“But I’m also Asher’s girlfriend.”
Asher glances at me as if he misheard me, then kisses me, mouth lingering on mine, arms winding around me like he’s afraid I might somehow disappear. “So that’s settled,” he says, finally, even as he kisses me again.
“Not quite.” I sit up even further so that they have no choice but to face one another. “Where does that leave you both?”
Brayden opens his mouth—no sounds come out. He’s wearing that same look of panic he had on the other night before we left Asher standing in his apartment, alone.
Beside me, Asher goes so tense I can practically feel him vibrating with effort. “It’s fine,” he says. “We don’t need to label things. C’mon?—”
Brayden catches him by the wrist. Brings him close. Kisses him once, gently, on the lips, then turns to me and does the same. “I don’t really know the right words for any of this,” he says. “I was always taught things were supposed to be a certain way, and if they weren’t, it was—” He stops, but I can fill in the words.Sin, depravity.Freedom that they told him was wrong. “But I want to be your man—both of yours—if that’s what you want.”
He says it with the seriousness of a vow, no less weighty than the ones made to each other in that Vegas chapel.I don’t break my fucking promises. What he growled in my ear the other day. He’s kept promise after promise—imperfectly, but he’s tried all the same.
“I do,” I say. “I want that.”
For a moment, Asher doesn’t say anything. Then his mouth inches up at the edge, not his familiar smirk but that soft version of his smile that I’m not sure if anyone but us gets to see. “Ido too.” Then his smile fades. “What are we gonna tell other people?”
I don’t answer—mostly because I don’t have a good answer to that. I imagine the horror on Brad’s and Barb’s faces, the fallout if the team finds out about this. They wanted Brayden in a healthy, stable, normal relationship. We might get the first two, but this isn’t what anyone in the Atlanta Peaches organization would callnormal.
“Maybe that doesn’t matter for now,” Brayden says finally, then holds out his hands for us.
I take his hand just as Asher does the same. And as we fall back in bed together, I realize that Brayden is right. Maybe we don’t have to tell anyone right now. Maybe the only people we have to say anything at all to are each other.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Savannah
When we boardthe plane to fly back to Atlanta, Brayden stakes out the same cluster of seats we sat in on our way out. Asher gets on after us, and he almost walks past to claim another seat when Brayden reaches and casually loops a finger in his sweatshirt hoodie to haul him back.
“You want something, B?” Asher asks, eyes dancing with the question.
“No.” Brayden says it curtly like he’s trying to announce to his teammates how very much we all didn’t sleep together for the last two nights.
I have on an oversized sweatshirt that doesn’t quite hide the hickeys they left, mouths overlapping, claiming me as theirs. I stash my carryon, take a seat next to Brayden and across from Asher.Our usualspots. Even if we’re the only ones who know.
After the plane takes off, Brayden drapes an arm around my shoulders. “Aren’t you going to study?”
I should. I need to. I’ve felt like I’ve been in an entirely different universe for the past few days, one that doesn’t contain mundane things like the scientific literature. Sighing, I pull mypapers from my bag, flip to the one I’ve been putting off. I read it or try to. Some of this has gotten easier—I’m more accustomed to the analysis and the jargon used in various methods sections—and some of it definitely hasn’t.Is it me or is this paper written like it doesn’t want to be read?
Brayden strokes my neck, playing with a strand of my hair. Across from me, Asher is dividing his time between reading a paperback and looking at us when he thinks we’re not paying attention.
“You still limiting screen time?” I ask him.
His forehead pinches momentarily until he realizes I’m talking about his book. “No, just brought this for the trip.” He nods to the pile of papers on my lap. “How’re the articles?”
“Dense. How’s the book?”
He holds it up. A novel with a worn spine like it’s a favorite. On its cover, a woman in a warrior gown wields a ghostly sword at an unseen foe. “Less dense.”
“I’d thought you would go for something more literary.”
He snorts. “Smart for a ballplayer doesn’t actually mean smart.”
Next to me, Brayden laughs. “So if I haven’t read a book in…” He pauses as if calculating. “A while, what does that make me?”
“You have other talents.” Asher scrapes his eyes over him, heated.Obviousfor the team plane. Around us, most everyone is sleeping.
From a few rows away, someone sticks their face above the seat head rest. At this distance—and wearing a team sweatshirt with the hood pulled up—it’s impossible to tell who it is. Even if I could see them, ballplayers are sometimes difficult to identify when they’re not wearing shirts with their names written across the back.
