Page 86 of Brushed and Buried
The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the courtyard, gilding everything in soft light that makes the resort feel like a painting. The wedding is over, the last glasses of champagne drained, the laughter beginning to fade into memory. Now it’s goodbye time.
Trevor and Becca stand in the middle, glowing the way newlyweds do, like the whole world exists to orbit them for just this moment. Becca has changed into a breezy sundress that whips around her knees, Trevor can’t stop touching her, and together they look like they’re already halfway to their honeymoon.
“We are so ready for Bali,” Becca says, excitement bright in her voice.
“Sounds perfect for you two,” Lance says, pulling Trevor into a back-slapping hug that says more than words.
George steps in next. He clasps Trevor’s hand firmly, his voice steady but threaded with warmth. “You made Mom and Dad proud last night.”
Trevor’s grin softens at his stepbrother, a little sheepish. “I guess we all did.”
I watch them all, struck by how strange it feels to see these men and Becca, my newfound friends, scattering again, each back to their separate corners of California. These reunions are rare, precious, and never long enough.
Vince drifts through it all with his usual calm—shaking hands, clapping shoulders, laughing in that low rumble that makes people lean closer. Still, every so often, he glances my way, a quick check-in, like a string tying us together no matter how many people stand between us.
Lance leans down slightly, his grin teasing. “Take care of Adrian. He’s too precious. We’ve only known him for a little over a week, but we trust you’ll know exactly how to keep him happy.” He pulls me into a quick, firm hug, letting the contact linger just a beat longer than necessary, then winks at Vince and claps him on the shoulder. “And now, off back home to Spring Valley, where a twelve-hour shift in the ER is waiting for me.”
George snorts softly, shaking his head with a small smile. “That is true. And thanks for…a lot of things.” He pulls me into a brief hug, the warmth staying just long enough to make my cheeks flush, then waves toward his car.
A flicker of those mischievous nights we shared teases the edges of my memory. Vince smirks at me, pride and a quiet, almost possessive amusement in his eyes.
When it’s my turn to hug Trevor, he holds on a beat longer too. His voice drops low, meant only for me. “Take care of him.”
I squeeze his shoulder, letting the fact that he’s asking me this sink in. “I’ll do more than that. You have my word.”
His grin says more than words, a quiet relief that settles warm and steady between us.
Then I turn to both of them, Trevor and Becca standing together like they’ve already mastered the art of being one unit. “Congratulations,” I say, meaning it with everything I have. “You two created something beautiful this weekend. Thank you for letting me be part of it.”
Becca leans in next, kissing my cheek, her perfume soft and floral. “I’m so happy for you two.” Her smile tilts, mischievous. “Good thing we booked you for that gig.”
I laugh, understanding the layers beneath her words. “Thank you for that. For everything, really. You gave us more than you know.”
Trevor grins. “Just promise you’ll come visit us, both of you. We’ll need company once we’re back from our honeymoon.”
“We will,” Vince says, stepping up beside me. “Count on it.”
The courtyard is mostly empty. Guests have trickled out since morning, their suitcases rattling across tile, their waves brief and fond. Trevor and Becca climb into a waiting car that will deliverthem to LAX, waving through the rear window until the curve of the driveway swallows them whole.
Vince comes up beside me, his hand finding the small of my back. It’s warm and certain, gentle in a way that feels anything but. “Ready?”
I look at him, this man who stood in front of everyone last night and cracked himself wide open, who spent the night showing me exactly what a decade of wanting looks like when it finally gets permission to exist. “Are you sure you want me to go home with you?”
“Yes. My place in San Francisco, if you want.”
The way he says it makes something inside me flutter. It’s not a question, not really, but more like a truth he’s been waiting a long time to finally speak. His smile lights up his entire face.
His car waits in the circular drive, gleaming in the afternoon light. Vince loads our bags with practiced ease, then comes around to open the passenger door. I slip in, my pulse quickening at the thought of resort staff or lingering guests catching sight of us. After the rehearsal, after Vince openly admitted what we have and said what no one expected to hear, I know it could ripple far beyond this weekend. Whispers turn into headlines overnight, and with his career, I cannot help but wonder what kind of impact it might have on him. He is Vince Holloway, wide receiver for the San Francisco Tritons, the golden boy who has built a spotless career without scandal ordistraction. And now, with one truth spoken aloud, I cannot shake the fear that it might cost him more than he realizes.
Before the knot in my stomach can tighten, Vince leans into the open door. His hand comes to my cheek, steady and warm, and he kisses me. It’s not rushed or hidden, but tender and unafraid, like he has no intention of living small. By the time he pulls back, my breath is gone, my nerves scattered like leaves in the wind.
“Still worried about being seen?” he asks quietly, his forehead resting against mine.
I swallow, my heart still racing, but the fear softens, soothed by his calm. He brushes a kiss over my temple before straightening and shutting the door with a gentleness that makes the moment feel private, no matter who witnessed it.
When he slides behind the wheel, I let my hand trail across the leather, grounding myself in the familiar scent of him that clings to everything here. He glances my way, his grin easing into something tender as the car pulls out of the drive. “Let them talk. They will get their story either way. What matters is that you’re here with me.”
We pull out of the resort just after four. The sun hangs low over the Pacific, painting the waves molten gold. The drive to San Francisco will take roughly five hours without stops, so I settle back in the passenger seat, letting Vince navigate while I take in the last of the coast.
