Page 63 of Steel Beauty

She nailed low-key—cutoff denim shorts, a T-shirt, a ball cap pulled low with her ponytail peeking out the back, and oversized sunglasses covering half her face.

But here’s the catch: she looks too good. Nothing about her outfit should stand out, yet somehow, she makes it impossible to look away. Maybe it’s her legs. Or the way the sunlight catches her skin, wrapping her in that soft golden glow.

She strides toward me, bag slung over her shoulder, pulling off carefree while looking far too tempting for someone trying not to draw attention.

She stops in front of me, her oversized sunglasses hiding those playful hazel eyes, but a grin tugs at the corner of her mouth. “I was looking for the G-Wagon.”

I gesture toward the Jeep. “This ride’s a lot less conspicuous. The goal this weekend is to stay off the radar.”

Charleston adjusts the strap on her shoulder, nodding with a knowing smile. “Low profile… I like that a lot.”

We climb into the Jeep, and as soon as she’s settled, I reach over, gently cupping her chin to turn her face toward me.

“What is it?” Her curiosity mingles with a playful smile.

I tilt my head. “Just trying to see your ball cap.”

Her grin widens, and I can tell she’s holding back a laugh. The hat has D4K embroidered across the front in bold letters.

“D4K? I don’t know what that means.”

She smirks, clearly enjoying my cluelessness. “It’s Dak’s emblem. You know, Dak Prescott? Number four?”

Her crush.

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Seriously? You show up for a weekend getaway with me, wearing aDakhat?”

“Wait, it gets better.” Mischief dances in her eyes as she tugs at the hem of her shirt. “Read it.”

My eyes flick to the graphic on her chest—Dak Prescott front and center. Beneath his image, a line of text curves across the fabric, but the font, stretched over the curve of her chest, makes it impossible to read without a little extra effort.

Damn dyslexia.

I squint, leaning in slightly. “The font’s a little distorted with the way you’re sitting.”

Frustration rises up, sharp and unwelcome. The fact that I can’t even manage to read a damn T-shirt in front of her stings more than I want to admit.

Charleston twists in her seat, laughter bubbling up as she reads it for me. “It says, ‘Big… Dak… energy.’”

A laugh escapes me despite myself. “Oh fuck me.”

“I plan to, JC…good… long… and hard,” she says quickly, her grin widening into something far too smug. “What’s the matter? Are you jealous of Dak?”

I scoff, trying for nonchalance, but even I hear how unconvincing I sound. “No, of course not.”

Hell yeah, I’m jealous. I’d much rather see her wearing a ball cap and shirt with me on it instead of him. But she’s completely unaware that I have my own line of rugby merch.

She tilts her head, a playful brow arching as she leans in, the brim of her cap grazing mine. With a smirk that sends a spark through me, she reaches up, adjusts both our caps, and closes the distance. Her lips touch mine—soft, sweet, and unhurried—the kind of kiss that hits deep, undoing something in me no amount of confidence could ever hold together.

“Feel better now?” Her words are soft, carrying a playful edge.

I rub my jaw, pretending to mull it over. “Marginally.”

Her smirk deepens, satisfied but still playful. “Good.”

The Jeep rumbles down the road, the tires humming against the pavement. Charleston props her feet up on the dash, her hair dancing in the wind. I steal a quick glance at her before turning my focus back to the road. She looks completely at ease, the very picture of carefree contentment.

“Hey, can you text me the links to some of those weird songs you listen to?”

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