Chapter 9 Adrian
Adrian
Sunlight cuts across the resort lawn as I drag myself toward the breakfast buffet, voices threading through the morning air.
Holly bounces past, hair still damp from her shower, eyes bright as broken glass.
“Best sleep ever,” she chirps, bumping me with her elbow.
“That massage at the spa last night? Totally worth it, happy ending included.”
I snort, shaking my head at her grin, while the smell of coffee and scrambled eggs pulls me forward like a siren song.
The morning feels different, lighter somehow.
But beneath the surface runs an undercurrent of something electric, like the air just before a summer storm breaks open the sky.
I find my fork hovering over the scrambled eggs on my plate without really tasting them, my attention snagged and held by Vince across the table.
When our eyes meet for just a heartbeat, he offers a polite nod, nothing more, yet that small, casual motion sends sudden warmth rushing through me, and I catch myself smiling just slightly.
I’m careful not to show too much, not letting myself hope.
I am simply savoring the fact that he’s here and noticing me at all.
Of course, that’s when the bridesmaids sweep in like hurricanes, all glossy hair and practiced smiles, their spa-night glow on full display.
They settle on either side of Vince like bookends.
Busty and stylish, each one knows exactly what kind of attention she draws.
Leaning in with laughter that slices through the morning quiet, it’s too sharp, too early, and too much.
Vince responds with that maddening politeness of his, smiling when one brushes his arm, nodding at their chatter about cocktails and beach yoga.
Perfectly neutral and infuriatingly courteous.
When Stephanie drapes her hand around his bicep like she’s claiming territory, I swear the vein at my temple could power a small city. Murder feels like a perfectly reasonable breakfast activity.
Lance notices, because of course he does, and that sly grin spreads across his face. “Hey, Vince, maybe let the ladies have their fun with you. It could do you some good too, you know? You’ve been sulking around like someone canceled Christmas and kicked your dog. With all due respect, obviously.”
The table explodes. Vince just exhales through his nose, long-suffering, like he’s built up immunity to Lance’s special brand of bullshit. The girls giggle louder, feeding off the audience, while I try not to snap my fork in half.
Trevor bounds past, clapping his hands like a drill sergeant who’s had too much coffee, cocktail sloshing in his other hand.
“Right then, crew! This ain’t your average Sunday arvo snooze-fest. Today’s our official wedding games!
Races, dares, and probably some properly bruised egos.
So, grab yourselves a drink, stretch those legs, and meet me on the lawn after brekkie, yeah? ”
Becca’s right there with him, arm hooked through his, curls bouncing like she’s starring in her own private music video.
Her skin catches the morning light, and that sundress, the way it moves when she walks, makes her look like she stepped out of a magazine.
They’re one of those couples that just work, the kind that makes everyone else feel a little inadequate by comparison.
Trevor loves chaos like this. He’s already pointing toward the lawn, emerald grass dotted with colorful cones, buckets, and scattered beanbags.
It looks like suburban Olympics threw up all over the resort grounds.
Painted wooden signs mark each station, and white canvas canopies are set up at each corner with coolers full of water bottles and towels.
A few cocktail tables with tropical centerpieces dot the perimeter, clearly meant for spectators and scorekeeper stations.
The whole setup screams Trevor, but I heard it was actually Vince and Dinah who made it happen as the best man and maid of honor, working with the hotel to turn grass into a playground.
We finish breakfast and head outside. The smell of cut grass hits me, mixed with that salt-air breeze that makes everything feel like summer.
Vince falls in beside me, hands buried in his pockets.
He’s quiet as usual, but there’s something different, him being less rigid.
It’s like he’s finally letting himself relax, just a little.
“You really outdid yourself,” I say.
There’s warmth in his eyes that hasn’t been there the last few days, something I haven’t seen in years. “Well, I might have some stage design background on my resume that helped me think about how to best capture Trevor and Becca in wedding-week form.”
My pulse picks up just a little. I’m caught off guard by his effort to bring back pieces of our past without any bitterness attached.
When Trevor draws the official pairings from his ridiculous hat with all the ceremony of a lottery drawing, I end up partnered with Vince, not that I’m particularly surprised at this point.
Vince’s brow arches at Trevor’s none-too-subtle meddling, and a hint of a smirk tugs at the corners of his lips like he’s fighting against his own amusement.
He rolls his shoulders with that athletic control I remember from watching him dominate Sunday afternoon sports television, but I catch something else flickering in his gaze.
It’s like genuine amusement dancing beneath the surface of his usual composed exterior.
Every detail feels heightened, electric in a way that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
The slope of those shoulders that used to send entire defensive lines scrambling for new strategies.
The measured way he breathes, like he’s calculating each intake of air.
I tilt my head at him, letting the ghost of a grin pull at my lips in what I hope looks like natural confidence. “I guess you’re stuck with me,” I say, my tone light and teasing, testing whether he’ll bite the bait I’m offering or maintain that careful distance he’s been keeping.
He shoots me a look that’s almost imperceptibly amused, and I swear I can feel something charge between us. It’s that same electric tension I used to try capturing in charcoal sketches, the moment right before lightning splits the sky and changes everything in its path.
We reach the first station, the sack races. Rough burlap sacks wait at the starting line, their frayed edges telling stories of years spent facilitating backyard chaos and rustic weddings past.
There will be two participants per sack, one positioned beside the other.
The starting line buzzes with chaotic energy, laughter, and good-natured teasing bouncing across the lawn, but my focus narrows to Vince like everything else has gone soft around the edges.
I’ve always been good at noticing details.
It comes with the territory when you spend hours studying how light hits a face, how shadow defines a jawline.
But with him, every line feels certain, every movement calculated yet somehow effortless.
“May the best person not fall flat on their face,” Trevor announces with theatrical flair, smirking like the cat who swallowed the canary and asked for seconds. “Or, you know, the one with the bigger ego.”
Vince steps into the sack beside me, his solid thigh brushing against mine as we settle into position and find our balance within the confines of rough burlap.
Heat pools immediately where we touch, subtle but insistent, like warmth spreading through canvas when you’re working with oils in direct sunlight.
“Ready?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay casual despite the way my heart has begun hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
“Sure,” he murmurs, low and measured, that particular tone I’m slowly learning to decode. Half calm professionalism, half barely contained energy waiting for the right moment to release.
The whistle blows sharp and clear across the morning air.
We hop forward in perfect rhythm at first, burlap crunching and scraping under our feet with each synchronized movement forward.
The goal is a bright orange cone set just twenty feet ahead of us.
It’s our innocent-looking turnaround point that suddenly feels like it might as well be on the other side of the world.
Thanks to Vince’s athletic build and natural coordination that made him a household name across the country, we cover the ground almost effortlessly at first, the burlap shifting and bunching between us without ever breaking our balance or pulling us apart.
I can feel the subtle shift of him mirroring my movements, his warmth steadying mine in ways that have nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the tension that’s been building since the moment I saw him again after all these years.
But the game doesn’t wait for private tension to resolve itself into something we can actually name or address.
Trevor’s voice cuts through the laughter of the gathered crowd, urging us onward with the persistence of a sports commentator calling the final play of a championship game.
With careful, deliberate hops, Vince and I manage to maintain our rhythm, the burlap bunching and shifting beneath our feet as our bodies move almost as one organism with a shared purpose.
We skirt around the cone marking our final turn, sweat prickling at my temples and along the back of my neck as my pulse races in perfect sync with his steady, controlled energy.