She laughs softly, a humorless sound. “That’s about right, but to a lot of people she is more than that. She’s… history. But history doesn’t vanish because someone new walks in the door.”
I grip the tumbler tighter, forcing my voice not to crack. “And what does that make me?”
Her eyes soften, and that’s somehow worse. Pity sits heavier than scorn. “That makes you the one sitting in his lap. Which, trust me, says a hell of a lot more than you realize.”
I want to argue. I want to tell her it doesn’t feel that way, not when he can get up and leave me like I don’t exist. But the words stick in my throat.
Instead, I finish the drink in two burning gulps and set the empty glass on the table between us. “Does he do this often? Bring someone home, parade her around, then ditch her the second another woman shows up?”
Sienna tilts her head, her expression unreadable. “No. That’s not Colter.”
“Then what the hell was that?” The bitterness in my tone surprises even me.
She shrugs, swirling the last of her drink. “That was Melanie. She’s a sore spot. Always has been. But don’t make the mistake of thinking she still has a claim. If Colter wanted her…” Her gaze flicks toward the door, pointed. “She’d be in his room right now. Not you.”
Her words hit harder than the vodka, cutting sharp and deep. Because she’s right. Whatever happened out there, whatever whispered words passed between them—it doesn’t change the fact that it’s my clothes in his drawers. My scent on his pillow. My body still aching from his touch.
And yet, my stomach twists, sour and unsettled. Because none of that explains why he left me sitting there while he went after her.
The silence stretches until the roar of laughter and the drone of the soccer announcer seep back into my awareness, a reminder that the house hasn’t slowed down because my world tilted.
Sienna finally sets her glass down, leaning forward, elbows on her knees. “You’ve got two choices, Peyton. You can sit here and stew about it, let her win without even trying. Or you can walk back out there, sit on his lap again, and make damn sure everyone in this house knows exactly where he stands.”
Her eyes catch mine, sharp and challenging. “Your call.”
I don’t rush to follow Sienna’s advice. My pride won’t let me. Instead, I let her tug me through another doorway that opens into a den already occupied by three women sprawled across couches with their drinks in hand.
The air in here is lighter than in the main room. No blaring television or testosterone thick enough to choke on. Only quiet chatter, soft laughter, and the occasional clink of ice in glasses.
“Look who I dragged in,” Sienna announces, motioning toward me. “New blood.”
All three sets of eyes turn to me at once.
The first is a petite brunette with a blunt bob and sharp cheekbones that make her look like she stepped out of a glossy magazine. She’s curled in the corner of the couch with a glass of red wine, legs tucked beneath her. “About time Colt brought someone around,” she says, voice silky and amused.
“Don’t scare her, Tessa,” another warns. This one’s taller, curvy, with skin the shade of rich caramel and braids pulled into a loose bun at the crown of her head. She pats the cushion beside her in invitation. “I’m Rayna. Sit. Drink. Breathe. The guys get rowdy, but this room’s a safe zone.”
Grateful, I take the seat, clutching my empty tumbler like a shield.
The third woman looks up from her phone, smiling warmly. She’s got auburn hair pulled into a messy knot and freckles scattered across her nose, like sunshine clings to her. “Maddie,” she introduces herself, setting the phone down. “Don’t let them fool you. They’re harmless. Mostly.”
That gets a round of laughter, even from me.
It takes only a few minutes before I realize they’re easy to like. Easy to talk to. Not fake-nice, not judging me with thinly veiled curiosity like half the faces downstairs. They ask me simple questions—where I’m from, how long I’ve been aroundBroken Ridge, what I do when I’m not apparently glued to Colter’s side.
I keep my answers vague, careful. But the longer I sit with them, the more the edge of my nerves dulls.
Rayna hands me another drink—lighter this time, almost fruity—and nudges me with her shoulder. “You’ll get used to the circus. They take their games seriously.”
“Clearly,” I mutter, earning another ripple of laughter.
For a little while, I let myself breathe. They trade stories, most of them harmless—ridiculous bets the guys make on matches, the way Jericho once broke a coffee table trying to celebrate a goal, some unspoken competition over who can eat the most wings in one sitting.
It’s easy, even fun, but underneath, I can’t stop the question clawing at me. Not about soccer, not about drunken bets. About him.
I try to be casual when I finally ask, “So… what exactly does Colter do?”
Three heads turn toward me.
