There’s a small smile on his lips, but before I have a second to drink it in, it fades just as quickly as it appeared. Then he straightens suddenly.
“I’ve, um… I’ve got a contract I forgot to finish,” he says, already moving toward the hall, leaving Beau looking around as if he’s missed something.
The door to his office closes softly behind him, and a flicker of unease twists in my stomach. Then, Lawson leans in, voice low. “Give him time,” he murmurs against my ear. Clearly knowing what’s going on in his brother’s head and the thoughts that are starting to spiral in mine.
Dinner’s loud and warm and full of teasing. I make pasta from scratch, and Beau insists it’s a life-changing dish while Jas swears he could eat this every night and die happy. Lawson sits back the entire time and smiles as he watches his two best friends light up from the inside out.
Lincoln never joins us.
When we’re done, while the boys clean up, I fix a plate for him. My hesitation shows in the way I rap my knuckles against the office door. “Yeah?”
I open the door and smile at Lincoln as he sits behind the desk. He smiles back at me for a moment before—almost as if he catches himself doing it—it disappears again.
“I brought you some dinner,” I say, holding out the plate.
“Thanks,” he replies, clearing off a spot on his desk. There’s a distance in his tone now. It feels controlled. Professional.
I set the plate down, and the silence stretches. It’s not long before I can’t take it anymore. “You okay?” I ask quietly.
He exhales heavily. “I’m fine, Abigail. Just busy.”
The words aren’t unkind. But they’re firm. He’s building a wall.
“Oh,” I say, nodding. “Okay. Good night, Lincoln.”
“Night.”
I pace the length of the guesthouse for what has to be the hundredth time, bare feet scuffing against the worn wood floor, hair haphazardly thrown into a bun, and wearing nothing but the T-shirt Lawson dug out of the hall closet for me a couple of days ago. I keep walking. One end to the other and back again. Like if I keep moving, I’ll shake whatever the hell this feeling is loose from my ribs.
I shouldn’t have left so fast.
I rushed out after I left Lincoln’s office, barely letting the other guys protest, muttering something about being tired. Which wasn’t a lie. Just… not the whole truth.
The truth is, Lincoln threw me so far off balance that I still don’t know which way is up.
Dragging my hand through my hair, I stop near the small kitchen counter, leaning forward and bracing my palms against the granite. “Jesus, Abby,” I mutter to myself. “Get it together.”
Because who am I to be upset?
The thought comes next, sharp and guilty all at once. Who am I to be annoyed—no, pissed—that Lincoln suddenly went cold when just hours ago he was warm and teasing, looking at me like he saw something worth wanting? After everything that’s happened with Lawson. With Jasper. With Beau hovering somewhere in that dangerous, tempting middle ground.
Three men already. Three complicated, intense, undeniable connections.
And yet…
Lincoln is different.
He always has been.
It’s the way he watches instead of acting. The way his words are careful, measured—like he’s constantly weighing the cost of letting himself feel anything at all. And just when I think I understand him, just when I think I’ve found the rhythm between us, he pulls back and builds another damn wall with distance in his eyes.
Back and forth.
Hot and cold.
Yes and no, and maybe, and never mind.
I push away from the counter and start pacing again, frustration buzzing under my skin. “You don’t get to do that,” I say aloud, pointing to absolutely no one. “You don’t get to make me feel welcome one minute and like an inconvenience the next.”
