“I know.” He smirks and then nods to the exit. “I’ve always wanted to take a walk on the beach at night.”
“Okay, fine,” I relent, secretly more than happy to.
He grins back at me and then grabs the door to exit. As he does, I hear something behind us, barely catching fragments of the conversation.
“…they really like Neelson.”
“Sure. But it’s early. Nobody’s untouchable.”
“Especially not in LA.”
The words prick at the back of my neck. I strain to hear more, but Dom is already pulling me out of the party, dragging me down the hallway to the exit.
“Did you drive?” Dom’s question brings me back to the moment, and I shake my head.
“I rode with my dad. I figured you could get me home.” I give him a smile as he guides me to the parking garage for the players.
However, a knot of worry stays deep in my chest.
It’s probably just the rotten egg and rancid butter jokes.
The thought dissipates as we make it to his truck, and I raise my brows as I take in the lifted frame and massive tires. “Wow, okay. You reallyarefrom Texas.”
“Told ya.” He reaches for the door handle with easy confidence, dark jeans stretching over long legs, a fitted black shirt pulling across broad shoulders. He looks achingly handsome in a way that feels unfair.
He’s the epitome of what makes most girls drool.
Well, or at least me.
Dom drives us to the beach in comfortable silence, his tall frame relaxed behind the wheel, one hand steady on the leather, the other occasionally reaching over to rest on mine. I watch the city lights blur past my window, still processing how quickly the night has shifted from humiliation to … whatever this is. Anticipation? Hope?
I’m not sure, but I do know that with each passing mile between us and that party, I feel more like myself again. The version that doesn’t have to perform.
By the time we pull into a small parking lot overlooking a stretch of dark beach and get out of the car, the embarrassment has mostly faded. The path to the beach is paved with uneven stones and lit only by tiny solar lamps and the moon.
“It’s breathtaking,” I say.
Dom looks at me rather than the view. “Yeah, it is.”
I feel heat creep into my cheeks, grateful for the darkness that hides my blush. The sand shifts beneath my feet, and I suddenly realize how impractical my heels are for this impromptu beach excursion.
“One sec,” I say, bending down to unbuckle the straps. I slip them off one by one, instantly shrinking by several inches. “Much better.”
“You’re significantly shorter without those.” He grins, taking my shoes from me and holding them dangling from two fingers. “But I can still see over your head either way.”
“That’s because you’re basically a tree,” I retort, though secretly I love how tall he is, how his six-foot-five presence feels like a shelter.
Dom removes his own shoes and immediately sinks an inch into the sand. “Not really used to this,” he admits.
I snort.
“But you played in Alabama?”
“About an hour from the Gulf, yeah.”
My feet sink deeper into the sand. “How is it possible that you lived near the Gulf Coast and never went to the beach?”
Dom shrugs, his massive shoulders rising and falling in the moonlight. “Basketball,” he says simply, as if that explains everything.
