Page 4 of Depths of Desire (The Saints of Westmont U #4)

I mean, yeah, sure, I’d seen him shirtless before.

That came with the territory back in Hastings.

Summer pool days, locker rooms, gym sightings.

But this was different. He wasn’t eighteen anymore.

His body had that chiseled, all-function-no-frills athlete definition.

Broad shoulders, tight waist, lean muscle strung like tension wires beneath that white T-shirt that made him look like a tactical weapon.

It wasn’t just the body, though. It was how he carried it, like his breath was rationed and like his pulse obeyed him. That stillness, that control. It wrecked me a little.

I adjusted the vents and stared too hard at the road, telling myself it had just been a long time since I’d hooked up with anyone. That was all. Anyone would be short-circuiting under the weight of those cheekbones and quiet power. It was pure science. Biological inevitability.

Except it wasn’t.

Because the truth was that this exact vibe, gorgeous and cold, was a type, and he was sitting three feet away, sipping his coffee like it had personally offended him.

I clicked the seat warmer on to distract myself.

“Warm enough?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

Oliver glanced sideways. “Yeah. Fine.”

That was the extent of it.

Back to silence.

I flipped through my playlist, but nothing felt right, so I gave up and turned on the radio.

Static hissed before resolving into a newscaster’s voice: “…storm has arrived sooner than expected in the western part of Nebraska, bringing snowfall heavier than forecasted. Drivers are advised to check conditions before continuing west on I-80. Road closures are possible…”

I reached forward and turned the volume down.

Oliver exhaled sharply through his nose. “Perfect.”

He didn’t sound surprised. Just exhausted. Like the world had confirmed another one of his low expectations.

I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel. “We might make it,” I said. “Barely. But if it keeps picking up speed, we’re not gonna make it to Hastings before it hits full-on blizzard. It could cut right between us.”

He didn’t say anything. I took that as permission to keep talking.

“There’s a place I know. Sixty miles ahead. It’s kind of a resort-slash-lodge thing by a lake. Most of it is shut down in the winter, but they keep a few log cabins open for travelers. My family stayed there once when we got a late start to the drive. Impromptu night off from Christmas chaos.”

Still nothing.

I risked a glance at him.

His brows were drawn together, lips pressed into a line.

“It’s not fancy or anything,” I added. “But it’s warm, and there’s food, and it’s better than white-knuckling our way through sleet for the next five hours.”

Oliver blinked slowly, then gave a short, annoyed sigh. “It’s not like we’ve got a real choice.”

That wasn’t a no. But I didn’t dare to test my luck. It was better if I held back and let him think.

“Fine,” he said and looked out the window again. “Let me know when we’re close.”

And just like that, the decision was made. The snow outside was thickening, nothing dramatic yet, but the flakes were heavier now, clumping against the windshield in lazy spirals. I turned the wipers on low. The heater kept humming.

For a few miles, we didn’t speak. Just drove. The world got whiter and quieter, the horizon vanishing into fog and frost.

And even though I knew this wasn’t a thing, and wouldn’t be a thing, I couldn’t help the way my chest lifted a little.

We weren’t going to step out of the car this afternoon and go our separate ways.

I’d get a chance, instead, to sit across the table again and ask a question or two.

I might strike gold and ask something he wants to talk about.

The road stretched on, smooth and mostly empty. Every few miles, we passed another plow, orange lights flashing like warnings. The storm was real now. Not urgent, but certain.

Oliver dozed off. Not fully asleep, just leaned back in the seat, eyes closed, hands loose on his thighs. His breathing stayed quiet and controlled, like even unconsciousness followed a training schedule.

I didn’t dare stare, but I didn’t not stare, either.

His throat moved once, like he was swallowing some thought.

His hair had dried in those messy, imperfect waves, a little flatter on the side he’d slept on earlier.

I watched him breathe and tried not to read into the way his fingers twitched every few minutes, like his body was still swimming even when he wasn’t moving.

I refocused on the road. I had to. The snow was thickening, fogging the horizon, swirling in slow eddies across the lanes. My wipers squeaked. The road signs glared green and white in the early light.

I knew the exit was coming. Ten miles. Then seven. Then three.

And that’s when the stupid part of my brain started whispering. You don’t have to take it. You could keep going. Power through. Drop him off and let this end the way it’s supposed to.

I tightened my grip on the wheel, my knuckles whitening against the heat of the cabin.

I could have missed the exit. It wouldn’t have been hard. The snow covered half the arrows, and it was barely marked. I could’ve driven straight past and blamed it on the weather.

But I didn’t.

I signaled and pulled into the turn lane, heart thudding a little harder than it needed to.

The tires hummed on the turnpike. Oliver stirred beside me, shifting upright and blinking himself back to the world. He didn’t say anything when he realized we were exiting, just pressed a hand to the window and squinted out at the scenery like he was recalculating something in his head.

The lodge road was narrower, lined with brittle trees whose bare branches sagged under fresh snow. We climbed a shallow hill, and the resort came into view, half-buried in white, still and quiet.

One night.

That was all.

Just a cabin. Just a detour.

Nothing would come of it.

Still, my chest was too tight, and my hands too warm, and every second that passed made me feel like something important had already started.

And I just couldn’t shut up my stupid brain and my restless heart.

Silly fantasies, dreamed up by a clueless boy many years ago, didn’t look too different from what was happening to us now.

And the silliest thing of all, Oliver had no clue just how fast my heart was beating.