Page 73 of Brushed and Buried
“You make it sound possible,” I say.
“Maybe it is.”
The maybes hang between us like a bridge neither of us is quite ready to cross. But it’s there now, real and tangible, offering passage to something we’ve both been afraid to reach for.
He puts his hand on top of mine on the bench, not intertwining our fingers but simply resting his palm against the back of my hand. The touch is warm and grounding without being possessive. I stare down at our hands, his larger and more weathered than mine, marked by years of athletic training and discipline. But they’re gentle against my skin, patient in a way that makes my throat tight with so much emotion.
“Your career,” I point out, because I can’t help myself. “Your reputation, your endorsements. Everything you’ve built.”
“Was built on a foundation of pretending to be someone I’m not.” His voice carries no regret, only clarity. “Maybe it’s time to find out what I can build on truth instead.”
“And if it costs you everything?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, considering the question with the seriousness it deserves. When he answers, his voice is steady and sure.
“Then at least I’ll know what everything was actually worth,” he says, giving me a small smile.
We sit in comfortable silence as the sun continues its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and pink. The beauty of the moment feels like a promise, like the universe offering us a second chance at something we thought was lost forever.
“We should probably get back,” I say eventually, though I’m reluctant to break the spell of this conversation.
“Probably.” But neither of us moves to leave.
“The rehearsal dinner starts in an hour.”
“We’ll make it.”
I turn to study his profile, memorizing the way the golden light catches the strong line of his jaw, the way his hair moves in the ocean breeze.
“For the record,” I say, gathering courage I didn’t know I still possessed, “I never stopped caring about you. Not completely.”
The smile that spreads across his face is radiant, transforming his entire expression into something that makes my heart skip with possibility.
“Good,” he says, bringing our joined hands to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. “Don’t stop now.”
The simple gesture sends heat spiraling through me. Sitting here beside him, feeling his warmth and seeing the affection in his eyes, I can almost believe we might finally get it right.
26
Vince
The rehearsal dinner unwinds under a wash of amber fairy lights strung across the cliffside terrace as the sun slips away, leaving the ocean scented with salt and jasmine. The briny air clings to everything, the garlands, the woven chair backs, our skin. People move more slowly than usual, weighed down by nerves and sentiment, the atmosphere dense with anticipation.
Becca kisses Trevor goodnight in front of all of us. It’s not bashful or shy; it’s warm and lingering, like the gentle close of a chapter they’re savoring rather than rushing through. She whispers something in his ear, smacks his ass with a laugh, and walks barefoot through the sand in her linen dress, and no one blinks.
Trevor shifts, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s bracing for the ribbing. “Becca’s family has this tradition,” he says, grinning. “Bride and groom don’t get to spend the night together before the wedding, like a superstitious thing. The ceremony’s meant to feel like a reunion or something.”
“So, she’s got some plans without you?” George asks, already cracking another beer.
“She booked a late-night massage at the hotel spa,” Trevor says, smirking. “Some candlelit pamper package with champagne and a suspiciously attractive-sounding masseuse.”
Lance snorts, “Male or female?”
Trevor shrugs. “I didn’t ask. I’m not sure she wants me to know.”
“Power move,” George says.
“She deserves it,” Trevor replies. “And she knows I’m not exactly planning to spend the night playing chess with you assholes.”
