Chapter 9 Adrian #2
Then, because of course the universe has a sense of humor, my foot catches a small divot hidden in the otherwise perfect resort lawn.
Time seems to slow as I lurch forward, gravity taking over where coordination has failed.
I twist instinctively to avoid face-planting, but the burlap tangles around our legs.
Vince tries to counter-balance, his athlete reflexes kicking in, but the sack pulls us both down in a heap.
I land hard on my back, the air knocked from my lungs.
Vince falls with me, his hands braced on either side of my shoulders to keep from crushing me completely.
For a heartbeat, we’re frozen like that, him hovering over me, close enough that I can see the gold patches in his eyes, and feel his breath against my face.
The burlap is twisted around us, trapping us in this awkward, intimate tangle.
“Uh…” I start, my voice tight with mortification.
My heart hammers so hard I’m certain he can feel it.
He doesn’t laugh at my clumsiness; he doesn’t immediately scramble away.
He just holds steady, jaw ticking like he’s debating some unspoken choice.
His hand shifts slightly against the ground beside my head, and I can’t tell if it’s reflexive or something more conscious.
Lance, still hopping awkwardly in his sack with George, whistles appreciatively. “Oh, wow! Hands-on strategy, Holloway? Very intimate approach to teamwork there, buddy!”
Vince mutters something under his breath, barely audible over the crowd’s laughter.
I catch the slight hitch in his breathing that betrays him despite his composed exterior.
He shifts, just a fraction, letting me glimpse past that media-trained armor for the first time since our reunion.
I can’t help the smirk that tugs at my lips, leaning slightly into the moment, letting the warmth between us linger like a secret we’re both pretending not to acknowledge.
We make the final stretch, pushing through the lingering effects of our stumble and whatever that moment of connection was, and cross the finish line together in a burst of shared triumph that feels far more significant than it should for a simple sack race.
Trevor’s enthusiastic hooting and clapping drowns out everything else around us, but all I can focus on is the shared, wordless relief of balancing in perfect, chaotic harmony with someone who was once everything to me, and probably still is.
“Sorry, I tripped,” I pant, brushing my hands over the rough burlap, heat creeping up my neck as I realize how close I still am to Vince. The morning sun catches the light sheen of sweat on his skin, making him look like he’s stepped straight out of one of those fitness magazine covers.
He just waves off my apology with cool grace, voice low but easy, carrying that particular warmth that makes my stomach perform acrobatic feats worthy of Cirque du Soleil.
“It’s fine. It didn’t throw us off that much, all things considered.
” His smirk is effortless, the teasing light and genuine, yet the way he brushes my hand when we step out of the sack sends electricity shooting up my arm like I’ve just grabbed a live wire.
We pause for water, both of us sweaty and laughing along with the rest of the group, trying to shake off the lingering effects of our stumble and whatever tension it created between us.
I watch him as he drinks, and it’s like studying a figure drawing.
The clean line of his throat as he swallows, the way his Adam’s apple moves, the beads of sweat sliding down the strong column of his neck in paths I find myself wanting to trace with something other than my eyes.
My pulse kicks again with renewed intensity, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like stare too long and give myself away completely.
Next comes the wheelbarrow race, where one person holds the other’s legs while they walk on their hands across the grass. I figure we’ll do well with this one. Vince is taller, built with controlled strength and natural athleticism. He’s got the power to carry me without breaking a sweat.
“I hope I am not too heavy for you,” I joke as he crouches behind me.
His hands clamp around my ankles, his grip firm and sure, the warmth of his palms seeping into my skin.
I can feel the roughness there too, the calluses of a man who’s spent years gripping footballs and throwing around weights that would flatten me.
“I think I can manage you,” he says, his tone carrying the faintest edge, a mix of challenge and promise. His fingers tighten for a brief second, testing his hold, before he steadies me. It’s subtle, nothing anyone else would notice, but it makes my heart kick like a scratched record.
We start moving, my palms slapping against the grass, arms straining as Vince carries my legs behind me. Trevor immediately takes over as if he’s calling the Super Bowl, barking instructions from the sidelines.
I stumble rounding the first cone, my elbows buckling and the ground rushing up at me.
