Then:
“This is a disaster.”
“Incorrect,” I say cheerfully. “This is a developing situation.”
His glare returns. “Silas.”
“What? It’s not like the three of us haven’t… shared before.”
“That was different,” he snaps again.
“Sure,” I nod. “Because those women weren’t Delaney.”
He goes quiet.
And there it is.
The real thing simmering in his chest.
The complication neither of us wants to name.
“She’s not just some fling,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “She’s not someone we can just… bring into this house and then?—”
“Let her go,” I finish.
He flinches.
I exhale, leaning back against the island.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I know.”
The moment stretches as the truth settles in.
Three men. One woman.
History and chemistry tangled up between us.
A kid who adores her, a past she’s running from, and a future none of us are prepared for.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Delaney
The thingabout living where the air smells of pine and sky is that eventually, you run out of excuses not to go outside and breathe it.
I’ve been hiding in the kitchen for the better part of three days, chopping, stirring, baking, washing, repeating. It’s usually my safest loop. If I keep my hands moving, my brain doesn’t have time to remind me that I am currently:
1. Sleeping under the same roof as my boss—who I semi-hooked up with in this kitchen.
2. Whose best friend I had a one-night stand with—and who also lives here.
3. All while also having a complicated, buzzing, can’t-look-directly-at-it connection with his grumpy stepbrother.
The list pairs very poorly with trying to remember how many teaspoons of baking powder went into the cornbread.
So in a rare moment of self-preservation, I take off my apron, grab my jacket and my water bottle, and escape before I can talk myself out of it.
“I’m heading out for a walk!” I call toward the living room.
