Wait… how?
“Why are you here?” I blurt out.
“What?” Misha asks, confusion evident in his voice.
He exchanges a quick glance with Grey, who’s hovering nearby.
“Why are you here? I mean, the three of you just came over. How did you know I needed help?” I press, suddenly aware of how odd the timing was.
Oliver was just heading back to their apartment. There was no reason they’d be coming back.
They exchange a glance, and the silence stretches just a tad too long before Oliver says, “I wanted to come back for my birthday socks… and maybe another kiss.”
He leans down, pressing a kiss on my lips that sends a flutter through my heart and momentarily silences my critical thoughts, now more concerned about Grey and Misha watching that kiss. But when I glance over, they’re both pointedly looking in other directions.
“Thank you for coming,” I whisper before leaning my temple against his chest, tired all of a sudden.
“Always,” Oliver murmurs when we step out of my apartment, and Grey closes the door behind us.
THIRTY-SIX
Amelia looks sopeaceful with her lashes resting on her freckled cheeks.
Grey, Misha, and I stand outside our guest room, watching Morgan rise from the side of the bed and approach us, closing the door behind her.
“She’ll be all right,” my sister assures us. “I don’t think it’s a concussion. It will probably be a nasty bump and a headache for a day or two. She’s lucky.”
Thank fuck.
I nod, relief washing over me as Morgan continues, “I see injuries like this all the time with the people I care for when they fall. Head wounds can look worse than they are. But I hope we find the asshole who did this to her. She seems pretty shaken, understandably. She fell asleep while we were talking. She’s exhausted.”
“She is,” Grey nods, “Who wouldn’t be? I hate that we can’t call the police.”
“And get her into trouble? Not happening.” Misha crosses his arms over his chest.
“I agree with him,” Morgan says, nodding at Misha but looking at me. “I bet we can do our own digging, and Grey can hack himself into the building’s security footage.”
“The building’s security footage, sure,” I mutter, looking down at my feet.
I was never able to lie to her.
Morgan’s brow furrows when I look up at her again, but she lets it go. “I noticed some bald spots at the back of her head. I didn’t want to say anything, but maybe she should get that checked out by a doctor.”
“It’s trichotillomania,” I explain. “Amelia pulls her hair.” I probably shouldn’t have given away her secret so quickly, but Morgan knowing it from me is better than her asking Amelia about it.
Morgan’s eyes widen, and I can see her reassessing Amelia before shaking her head. Then, she pulls me toward the kitchen, away from the others, as a mischievous glint enters her eyes that I’ve come to recognize all too well.
“So, how was your date? The Night of the Books was a good idea, right?” she prods.
I can tell she’s been dying to ask since she arrived.
When I decided to ask Amelia out, I called Morgan about it. After she asked if I knew about Amelia’s feelings for the others, and I told her I did and still wanted to try, she was way too excited for me. My ears heat as I recall the evening, and I feel as if our first kiss was way longer than just a few hours ago.
“We kissed,” I admit, the words barely more than a breath. “And… I told her I love her.”
Morgan grabs my upper arms, hops up and down, and squeals loudly. Her reaction is so exuberant that I quickly clap my hand over her mouth, glancing nervously at the others who went to sit on the couch.
“Sorry,” she whispers, grinning from ear to ear when I remove my hand. “I’m proud of you, Casanova. Look at you, making moves and professing your love. Who would’ve thought?”
