"It would be weird if we gave her a choice! Vince, her bag is already packed. Whatever happened between her and Justin must have happened late last night. She's coming with us whether she wants to or not.”
Vince grabs my wrist and pulls me into a kiss, his fingers digging into my hip like he's afraid I might vanish.
“I fucking love you,” he says between kisses. When he pulls back, his dark blue eyes are alight with our new mission. "Alright, let's go get our girl."
The way he says *our girl* sends a shiver down my spine. It’s possessive, it’s protective, and it’s hot as fuck.
Our girl.
I follow him back into the living room, where Ollie is sprawled on the couch, arms crossed over her chest, a makeshift nest of pillows and blankets nestled around her.
“Oh my god! You’re still here,” Ollie groans, rolling her eyes.
“Not for long. Kat and I decided you’re not in a state to be making decisions for yourself right now,” he says, sitting on the edge of the coffee table facing her. “You’re coming with us.”
“No, I’m not,” she says, a laugh bubbling in her throat.
She thinks we’re joking.
“Yes, you are,” I reply, in my firmest tone, leaving no room for argument.
Ollie wraps her arms around herself, a stubborn gesture that reminds me that the real Ollie is still in that giant sweater somewhere. “You can’t make me.”
Vince stands up and reaches out a hand. “Get up. We’re leaving.”
Ollie just stares at his offered hand, her expression blank. “No.”
“Ollie.”
“Vince.”
His patience visibly snapping, Vince bends forward, hooking his arms under her armpits, and hauls her off the couch. Instead of resisting as expected, Ollie goes completely boneless. A dead weight of stubbornness that even Vince struggles to manage. His balance thrown by her sudden surrender to gravity, and they both crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs, Vince curling to take the brunt of the impact on his back.
“Real fucking mature,” he groans.
In the downfall, the massive charcoal-gray sweater she’s drowning in rides up her torso, exposing a strip of her stomach and the fact that she’s only wearing tiny black shorts beneath it. The skin of her midriff is pale and smooth, interrupted by the bold black lines of a snake tattoo slithering up into the hem of her bra. My breath catches. I know I’m gawking, but I can’t stop staring at the contrast of the soft vulnerability of her skin against the sharp, permanent ink, or the way the shorts cling to her thick thighs with just enough fabric to cover her ass. My eyes are never respectful around Ollie, not that I think she minds. If she even notices.
Ollie is splayed half on top of Vince, her face buried in his chest. A low, shaky sound escapes her. She’s laughing.
“You brought this on yourself!”
Vince wraps his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head. “You’re a pain in my ass,” he murmurs into her hair.
Suddenly, the air in the room changes, thickening, until a suffocating, sharp ache blooms behind my ribs. It’s not jealousy. It’s something worse. So much worse.Hunger. A hunger for something I’ve never had and never knew I wanted.
I watch the way her body relaxes into his, decades of absolute trust in her surrender, and every nerve ending in my body is screaming,I want this. I want to be the piece of meat in a Vince and Ollie sandwich. Tucked right in the middle of the uncomplicated way they fit together.
I kneel beside them, squeezing myself between Ollie’s ass and the couch. “The cabin has that big porch swing,” I say softly as if that would be the deciding factor. “And Vince packed that terrible whiskey you like.”
She turns her head, one dark eye peering up at me. A single, traitorous tear cuts a path through the faint freckles on her temple. “The one that tastes like gasoline and regret?”
“That’s the one.”
“When have we ever left you behind?” Vince asks.
Her jaw tightens. A lifetime of history passes between them in that instant—childhood scrapes, teenage rebellions, late-night talks about everything and nothing. I’m the one who slipped into the space between them, and sometimes the intensity of their bond still steals my breath away.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” she mutters, but the fight is draining out of her as I help her to her feet.
