Chapter 30 Adrian
Adrian
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 deliver them 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 or distraction.
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.
Night has fallen by the time we reach the city.
Pacific Heights appears gradually, house by house, each more impressive than the last. Vince pulls into the driveway of a restored Victorian with bay windows and intricate trim, an understated elegance, a quiet luxury that comes from generations of careful design.
“This is beautiful,” I murmur, climbing out onto the brick pavers, the smell of pine and something clean and masculine in the air.
“Wait until you see it in daylight,” Vince says, unlocking the door. “The garden’s the real showstopper.”
The living room opens up, hardwood floors gleaming in the warm glow of the lamps Vince flips on. Carefully chosen furniture makes the space feel lived-in but curated. The windows frame the bay, lights sparkling on the water.
“Drink?” Vince asks. “Wine, beer, something stronger if you need it after the hours of travelling we’ve had.”
“Wine sounds perfect,” I reply, letting my gaze wander. This is where he lives, away from cameras and fans, a private world I’m only just entering. A leather jacket draped over a chair, framed photos of family and friends, small mementos of life beyond the field.
Then I see the trophies. They line a built-in shelf with a quiet confidence, MVP plaques, game balls, and championship rings tucked between novels. I can’t help the little laugh that escapes me.”
“You are quite a collector,” I tease softly.
Vince appears with two glasses of red wine, sliding one across to me, our fingers brushing. “I forget half the time that they are here,” he says.
“Right, just like you forget how amazing you are,” I counter, smiling.
He grins, that familiar curve of his lips sending warmth through me. Ten years of wondering what it would be like, seeing him like this, being with him without pretense, and it feels easier than I ever imagined.
“Come on,” he says, gesturing upstairs. “Let me show you the rest.”
The guest rooms are almost larger than my whole apartment, the home office a perfect blend of professional and personal.
Then we reach the master bedroom. The restraint of downstairs gives way to a space that is unmistakably lived in.
The bed is huge, made, the reading chair beside the window stacked with books he actually reads.
Photos on the dresser of his teammates and candid moments fill the room with warmth and history.
Vince sets down his wine and steps close, the scent of him intoxicating.
I can feel the electricity between us, a slow burn from the afternoon that now threatens to ignite completely.
I lean into him, letting the day’s tension and anticipation fold into a kiss that leaves no room for hesitation.
Hands trace familiar lines, lips follow, and the quiet house becomes our private universe.