Page 25 of Brushed and Buried
We tear open the envelope together, the paper crackling between our fingers. Clue Number One:Where the land meets the sky, take in the view, don’t be shy.An overlook. I think I know the spot. It’s at least two miles uphill, switchback trail carved into the ridge. Walking would eat up half the afternoon.
I tilt the card toward him. “Car?”
“Car,” Vince confirms, already fishing his keys from his pocket like he knew I’d say it.
The group scatters, pairs heading in different directions. Some toward the bike racks, others down the sandy path toward the village. Vince and I peel off across the lawn, the heat radiating up from the flagstones as we fall into step, silent butnot unconnected. I can hear the jingle of his keys in his hand, steady and purposeful, like the man himself.
The car he leads me to shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. A dark gray BMW, the badge on the grille and the letters on the rear are the only things telling me what it is since I know nothing about cars. It is sleek and low, polished so the lines catch the sunlight just right. Aggressive without being flashy and elegant without trying too hard, the kind of understated luxury someone like Vince would pick with NFL money but with taste.
He unlocks it with a click, and I climb in, the leather seats soft and warm from the day. The air carries the faint, lingering trace of his cologne. It is piney and sharp, threaded with an essence unmistakably his.
I stretch out in the passenger seat, crossing one ankle over my knee, pretending the space between us isn’t crackling. He starts the engine, sunglasses sliding into place with practiced ease, and we roll onto the narrow road that winds away from the resort.
The silence stretches between us like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap. The only sounds are the engine’s low rumble and gravel spitting under tires. Sunlight cuts through scraggly palms in sharp, relentless flashes. I should be looking at the road, the scenery, at anything, but my eyes keep drifting back to him.
Vince’s forearm catches my attention first, the way muscle shifts under skin as he works the gear knob, veins running like rivers from wrist to elbow before vanishing beneath rolledsleeves. Those arms weren’t built in some fancy gym. They’re working man’s arms, all functional strength and controlled power, the kind that could pin you down or pull you close with equal ease.
His fingers wrap around the gear knob with practiced confidence, knuckles flexing as he shifts. It should be innocent, just driving. But watching those long fingers work, the way they curl and stroke the knob with unconscious rhythm, my mind goes places it shouldn’t. I imagine that grip on something else entirely. Something warm, one that would respond to touch with desperate need. Something of mine, or even his.
Heat crawls up my neck. I force myself to look ahead, but peripheral vision betrays me. I notice the subtle roll of his shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls beneath that fitted plain white t-shirt, how his hips shift when he leans into turns. His thigh muscles bunch as he works the clutch, denim pulling tight across powerful legs. The fabric outlines everything. The solid mass of quad muscle, the shadowed valley where thigh meets hip, and lower…Christ. The way those jeans fit leaves little to the imagination, and my imagination is running wild.
I dig my nails into the seat, trying to anchor myself, but it’s useless. Every small movement draws my attention. The man’s body is a study in restrained power, and I’m studying way too hard.
“You okay over there?” His voice cuts through my spiral, rough around the edges.
I snap my head up, caught. “Fine. Just…warm.”
His eyes flick to mine in the rearview mirror for half a second, but it’s enough. There’s something dark there, something that makes my pulse skip. When he looks back at the road, a muscle works in his cheek, and I catch the almost imperceptible way his grip shifts on the wheel.
He knows. Somehow, he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
The air in the car feels thick now, charged with something dangerous. Every breath seems louder, every small sound amplified. When he reaches for the radio, his sleeve rides up, exposing more of that corded arm, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
“I’ll put on some music,” he mutters, huskier than before.
A few false starts and static bursts pass before “Earned It” by The Weeknd fills the car. It doesn’t help. If anything, the sultry rhythm makes everything worse, matching the pulse that’s started between my legs.
I steal another glance and catch him adjusting himself. Quick, subtle, but unmistakable. The movement sends a bolt of heat straight through me. He’s just as affected as I am, fighting the same losing battle against attraction that’s been building since we left the resort.
When he catches me looking this time, he doesn’t look away. For one dangerous moment, we’re staring at each other while the car eats up asphalt. I see my own hunger reflected in his dark eyes, raw and desperate, ready to consume us both.
He turns back to the road with visible effort, knuckles white on the wheel, but there is no going back now. The pretense is shattered. We both know where this is heading, and God help us, neither one of us wants to stop it.
Trevor’s bachelor party flashes in my mind, hot and humiliating in the best possible way. I’d been bold enough to throw myself into the stripper act without care. Laughing, teasing, hips rolling, every eye on me, but none holding me like his. And then there was Vince, most likely sober and impossibly still, deadly serious. He sat back, arms crossed and eyes sharp, watching me like he was calculating exactly how far he could push me. He commanded the space even across the room.
I shift in the seat now, hunching slightly, cursing under my breath, trying not to give myself away like a stupid teenager caught in a heatwave. My fingers curl in my lap, but it doesn’t help. The memory presses too close and vivid, mirroring the way his hand rests on the gear knob.
I clear my throat, pressing my shoulder against the cool glass of the window, forcing my voice to sound light and unbothered, as if I’m merely making conversation instead of dredging up the old, tender places in him.
“This is weirdly familiar,” I begin, letting my eyes drift out over the passing trees, though they never really leave him. “Remember senior year? That ridiculous stage play where somehow we got roped into fetching lumber from the hardware store? Two complete idiots driving across town with half a treeprecariously strapped to your dad’s truck bed. You handled it like it was a military operation, like the world depended on you getting that tree back in one piece.”
A corner of his mouth twitches, barely noticeable, a ghost of humor that never quite reaches his eyes.
I chuckle under my breath, a soft sound that carries more warmth than I intend. “You’ve always been like that,” I say, letting my gaze sweep over the strong lines of his profile, the tight set of his jaw. “Controlled, like nothing ever really penetrates. I’m not even sure you’ve ever allowed yourself to let go of anything in your life.”
The effect is immediate. The muscles in his jaw work visibly as he tries to resist what he can’t articulate. His shoulders pull tight like he’s holding himself together through sheer force of will. The air grows thick with pine scent, afternoon heat, and something unspoken that hangs heavier than the sunlight pouring through the windshield.
I see the fracture in his armor, the slip in the carefully constructed mask he wears for the world. I know I should stop and retreat, and let him keep his control. But pressing on is the only way I know to reach him, and I can’t let the moment pass. “Must be exhausting,” I say softly, letting the words linger between us like smoke.
