Chapter 29 Adrian
Adrian
“Great speech,” I say, my voice barely audible over the ocean’s rhythm.
I hear him chuckle behind me, a sound so close to home it makes my chest ache. I don’t turn around immediately, savoring these last seconds before this conversation becomes real, before I have to decide what his earlier words mean for both of us.
When I finally face him, he almost stops my heart.
I see him everywhere, on television during football games and commercials, on magazine covers, and just a few minutes ago, during his best man’s speech.
But nothing compares to having him right in front of me, real and close enough to touch.
The navy suit fits him perfectly, but it’s the loosened tie and open top button that undo me completely.
His hair is slightly mussed from the ocean breeze, and there’s a relaxed quality about him that I haven’t seen since we arrived.
It’s as if giving that speech released some fundamental tension he’s been carrying for years.
“Thanks.” His footsteps whisper against the sand as he approaches, measured and unhurried. “I had to ditch the original one.”
“Was the original as sentimental as tonight’s?” I can’t keep the teasing completely out of my voice, despite the way my heart races with each step he takes closer.
“God, no. I actually planned to say nice things about him, but then there were just too many inside jokes to resist. Every line turned into a roast, full of references.” His voice carries genuine amusement, the kind of easy warmth I remember from when we were eighteen. “You would’ve missed every single one.”
“I would have loved to hear that version.”
“Then stick around.” The words slip out softer than he probably intended, heavy with invitation and possibility. “I mean…stay in touch. You’ll learn all the stories about the guys. About me. I’m not nearly as boring as you think.”
“You’re not?” I arch an eyebrow, falling back into our familiar rhythm despite the emotional minefield we’re navigating. “You’re like a storm cloud, all dark and brooding intensity.”
“Dark and brooding?” He laughs, a real sound that makes warmth unfurl in my chest. “I prefer ‘mysteriously complex.’”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Among other things.” His expression grows serious, though the smile doesn’t entirely fade. “Are you…flying back to L.A. tomorrow?”
I try to choose my words carefully, afraid he’ll think my being here is just another job, something I could walk away from easily. But I am caught in him, and every step back feels impossible. Walking away is not an option now.
“You mentioned the art exhibit before, the collection you’ve been working on for years. Are you still planning to cancel it?”
The question catches me off guard. “I canceled it, but Matheo would probably throw a parade if I changed my mind.” The admission feels like giving something away, acknowledging that Vince’s presence has fundamentally shifted my creative process.
“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, and scattered 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 drift from 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.”
The raw honesty in his voice strips away every pretense we’ve been hiding behind. It’s too much, too real, and too close to everything I thought I’d lost forever.
“Vince…”
“I love you.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing breath from my lungs. He says it with devastating simplicity, like it’s a fundamental truth he’s been carrying for years and finally found the courage to speak.
“I love you,” he repeats, hands cupping my face with infinite gentleness. “I’ve been in love with you. I love how you see the world, how you capture beauty in everything you touch. I love your stubbornness and your incredible talent and the way you make me want to be better than I am.”
Words fail me completely, so I kiss him instead, pouring a decade of longing and hurt and desperate hope into the press of my lips against his. He responds immediately, arms crushing me against him like he’s afraid I might disappear.
“I love you too,” I whisper against his mouth, the words finally breaking free. “God, Vince, I love you too. I never stopped.”
The kiss deepens, becomes desperate and consuming.
His hands slide into my hair, holding me exactly where he wants me, and I can taste champagne on his tongue, can feel how his breathing changes when I bite his lower lip.
The formal clothes that felt so strange on the beach now feel like barriers to overcome, obstacles between us and the connection we’ve been fighting for so long.
“Adrian,” he breathes my name like a prayer.
His mouth trails down my jaw, finding that sensitive spot just below my ear that makes me gasp and arch against him.
The fireworks continue outside, burst after burst of color and sound that gives us permission to be as loud as we want, as desperate as we feel.
He walks me backward until my spine meets one of the tent poles, the solid support a stark contrast to the way everything else feels like it’s spinning. His body presses against mine, all heat and muscle and barely controlled need.
“Tell me you want this,” he says, voice rough with desire. “Tell me you want me.”
“I need you.” The admission comes out broken, desperate. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”