Before I can crash, Vince jerks my legs higher and steps forward, catching me with practiced ease.
The sudden shift tips my chest upward at the same moment his body leans down to keep hold.
For one suspended heartbeat, our faces are drawn close, closer than they should be in a game like this.
Light catches the edge of his jaw as his breath brushes mine, warm and sharp with the mix of cologne and skin. The noise of the crowd fades until it feels less like a race and more like a charcoal sketch of two bodies straining for balance, held steady by tension more than touch.
We manage to cross the finish line without disaster, but Vince doesn’t drop my legs immediately like I expect.
Instead, he lowers them slowly and carefully, as if measuring how much he can let slip without the invisible cameras of his celebrity life turning it into something else.
His hands slide along my calves as he sets me back on my feet, and I swear he hesitates just long enough to make me wonder, before he finally steps back and puts that careful distance between us again.
We move on to the next game, the water balloon toss.
I grab a balloon, a perfect round orb of deep red.
Vince stands across from me as we both step away from the starting line.
We toss the balloon without letting it burst, and after every successful catch, we take another step back.
It seems easy at first, until the balloons grow heavier and the space between us stretches thin.
Holly and the other bridesmaids are laughing and wobbling a few steps away, already dripping from the water bursts. Their shirts cling to wet bras, shrieking with each failed toss. Lance keeps glancing at them a little too long, and George smacks him on the back of the head with a loud, “Focus!”
I grin at the chaos around us, but try to keep my attention on the balloon. Vince’s lips quirk as he tosses gently, with a perfect arc. I catch it, feeling the water shift inside. For a second, we’re flawless, moving in rhythm, and I swear I could forget the world.
However, disaster strikes just as I lift the balloon to toss it back to Vince, and it bursts the moment it leaves my hands.
Water slaps against my chest, soaking the pale blue shirt I was hoping would hide…
well, me. The fabric sticks stubbornly, molding to my skin, the nipples obvious despite my subtle attempt to shift and cover.
I glance at Vince, and his eyes flick to mine, holding just long enough to make my stomach tip, then slide away, smooth as if nothing happened.
We’ve lost. I lower my arms, trying to shake off the chill and the heat of being seen.
Around us, other pairs are still tossing.
Eventually, Trevor announces Stephanie and one of his female cousins as the winners.
They’re both dry and steady, laughing, raising their hands in triumph.
The group erupts with cheers, whistles, and playful groans.
Vince steps beside me, shirt damp from sweat. I try to ignore how his shoulder brushes mine when he leans to watch the winners, but it’s impossible. My chest still burns from the earlier glance, my soaked shirt pressing against me, my nipples peeking through the fabric.
“Sorry,” I mutter quietly. “I…I messed up.”
He shrugs, the corner of his mouth tilting up, casual but grounding. “It’s a game,” he says, voice low enough that no one else hears. “No harm done.”
The crowd moves on, laughter spilling through the yard. Water balloons are discarded, towels waved around, and the games shift to the next activity. I stand there, feeling the brush of heat that lingers, not from the sun, but from the proximity of him.
We take a cool-down break. Everyone lounges on the grass, sipping lemonade.
Vince passes behind me, brushing my lower back as he moves to grab a drink. The contact lingers long enough for me to notice and feel a small jolt run through me. He doesn’t pause. He keeps walking, but the air around me still sizzles.
I turn slightly and catch him staring at the group. Something has changed. He’s softer, not entirely open, but thawing. The armor is there with just a crack in it.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of laughter, close calls, and small, electric touches.
By the end of it all, the group collapses on the grass, sweaty, sunburned in places, but laughing harder than I have in weeks.
Vince sits beside me, shoulder touching mine.
I feel him exhale slowly, almost imperceptibly. Almost…like relief.
Trevor nudges him, smirking. “See, Vince? Touch him more. You’ll survive. Maybe you’ll even like it.”
Vince snorts quietly, his gaze lowered as if daring anyone to notice. I lean in just a little, letting the warmth between us linger. It feels effortless, charged and undeniable. He doesn’t pull away, not completely. And that alone is enough for now.
Today, he is here. Present in a way he hasn’t been for a long time. He’s opening up, not fully, but just enough to make my chest ache and my mind spin.