“I could learn accounting.”
“Don’t,” we say simultaneously.
Jesse moves closer on the couch. “So we’re really doing this? The family dinners and holidays where our dads pretend they don’t hate each other? The town events where everyone stares? The inevitable Madison meltdown?”
“She’s already had three meltdowns today,” Boone points out. “She started a prayer circle for Jesse’s soul.”
“How many people joined?”
“Just her mom. Out of obligation.”
“We’re doing this,” I confirm. “All of it. The weird, the problematic, the probably illegal in some states?—”
“It’s not illegal,” Wyatt interrupts. “I checked. Thoroughly. We’re technically just cohabiting with intent to... cohabit more.”
I stand up and move to where I can see all three guys. They look hopeful and terrified, which is probably how I look too.
“Here’s the deal. No bullshit. We’re gonna fuck this up sometimes. One of you is gonna get jealous. I’m gonna have favorites on different days. Someone’s gonna forget an anniversary because we’ll have too many to track. The town’s gonna talk shit. Our families are gonna be weird about it forever. Madison’s probably gonna try to exorcise each of us over time,” I say.
“But,” I continue, “we’re doing it anyway. Because the alternative is pretending we don’t want this, and we’ve already tried that. It sucked.”
“So eloquent,” Boone says, but he’s smiling.
“I’m not here to be eloquent. I’m here to be honest. This is probably not smart. Definitely problematic. But I’d rather be problematic with you three than simple with anyone else.”
“That was almost romantic,” Jesse says.
“Should we seal it with something?” Boone asks. “A handshake? Blood oath? Group hug?”
“How about we seal it by going to your bedroom and traumatizing Rita with how loud we can be?” I suggest.
Jesse’s bedroomlooks like a tornado hit it. There’s a dresser that doesn’t match anything, a nightstand that might be from the 70s, and a bed that’s definitely seen better decades. But it’s king-sized, which is all that matters right now.
“So,” Jesse says, pulling his shirt off because subtlety is dead and he can’t wait to get his hands on me, “we’re doing this.”
“We’ve been doing this for weeks,” I point out, enjoying the way his abs flex when he tosses the shirt aside.
“Yeah, but now we’re doing it officially. Publicly. With spreadsheets, even.”
“Nobody’s fucking me according to a spreadsheet,” I clarify, but I’m already unhooking my bra because why waste time.
“But hey—” he starts to protest.
I shut him up by dropping to my knees and showing him exactly where he can file his notes. His hands immediately tangle in my hair, and the sound he makes is worth every second of his earlier organizational nonsense. I take him deep into my mouth and close my eyes. I’ve missed this.
“Unfair advantage,” Jesse complains, then proceeds to demonstrate his own advantage by pressing against my back, his hands sliding around to cup my breasts while his mouth finds that spot on my neck that makes me forget why I ever pretended not to want this.
Boone, not to be outdone, manages to get my jeans off one-handed while I kneel before Wyatt.
“How did you—” I ask, letting Wyatt go.
“Practice, dedication, and a lot of YouTube.”
“YouTube teaches that?”
“YouTube teaches everything if you know where to look.”
What happens next requires coordination we definitely didn’t have three weeks ago. Jesse’s on his back, pulling me on top of him, and with the first thrust, we groan long and loud.
