Page 83 of Brushed and Buried
“Good.” There’s deep satisfaction in his voice, like he’s been waiting for me to admit as much.
I study his face in the moonlight. “What about you? Back to the spotlight and stadium lights?”
Vince winces slightly, clearly uncomfortable with my phrasing. “Training camp starts in late July, but I still have brand commitments to handle first. Preseason games are in August.” He pauses, and his expression shifts. “So I have a little bit of time before then.”
The implication hangs between us, unspoken but crystal clear. It’s time that could be spent figuring out what this thing between us actually means outside the artificial bubble of a wedding week.
“Come with me.”
The quiet command cuts through whatever objection I was about to voice. He steps closer until I can see how the moonlight catches the intention in his eyes, and I can feel the intentional shift in his breathing.
“Where?”
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, almost dangerous in its confidence. “I’ll give you more material for your exhibit.”
Heat spirals through me at the implication. He knows exactly what he’s offering and the effect those words have on me. The artist in me, the part that’s been starving for real inspiration, responds to the promise like flame to oxygen.
But it’s more than artistic hunger. It’s the way he’s looking at me, like I’m worth pursuing, worth fighting for. It’s like he’s finally stopped running from what we could be.
Without hesitation, I follow.
He leads me away from the water, past the ceremony site, toward a smaller tent I’d noticed before but never bothered to look at closely. It sits apart from the main reception, nestled between the dunes where beach grass grows wild and the celebration becomes a distant murmur.
“What is this?” I ask as he pulls back the tent flap.
“Something I should have given you years ago.”
The interior steals my breath. String lights create a canopy of warm golden illumination, draped between tent poles in intricate patterns that transform the space into something magical. A small table holds champagne chilling on ice, andscattered across the canvas floor are rose petals, deep red against pristine white. It’s intimate without being overwhelming, romantic without crossing into cliché.
It looks and feels like the prom we never had.
“Vince…” My voice catches on his name, emotion threatening to overwhelm me completely.
“I know it’s not the same as the real thing.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a small box, opening it to reveal a boutonnière of white roses and baby’s breath. “Ayaka helped with the details. She said every proper prom needs the right accessories.”
He steps closer, his hands gentle as he pins the boutonnière to my lapel. His fingers brush against my chest through the fabric, and I can feel my heart racing under his touch, can see the way he notices my reaction, the slight smile that curves his lips.
“You arranged all of this?”
“I owed you a prom.” His voice roughens with regret and hope. “I owed you so many things.”
The first firework explodes in the distance, a burst of gold against the dark sky that illuminates his face in brilliant, brief detail. The sound carries across the water, echoing off the cliffs and mixing with the distant music from the reception.
“Dance with me,” he says, extending his hand with formal gallantry that makes my chest ache with its sweetness.
I take his hand, let him pull me close until we’re swaying together in the golden light. The soft strum of guitars driftfrom somewhere nearby. I vaguely recognize the tune as that old Everly Brothers song, “Let It Be Me,” timeless and perfect for this moment we’ve waited a decade to have. His arms around me, the solid warmth of his body against mine, the surprising grace with which he moves despite his size, it’s everything I dreamed of at eighteen and thought I’d lost forever.
“I’m sorry about my father,” he says, voice low against my ear. “About Mitchell, about all of it. I should have known. I should have protected you.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have trusted you.” His arms tighten around me, eliminating any remaining space between us. “I should have fought harder. I should have been braver.”
The admission breaks something open in my chest, years of buried hurt finally finding release. I feel tears threatening, the careful walls I’ve built around this pain starting to crumble.
Another firework bursts overhead, painting the tent in shifting colors. Red, then blue, then brilliant white that makes everything look ethereal, dreamlike.
“I survived without you for ten years, Adrian.” His fingertips brush along my wrist, sending electricity straight up my arm. “But I never really lived, not the way I was alive when I was with you.”
