My brother is twenty feet away, narrating the romantic history of the exact cabin where I lost my virginity to the man currently pressed against me in the dark.
If someone wrote this in a book, I'd throw it across the room for being too ridiculous.
But here I am. Living it. Tasting Everett on my lips while Roman describes “hands-on hospitality” to a crowd of strangers who have no idea they're standing in the scene of the crime.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. I swallow it down so hard my eyes water.
Do not laugh. Do not cry. Do not make a single sound or you will never recover from this moment.
“This is your fault,” I breathe against his ear, barely audible.
“How is this my fault?” His lips brush my neck as he whispers back, and even now—even with my brother twenty feet away describing Morgan family “stamina”—my entire body shivers.
“You followed me.”
“You came here first.”
“You kissed me.”
“You kissed me back.” He sinks his teeth into my skin just enough that my knees buckle.
I don't have an answer for that. I don't have an answer for any of this.
I just kissed Everett Morgan in the exact spot where we lost our virginity while my brothers led tours about fertility stones and shirtless lumberjacks, and if Roman had walked in thirty seconds earlier?—
I can't think about that.
I absolutely cannot think about that.
Through the window, I spot Roman gesturing expansively while the crowd takes photos. Caleb's there too, adding color commentary about “traditional warming techniques” that would make our ancestors weep.
These are my brothers. My overprotective, overbearing, bro-code-obsessed brothers who would absolutely lose their minds if they knew what just happened against that wall.
The wall I still feel against my spine.
The wall where Everett's hands were?—
Stop. Stop it. Focus.
We wait in silence as Roman finishes his spiel and leads the group away. Their laughter fades into the trees, torchlight bobbing through the darkness until it disappears.
Neither of us moves.
“That was insane.” I step away from him, putting distance between us, trying to remember how to breathe without his body pressed against mine. “That can't happen again.”
“Maybe it needs to happen again.”
“I mean it, Everett.” I'm shaking now—adrenaline crash, probably, or the cold, or the weight of what we almost got caught doing. “If they'd walked in?—”
“We’d stop feeling like this.” He catches my hand before I can pull away completely. His grip is warm, steady, grounding in a way I desperately need and absolutely can't afford.
“No, we’d be feeling something so much worse. Alone.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But we’d be alone together.” His hand tightens on mine. For a moment, we just stand there in the dark behind the cabin where everything started, breathing the same cold air, caught in the same impossible situation.
Alone together.
The words hit somewhere deep and dangerous.
