Bree’s stride doesn’t falter. “What about them?”
“You found some,” I say. “After breakfast.”
Her mouth quirks. “I did.”
“Impressive turnaround time,” Gray adds. “Considering.”
She shoots him a look. “Considering what?”
“Considering you didn’t seem too concerned about them an hour ago.”
Bree’s cheeks flush but she doesn’t slow. “I was concerned about pancakes.”
“And that’s all?” I can’t help the grin. “Just pancakes?”
She doesn’t answer.
Gray’s smirk deepens. “What exactly did you, Rhett, and Jace get up to before you came down?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Actually, yes,” I say. “We would.”
Bree glances between us, something flickering in her expression—part amusement, part heat, part deflection. “Maybe I’ll tell you later. If you’re good.”
“If we’re good,” Gray repeats, voice dropping low.
Before she can respond, he catches her wrist and pulls her in. His hand slides up to cup the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair. The kiss is slow at first—testing, tasting—then deeper. His other hand settles at her waist, thumb pressing against her hip bone through the fabric. She makes a soft sound in the back of her throat and Gray’s grip tightens slightly, like he’s anchoring himself.
When he pulls back, her lips are swollen, her breathing uneven.
I step in before she can recover.
My hand cups her jaw, tilting her face up. Her pulse hammers against my palm. I kiss her slower than Gray did, savoring the warmth still there from him, the way her mouth opens under mine without hesitation. My other hand finds the small of her back, pulling her closer. She tastes like morning and heat and something sweeter underneath—maple syrup, maybe, or just her.
Her fingers curl into my shirt.
When I finally pull back, she stays there for a moment, eyes half-closed, chest rising and falling.
Then she opens her eyes and looks between us. Waiting.
Gray and I exchange a glance.
“What?” I ask.
“Your turn,” she says simply.
Gray blinks. “Our—”
But I’m already moving.
I catch his jaw with one hand, rough enough that his eyes flash—surprise first, then something darker. I don’t give him time to think. Just lean in and kiss him.
He freezes for half a second.
Then his hand comes up to grip my shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His mouth is different than Bree’s—more demanding, less yielding. There’s stubble against my palm, the taste of coffee still on his tongue. He kisses like he fights—controlled but barely, like he’s holding himself back from something.
My other hand fists in his shirt and he makes a low sound in his chest. Not quite a growl. Close.
