stretching over my head until my spine cracked. “Anyway, I forgot to book a flight, prices skyrocketed, and the forecast’s a mess, so car rental it is. I leave early. Real early. Like ‘still dark outside’ early.”
“You’ve lost your damn mind,” Rhett muttered, tossing his phone to the side and burrowing into his pillow. “Hope your deathmobile has chains and snow mode.”
“It’s a four-wheel drive.” I grinned again because it was going to be a long-ass drive, but there was something about taking the wheel and setting the pace that felt right. No TSA. No lines. Just me, my playlist, a coffee thermos, and the open road, even if that road was half-frozen and covered in God knows how many feet of snow by the time I hit the western part of the state.
I was looking forward to it.
“It’s not so bad,” I added. “Nine hours if I don’t stop too much. Eight if I pretend speed limits are more like suggestions.”
“Your corpse better not be on the news,” Rhett mumbled into the blanket.
“If I die, delete my browser history and tell my mom I died a noble death.”
“Your mom’s not gonna believe that. She knows you too well.”
“Fair.”
The truth was, I liked the stretch of highway between Chicago and the little town of Hastings, Nebraska. It gave me time to think, to shed the layers of Westmont and glide back into the familiar boredom of suburbia. I could listen to sad music and pretend it meant something, maybe stop at the same grimy gas station in Iowa where I always picked up sour gummy worms and regret.
“I might hit some snow on the last leg,” I said, more to myself than to Rhett. “But I’ve driven worse.”
“You’re a jock with confidence issues and a god complex. You think you’re invincible.”
I chuckled. “And yet, you trust me to do your laundry.”
He lifted a single finger in salute without opening his eyes. “Not trust. Desperation.”
I let the silence settle again. Rhett’s playlist had shifted into a sleepy synth ballad with vocals that sounded like someone singing through a dream. My essay still wasn’t finished. But my mind had already wandered forward—to the open road, the sound of tires on slush, and the quiet thought that, maybe, something unexpected could happen this time.
It was a ridiculous thing to get me excited. It was just a possibility. An old acquaintance asked if I was driving home this winter and, if I was, could there be room for a passenger. I knew who she meant. Lena was hardly a friend, but we’d known each other for years. You simply couldn’t not know someone in Hastings. Especially when that someone had an older brotherwho’d attracted all the attention at the local swimming pool. Not that he’d done it to flaunt his skill and good looks—or at least I didn’t think so—but because he was freaking majestic.
I’d never seen anyone swim as gracefully as Oliver.
Even now, I could picture it with embarrassing clarity, him slicing through the water at the Hastings public pool like he belonged in some kind of cinematic montage. All long limbs, sculpted shoulders, and that terrifying, focused calm. Everyone used to gawk, whisper, and stare. Me included. The water clung to him like it wanted to be close. He never even looked like he was trying.
