I don’t want a mess. I don’t want another disaster.
I don’t want to be the woman caught between men again, accused of leading someone on or giving the wrong impression or ruining a life.
I don’t want another Marcus.
I close my eyes.
Tomorrow.
I’ll sort it out tomorrow. Clear, honest conversation, boundaries, choices.
But tonight…
I slide down the door and sit on the floor, arms wrapped around my knees, heart aching.
Tonight, all I have is the truth I am terrified to face:
I want all of them.
And wanting all of them is exactly how girls like me get burned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Silas
I’ve already hadtwo cups of coffee and one very stern talking to… from myself.
It went:
Silas, you idiot, maybe don’t maul the sunshiney new chef on the couch where your six-year-old honorary niece wants to build Lego kingdoms.
Did it help?
Not particularly.
The living room is quiet in that hushed, post-dawn way. Boone took Sadie to school already, Caleb’s still on doctor-ordered bed rest, or Delaney ordered, which is scarier, and the house feels too big around me.
I’m half sprawled in the armchair, phone in hand, pretending to read emails while mostly replaying last night.
Green dress. Soft little sounds. The way she’d shaken apart in my hands and then bolted as if the ranch was on fire.
The floorboard outside the doorway creaks.
Showtime.
I school my face into something casual, non-threatening, not at all sayingI spent half the night thinking about your thighs, and glance up.
She hovers in the entryway, hair in a messy bun now, makeup gone, back in leggings and an oversized tee with some worn-out band logo. She looks softer. More real. Bare-faced and wide-eyed and very, very determined.
“Hey,” I say. “Morning, honeybee.”
She flinches at the nickname, then rolls her lips together, trying to find courage inside them.
“Can we talk?”
Ah.
There it is.
