Page 47 of Whispered Promises

Laughter bubbles up, escaping my lips in peals of giggles, and I can’t stop the tears that cascade down my cheeks.

It’s not the welcome I’d expected, but I’m slowly learning to never be surprised by Max.

Noah steps around the still-kneeling Max and takes my hand in his, guiding me into their home. The laughter slowly peters out as he turns me into the living room area and stops us by the coffee table. He reaches down and plucks a tissue from the box.

“May I?” His words are soft, but a smile tilts his lips, revealing a slight crease on either side of his mouth.

A very bite-able mouth.

A mouth that also said words I’ve forgotten, so I nod mutely, unsure what I’ve agreed to.

His eyes light up at my response, and he steps in close, so close that his scent caresses my senses. It’s warming and a little spicy, like spiced red wine that tastes sweet and decadent as it curls down your throat, settling into your gut like a heated blanket.

He uses the tissue to gently wipe away the tear tracks from my cheeks, then blots at the tears still lining my lashes, threatening to escape. The moment feels strangely intimate, having him take the care to wipe away my tears, even if they were from laughter and not sorrow.

“There, all done.” His words are low, and they whisper across my lips as he does one last wipe that has a fingertip barely brushing against my skin. Stepping back, he pockets the tissue. “Can I make you a tea?”

“Yes?” Blinking against the abrupt change, I quickly say, “I mean, yes, I’d love one. As long as it’s decaf. Surprise me?”

Offering a quick wink, he brushes past and into the kitchen. A moment later, warmth tingles up my spine, and my body tenses as a lick of anticipation unfurls in my stomach.

“Hi, Nate,” I whisper, hoping I’m right and not just talking out loud to myself.

A thick finger traces a path from my neck, down my shoulder and arm, to stop at my hand. Clasping it, he tugs me around to face him, and my head tips back to look up at him.

Whatever words he was about to say disappear from his lips, and a frown wrinkles harshly between his brows. “Why were you crying?”

Calloused hands frame my cheeks, and he tips my face from side to side as if trying to find a traitorous tear left behind that he can growl at.

“They were happy tears,” I promise, trying to hide a smile from breaking free at his sweetness. “Max made me laugh too hard when I first arrived, but Noah mopped them all up for me; so I’m all good.”

He grunts once, in what I assume is acceptance of my explanation—but who knows with this gruff bear?—then places a fleeting kiss on my lips. Turning, he clasps my hand in his and guides us into the kitchen area, pulling out a stool for me to sit on before standing behind me. His chest brushes against my back, maintaining contact between us.

“Hey, Bry,” I call out at his back. The muscles under his T-shirt flex with his every movement as he grabs different pans and utensils. “Thank you for having me over. It smells unbelievable.”

He turns to face me, and I’m hit with a smile so genuine it feels almost indulgent to allow myself to revel in its warmth.

“I’m excited for you to try it. I wasn’t able to decide which to make out of the options I sent you, so I did all three.” He grins and shrugs, as if cooking three different curries isn’t impressive.

If I managed to make one, I would be ecstatic with myself. There would be whooping, applause, and maybe some praise too.

“I’ll make sure I try a bit of everything, then,” I declare, hoping I have room to eat it all so I don’t let his efforts don’t go to waste.

Max flops onto the stool beside me and rests his head on the counter. “My stomach’s betraying me and eating me from the inside,” he groans.

Biting my lip to stop the laughter, I rub a trail up and down his back in sympathy. I try hard to ignore the feel of his taut muscles beneath my touch, I really do.

But they’re so…solid.

Nate’s hands fall to my waist, and I yank my hand back from his friend's back, tension thrumming through me.

Did I fuck up by touching Max?

My feelings for him are too jumbled to know if I was being friendly or crossed a line into “more than friends” territory.

If I’m honest, my feelings for all of them are just as messy.

It’s selfish to want them—all of them.