Page 39
Luna
I’ve never felt my fifty-two years quite like I do this morning. It’s barely five a.m. and the sun is just cresting the sky. Exhaustion sits heavy in my bones after another restless night carrying around a secret that feels capable of destroying my entire life.
Lennie woke me when he left for his run with Jax earlier, or rather the sound of the door closing quietly did. Now I’m curled up in the lounge with Ember and Bri, all three of us nursing mugs of coffee in front of the fire that we barely managed to get going ourselves after discovering Enzo hadn’t arrived yet.
“Well,” Ember announces proudly, “if convention life fails, we apparently have careers in arson.”
Bri laughs softly, and I notice she’s still wearing oversized pyjamas and fluffy socks, while Ember and I are already dressed for the day ahead.
“So, you slept with him already,” Ember teases, grinning over the rim of her mug.
Bri groans instantly. “I did not sleep with him. I was locked out.”
“Mmhmm.”
“He slept on the sofa like an actual gentleman,” she insists. “And he’s currently gone with Lennie to wake Enzo so I can get into my room and actually put clothes on.”
Ember wiggles her eyebrows. “That man has the hots for you.”
Bri nearly chokes on her coffee. “He does not. Have you seen the women he’s surrounded by? He could date, and probably has dated, literal supermodels.”
"Please. Have you seen you?"
The conversation makes me smile despite everything twisting inside my chest. They both still feel so young to me in moments like this. Ember is only twenty-five, still figuring life out in that messy fearless way people do in their twenties, while Bri sits somewhere in the middle at forty-one; old enough to carry scars, young enough to still hope for things despite them. And God, what I wouldn’t give to feel that kind of hope again.
Not because I’m unhappy. I’m not. I have a good life. Lennie is a good man, the best actually. We’ve built something beautiful together; our girls, Hope and Faith, our grandchildren River and Lily. A whole family. Which only makes the weight in my chest feel worse.
I stare down into my coffee for a long moment before speaking quietly. “Can I ask you both something?”
They turn to face me.
“I…” My throat tightens. “I’ve made a terrible mistake recently.” The words sound too loud in the quiet room. “And I don’t know whether to tell Lennie now or wait until we get home.” Neither of them interrupts and I swallow hard. “Part of me thinks he already knows something’s wrong. And I’m terrified he’ll never forgive me when he finds out.”
Ember’s expression softens, while Bri shifts a little closer beside me on the sofa.
“Luna,” Bri says gently, “that man adores you.”
“He really does,” Ember agrees. “Whatever it is, you’ll get through it together.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I don’t want to ruin this weekend,” I admit quietly. “Everyone’s excited and happy and…”
“You won’t ruin anyone’s weekend, except your own, because it’s clearly eating you up. Tell him tonight,” Bri says softly. “Get through today first. Have the conversation privately when you’ve both got space.”
Ember nods in agreement.
I stare into the fire, my heart aching. They make it sound so simple. Like love might actually survive dishonesty.
Chapter 26
Bri
Jax pauses for half a second before climbing into the back seat—so brief I almost miss it, like his body needs a moment. Which is weird, but then he’s sprawled across the seat like he owns it, grinning widely and I’m unsure if I imagined it.
Ember's driving today, so for once I get to relax in the passenger seat with a warm coffee in hand—the paper cup heating my palm—while I work through pastries Enzo shoved at me before we left. He came straight over this morning, fixed my door so I could finally shower and change, and still somehow found time to make sure I ate.
Music hums softly through the car, but I’m far more aware of Jax sitting behind me, one arm hooked lazily over the middle seat as he passionately argues about eighties rock bands. He looks unfairly good today, in a fitted black t-shirt that clings to the shape of his biceps, highlighting the tattoos that wind down his arms in dark ink. He’s paired it with a pair of worn black jeans and black boots to complete the whole effortlessly dangerous look.
“You cannot seriously think Fleetwood Mac is overrated,” I say, twisting around to glare at him.
