“I think you’re more curious about Hudson than you’re willing to admit. Even to yourself.”
The statement hangs in the air. I let it. A few moments pass as I ask myself if that is true. I love Hudson. He’s family. I’ve always been curious about his bisexuality. How could I not be? He had freedom to explore. That was never on the table for me.
Is it the freedom? Is it attraction?
I don’t deny or confirm.
She breaks the silence. “I think you’re feeling real things forthe first time in a long time. Can you see yourself feeling more now? With her? Him?Them?”
I close my eyes. On a whisper, I admit, “I don’t know. It all feels too big. They seem so casual about it, but to me, it’s…huge.”
She smiles and pats my arm. “Life’s short, Enz. Especially for people like us. Don’t waste time pretending you don’t want something you do. Go after it. You deserve happiness.” With one last glance, she leaves my office.
And I’m alone again, realizing I’m not unsure. I know exactly what I want. The question is whether I’m ready to take it.
THIRTEEN
tangled
Hudson
Sunday Evening, Day 11
Ishould be asleep.
Instead, I’m sprawled across my bed, one arm flung over my eyes like that’ll somehow shut my brain off.
Spoiler alert: It’s not fucking working.
The mansion was quiet when I left. Too quiet, considering the bombshells that dropped throughout the day. The six of us made a plan, agreed to trust each other. At least enough to take down one very powerful, very dangerous target.
Victor Malin. Secret Service golden boy. Whose real secret is that he’s a Bratva legacy. He’s a KGB-bred snake hiding in plain sight in a damned designer suit.
I’m also thinking about Jonathan Vale, and Eva and Enzo’s offer to bug his house at their next meeting. It all feels too fucking risky and my skin feels itchy thinking of all the shit that can go wrong. But we laid out skills, aligned on tactics, and paired teams, like this was some twisted murder version ofTheBachelor. Somehow, it was seamless. We left with a plan, with assignments, withpossibility.
Then there’sher. Pippa fucking Saint James.
Who, for the record, should come with a goddamn warning label. She’s chaos wrapped in silk. She was definitely playing mind games with Enzo earlier, and while I jumped in on the fun, I now feel a little guilty. Not so guilty that I stop thinking about her sharp tongue, however.
Or fantasizing about sharing her with Enzo.
Fuck. If I keep picturing that, my dick is going to get harder than it already fucking is. And I already jacked off thinking about them tonight.
I need to sleep.
But she was fucking brilliant today. Her command, her sharp mind, her fearlessness—I was obsessed before I knew anything about her. And now I’m somehow supposed to pretend I’m not addicted to her while sharing air with a man who might want her just as much as I do?
Not any man—Enzo.
My best friend of over twenty years. Enzo, who didn’t say a word when she made that crack about the two of us sharing.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t scoff. Just…stared. At me.
Enzo Luciano doesn’t look at people that way—not men, not publicly. But he looked at me as if he was hungry. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’taffectme.
I’ve spent many nights lying in bed secretly wishing Enzo would give meanyfucking indication that he might be open to exploring something with me. It’s never been there. I know it hasn’t, because I’ve searched high and low.
And in one comment, Pippa fractured everything I thought I knew about my best friend.
