“Then prove it.”
I breathed. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Seth counted with me, his voice low and even, his hands solid around mine. The pine trees swayed overhead. The wind carried the smell of resin and earth. By the third cycle, the tightness in my chest had started to ease. By the fifth, I could think again.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I looked down at our joined hands. “Where did you learn that?”
“Sports psychology. Coach makes us do breathing exercises before games.” He shrugged. “Figured it might work for other kinds of pressure too.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” He lifted one of my hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. “Ready to keep going?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I squeezed his fingers before letting go. “But maybe change the station. I can’t handle any more Garth Brooks.”
He laughed and reached for the dial as he started the truck. We pulled back onto the highway with something softer playing, and I let myself relax into the rhythm of it. Seth beside me. Music filling the silence. The miles disappearing beneath us.
Hunter was waitingon the porch when we pulled into the driveway.
The house was a hideous hot-pink monstrosity a block from the beach, live oaks draped with Spanish moss crowding the front yard. The air hit different here—salt and marsh and wet earth. A pelican glided overhead, heading toward the water. Somewhere nearby, a boat motor hummed.
Hunter had bought the place after signing his first pro contract. We’d grown up together, spent summers chasing each other through sprinklers and winters huddled over video games. Now he owned property, played professional football, and was engaged to a man who looked at him like he’d hung every star in the sky.
“About time,” Hunter called as we climbed out. “I was starting to think you got lost.”
“Your directions were terrible,” I said, even though they hadn’t been.
“My directions were perfect. And there’s this little invention called GPS, so this isn’t on me.”
I crossed the lawn and let him pull me into a hug. Hunter gave good hugs—always had, even before he’d bulked up enough to make them feel like being wrapped in a weighted blanket. He held on longer than usual, one hand coming up to cup the back of my head.
“You look better,” he said into my hair. “Less like death warmed over.”
“Thanks. That’s exactly what every guy wants to hear.”
“I’m serious.” He pulled back, hands on my shoulders, studying my face. “Something’s different.”
His eyes slid past me to where Seth was pulling our bags from the truck bed. Hunter’s jaw tightened, his gaze cutting to Seth and back to me.
“Come inside,” he said. “John’s making dinner.”
The kitchen was at the back of the house, open to the living room, and John was standing at the stove stirring something that smelled like garlic and butter. He abandoned it to hug me, wiping his hands on a dishtowel first.
“God, it’s good to see you. How was the drive?”
“Long. Seth has terrible taste in music.”
“I do not,” Seth said, appearing in the doorway with our bags. “I have excellent taste. He just doesn’t appreciate the classics.”
“Nineties country is not classic,” I said.
John was watching the exchange with undisguised interest. He caught my eye and raised an eyebrow— We’re talking about this later. I ignored him.
“Guestroom’s down the hall, second door on the right,” Hunter said, his eyes tracking Seth as he disappeared. When he turned back to me, his expression had gone serious. “Can we talk for a sec?”
