Page 34 of Trick Shot

I flinch.

Dom’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I turn to see him walking toward me.

“Get in the back,” he says, lifting his own suitcase and carrying it up to the trunk of the SUV.

“What?” I blink.

“Backseat,” he repeats. “I’m not fighting your carry-on for elbow space,” he adds, already moving toward the passenger’s side.

“You’re driving. I’m navigating.” Jace’s voice drifts over.

“You’re what?” Dom snorts.

“Navigation,” Jace says, pushing Dom aside and climbing into the passenger seat. “Maps. Vibes. DJing.”

“Too lazy to drive, huh?” Dom stares at him flatly.

Jace shrugs, sunglasses still on as he closes the door.

I grip the strap of my bag a little tighter as I move around to the backseat. I swing the door open and climb in, sliding into leather that’s already warm from the sun.

The second the door shuts, I’m wrapped in it.

Him.

The scent is everywhere—on the seats and in the air. It’s all him. That dark, clean, masculine scent.

I shift slightly, legs crossing as Dom gets in the front seat with a sigh like this entire trip is already testing his patience.

“We’re meeting the guys at the arena first. They’re carpooling from there.” Dom adjusts the mirror, pulling his seatbelt over his shoulder.

Jace’s hand casually reaches forward to mess with the playlist, scrolling until something heavy and rhythmic starts vibrating through the speakers.

“Perfect road trip music,” he mutters, leaning back into his seat. One arm draped over the window, the other lazily tapping his thigh in time with the beat.

God, even the way he sits is cocky.

The car pulls out of the driveway, smooth and powerful, and I watch the house disappear in the side mirror, my stomach tight and fluttering.

I just got locked in a very fast, very expensive cage with a man who’s going to undo me.

And we haven’t even hit the highway yet.

I look away, out the window. Anywhere but at the ink and muscle sitting in front of me.

Twenty minutes later, we pull into the arena lot. Most of the guys are already there—duffle bags slung over shoulders, coffees in hand, leaned against various high-end vehicles.

Dom kills the engine and hops out first.

Jace doesn’t move immediately.

Instead, he takes a slow drag of the air outside, one arm hooked casually over the open window. Then he throws me a look over his shoulder, smirk in place, before he follows Dom.

I take a second longer to gather myself. I smooth my hands over my shorts and pretend like I haven’t been staring at the backof Jace’s neck for the past twenty minutes wondering what it’d taste like.

I’m no better than a man.

I finally decide to stay in the car, since most guys are already hopping back into theirs. But I do roll down the window, letting in some of the suffocating heat from outside and the low growling purr of a car—mechanical and mean.