Her eyes go wide. “You had a one-night stand with your future housemate.”
“I didn’t know he lived there,” I hiss. “I didn’t know he was Boone’s best friend, or Caleb’s cousin, or that he would stroll into the kitchen in the morning and find me covered in flour.”
She slaps the table, delighted. “Oh wow, that’s incredible. Horrible. But incredible.”
“He took it well,” I admit grudgingly. “Too well. He thinks this is hilarious. I think this is a cosmic joke.”
“And Boone?” she asks, sobering a little. “Thebossboss?”
I stare down at my coffee. “He’s… intense. Very controlled. Very ‘there is a plan, and you will not deviate from it.’ But he’s good with Sadie. Really good. He looks at her like she’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet.”
Sloane hums. “Grumpy single dad cowboy with a martyr complex. Got it. And Caleb?”
My stomach does that fluttery swoop it did in the barn. “He’s quiet. Soft spoken. He’s the one who makes sure everyone eats and the horses are okay and Silas doesn’t accidentally die. He feels… safe. Which is dangerous, because?—”
“Because you’re attracted to all three of them,” she finishes, not unkindly. “At the same time.”
I close my eyes. “I hate everything.”
“Do you?” she asks softly.
I think about Silas’s hands on my waist, Boone’s eyes on me in the kitchen this morning, Caleb’s careful, earnest questions over dishwater.
“No,” I admit. “That’s the problem. I don’t hate any of it. But I also can’t… I cannot survive another Marcus situation. Another workplace implosion. Another round of people whispering that I slept my way into a job.”
She nods slowly. “So you’re stuck between wanting and self-preservation.”
“Exactly,” I whisper. “They’re my bosses. My landlords. And I’m… me. The woman who already burned her career down once with a bad decision. I can’t afford to be stupid again. Even if my body really wants to be stupid.”
Sloane leans her head on my shoulder. “First of all, can we please retire the phrase ‘stupid’ for ‘trusted someone who didn’t deserve it’? Second, wanting them doesn’t make you a disaster. Acting without thinking might. So think. Go slow. Talk. You don’t have to do anything with any of them. You also don’t have to punish yourself forever.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “I don’t know if I remember how to want something without immediately expecting it to turn toxic.”
“That’s okay,” she says. “Let us want good things for you until you can join in.”
The sentence lands somewhere deep and sore and hopeful.
I blink hard a few times. “This was supposed to be a fun morning.”
“It is. Fun is yelling ‘we love you’ at a band in the middle of a farmers’ market. Fun is espresso shots and Silas almost dropping an egg on the mayor. This,” her fingers squeeze mine, “is necessary.”
Before I can respond, a familiar wave of noise hits us.
“Okay,” Ivy calls, weaving through the crowd with Olivia at her side and a small army of children orbiting them, “did we miss the trauma dump or did you save us some?”
Olivia balances Jacob on one hip, iced tea in her other hand. Penny trails behind with a diaper bag, followed by triplets, and Pickle strapped to Ivy’s chest in a baby carrier like a very offended meatball.
Sloane grins. “Perfect timing. We’re transitioning from ‘ugly cry’ to ‘problem-solving stage.’”
“Excellent,” Ivy says, plopping down across from us with a theatrical groan. “My back hurts, and I want to threaten someone.”
Olivia slides onto the bench opposite, Jacob immediately trying to grab her straw.
“Don’t worry. Ivy’s threats are mostly metaphorical these days.”
“Mostly,” Ivy repeats, rubbing her belly. “So, do we need to bury a body? Hex a man? Start a whisper campaign?”
“Wow,” Sloane gasps proudly. “Look at my terrifying support system.”
