We hear heavy footsteps in the hallway. Theo or Marco. Doesn’t matter.
I don’t move. Don’t cover us. Just press my forehead to hers and whisper, “Told you’re safe with me.”
She smiles and kisses me softly and slowly.
The footsteps pause outside the door, then keep walking.
Chapter twenty-five
Chapter 25
Rachel
I’m folding laundry in the living room when the guilt hits again.
It’s been happening more frequently since we moved in. These moments where I stop mid-task and think about what I’m doing. Who I’m doing it with. How wrong it should feel, but doesn’t.
Three men.
I have feelings for three men.
Not casual feelings. Not friendly affection. Real, deep, complicated feelings that make my chest tight when I think too hard about them.
Cole makes me feel safe. Protected. Like nothing can touch me when he’s around.
Theo makes me feel light. Happy. Like life can be more than just surviving.
Marco makes me feel seen. Understood. Like he knows exactly who I am and accepts it without question.
And that terrifies me.
Because what kind of person has feelings for three people at once? What does that make me? Greedy? Selfish? Damaged in ways I haven’t fully processed?
Normal people pick one person. Build a life with them. Don’t sit in their living room folding laundry while wondering which of three men they’ll run into shirtless next and trying not to think about how that makes them feel.
My brain short-circuits every time I see them shirtless. Every time, I have to remind myself that I’m a grown woman who can see an attractive man without falling apart.
Every time, I fail.
And then there’s the guilt. Not about the attraction—I can’t help that. But about what people would think if they knew. What Jake would think. What would this town say about the single mother living with three men?
She’s desperate. She’s using them. She’s setting a terrible example for her son.
I can hear the whispers already. Can imagine Patricia Westbrook’s face if she found out. Can picture the comments online if this ever got out.
Of course, she’s with all three of them. Probably can’t decide which one to manipulate next.
I fold another shirt with more force than necessary.
“You’re going to tear that.” Marco’s voice makes me jump.
He’s standing in the doorway with his laptop and a stack of files, still in his work clothes: dark pants, badge on his belt.
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About?” He sits in the armchair across from me, opening his laptop.
“Nothing important.” I set down the laundry. “How’s the investigation going?”
