Chapter 1
Aimee
HuiShenleanedcloserto her camera, lowering her voice. “My granddaughter Skylar got her appetite from me.”
“Mrs. Shen!” I couldn’t help laughing. When I’d asked my brother’s grandmother-in-law to join me, I knew she’d be fun, but this was podcast gold. “Are you saying—”
“Haven’t you ever heard of swinging? It was quite popular back in the day.”
“Oh, I bet you have some stories.”
“Of course I do! But I suppose we’ll have to save those for another day!”
“Shall I pencil you in for an episode on swinging?”
“Perhaps. Now, I should go. I have mahjong with the ladies in thirty minutes, and Mrs. Wong gets cranky if I’m late.”
“Well, thank you for taking time out of your day to talk on the Aimee Position,” I said. “It was a blast. And good luck with the game.”
Hui rolled her eyes. “I don’t need luck. I have strategy.” With one last wave, she disconnected.
I closed the recording, saving it to edit later, then removed my headphones and hung them on their stand, stretching my arms above my head until my spine cracked.
The recording needed to go to my editor, so I opened my laptop to make some notes about timestamps, absently clicking an Instagram DM notification that popped up on the screen.
You disgusting whore. Polyamory is an AFFRONT to God and everything holy. You’re leading innocent people astray with your FILTH and you will BURN in hell for promoting this SIN. Repent before it’s too late!!
I blinked at the message, trying to make sense of the random string of numbers and letters in the sender’s username. A sure sign of a burner account. Another keyboard warrior bullying from behind a screen. As a woman who talked about sex on the internet, this particular kind of asshole was far too commonplace. And they’d been getting worse since some conservative talking head had shared a sound bite from my episode about throuples on his podcast.
Three dots appeared, and I swiped the notification away and clicked through to block the account before he could say anything more vile. I pushed the message out of my mind as I scrolled on, thankful to find my inbox mostly full of positive feedback, topic suggestions, and requests for advice.
One crazy asshole couldn’t shake me, not with so many wonderful, supportive fans standing behind me. I was fine, just fine. No point in dwelling on it. Hell, that was what this kind of guy got off on.
A crash boomed from outside my studio, and I jumped, fumbling with my laptop as it teetered at the edge of my desk. My pulse spiked as my brain leaped to the threatening message.
Then I heard a deep, booming laugh, followed by a second voice, almost as deep, and my heart rate shifted gears to irritated. The voices from the living room didn’t belong to a deranged keyboard warrior who never left his mom’s basement. They belonged to two well-meaning, obnoxiously hot pains in my ass.
I glanced at the time on my computer and groaned. 6:43. How had I lost a full hour scrolling through social media? I hadn’t even made my notes, and there was something else I was forgetting.
I flipped open my planner and my heart dropped as I saw a scrawled note in today’s box with three red underlines under it. Date with Shane: 7pm. Don’t forget.
And Troy and Rhett were in my living room. These two idiots were about to ruin my chances of finding out if Shane was as fun as he’d seemed the first time we’d met. How could I put myself out there if my date arrived to find two massive, intimidating firefighters already in my apartment?
No more mourning my cancelled wedding, and no more hiding behind my podcast living vicariously through my listeners.
I peeked out of my studio, and sure enough, there they were—two six-foot-plus firefighters sitting cross-legged on my kitchen island like overgrown, exceptionally hot toddlers. Rhett was facing away from me. His hair was sun-streaked, and his pale skin was tanner than usual and dotted with freckles, evidence that they’d been spending a lot of time outside at the firehouse this summer. Troy was facing him, holding a white takeout box, dipping chopsticks into a pile of noodles, his square jaw flexing as he chewed, his medium brown skin shining under my kitchen lights as he leaned back, making a satisfied sound.
I cleared my throat and both of them looked up with identical cheerful expressions.
“Hey, podcast princess,” Troy called, flashing dimples that made my heart squeeze. It took every ounce of my willpower to ignore how fucking handsome he was and focus on my rage.
I folded my arms across my chest. “What the hell are you guys doing inside my apartment? Don’t you knock?”
“We tried! No answer,” Troy said.
“When you knock and there’s no answer, that is not an invitation to use your key!”
“But when you didn’t answer, we wanted to make sure you were okay!” Rhett protested, turning his pretty blue-gray eyes on me.
