Three is a War(18)

I cross the large, open space and hold my arms out. “Then put three beds in here.”

“And sleep like twelve-year-olds at summer camp?” Cole grimaces.

“Or we could behave like adults.” Trace perches on the foot of the mattress. “And sleep in a bed that’s plenty big enough, without making an issue out of it.”

How do I not make an issue out of this? My stomach tightens with nerves. “The three of us in a room together is a ticking time bomb. All of us in the same bed after five weeks of being apart? That’s a sure path to total disaster.” I lower my voice. “I don’t want either of you feeling uncomfortable.”

“I don’t know about you,” Cole says to Trace, “but when I fall into that bed tonight, I’m going to sleep harder and deeper than I have in months.”

“Same here.” Trace’s blue eyes bore into mine, like he’s digging for a weak spot.

“I’ve slept like shit.” Cole catches my gaze, his tone soft yet urgent. “I want to be next to you, smell your hair on my pillow, and hear the sound of your breaths while you sleep.”

“We’re trying to give you transparency and reestablish your confidence in us,” Trace says. “No matter our failures and shortcomings, you know you can trust us to lie beside you while you sleep.”

I want that. So much. But they’re so jealous and possessive the idea feels strange and forced. It reeks of deception, like they’re manipulating me into spending time with them. They’re certainly not suggesting we share a bed because they want to.

But my gut tells me the simplest answer is the right one. They miss me as much as I miss them, and they can’t fathom spending another night alone.

And poof goes my will to argue. And my reason. I think my nerves bit the dust, too.

This is the quintessence of love. It’s what makes two friends-turned-enemies share a bed with a woman, even when there are plenty of other beds in the rest of the house.

As I wilt and cave, I hold onto my last thread of sensibility. “One night.”

Cole’s eyes gleam, and a twitch bounces Trace’s scowl.

“The first hint of jealousy, and I’ll find another room to sleep in.” I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this. “I need something to wear to bed.”

Trace points at the closet across the room.

On my way there, I slip into the en suite bathroom. With the door locked, I empty my bladder and scrutinize the bottles on the built-in shelf in the shower. Shampoo, conditioner, body soap—all the brands I use. I flush the toilet, wash my hands, and peek in the cabinets. Makeup, hair products, everything I kept at Trace’s penthouse.

When I exit the bathroom, the bedroom is empty, and the deep timbre of their voices echoes from the direction of the living room. I’m thankful they’re giving me privacy, or at least the perception of it. God knows how many cameras are installed in this house?

In the walk-in closet, I find the wardrobe I left at Trace’s place, including new clothes with the tags still attached. Given the impeccable organization—garments hung by color and season, drawers labeled, and shoes perfectly aligned on the racks—it’s safe to assume Trace oversaw this part of the plan.

How long have they been plotting to bring me here? Did it start the moment I walked out of the penthouse? Is that why they let me go so easily? Or did my move to Florida push them over the edge? I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m here now with no choice but to face the nerve-wracking decision of what to do next.

I can leave tomorrow and start over like I planned.

Or I can stay.

If I stay, maybe it won’t work out. But finding out if it does might be the most important thing I’ve ever done. My gut tells me I’m supposed to take this journey, with them, no matter how painful or scary. Maybe I should let my gut lead the way.

I change into fleece pajama pants and a plain cotton t-shirt. Then I pad out of the room and down the hall, the slate tiles warming my bare feet.

The floors are heated, and I bet the lake views from every room are stunning. The detailed craftsmanship, woodwork, and design throughout the estate is extravagant. And every square foot belongs to Cole. He never said he needed money and I understand why he couldn’t tell me about this place, but the secrets still bug me.

I find them in the kitchen, pulling covered dishes and vegetables from the fridge. Moving seamlessly around each other, they seem completely at ease sharing the same space. Trace changed into gray lounge pants, and Cole wears black workout shorts. Both are bare-chested, beautifully sculpted, and… Fuck, I’m staring.

“You need to eat.” Trace meets my eyes and smirks.