My heartbeat explodes, and I look away.
“I take that as a no,” Cole says softly.
“That’s why I need to leave.” Dread coils in my belly. “I can’t do this again.”
“You don’t get to walk away,” Trace says in a deep, unflinching voice.
“You’re going to stick it out.” Cole matches his tone. “You have a decision to make, and you’re going to finish this. Because if you don’t, if you forfeit your greatest chance at happiness, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
I know he’s right, but… “What you’re suggesting is insane.” I lean my head back against the window and stare at the ceiling. “We can’t all stay under the same roof. We tried that the first week you came home, and it ended in a bloody brawl in the backyard.”
“We worked some things out since then.” Trace rests his fingertips in the pockets of his jeans.
“Like what?” I narrow my eyes.
“The only way we’ll survive this is if we’re honest and open with one another. No more secrets. No more sneaking around.” Trace glowers at Cole. “No more fistfights.”
“Only an hour ago, you were aiming a gun at Cole’s chest.”
“You’re right. It was an unreasonable way to handle an argument. I guess you could say we’re a work in progress.”
With my back to the windows, they cage me in with the width of their shoulders while leaving a foot of breathing space between us. But that invisible space is tenuous and airless, waiting to be erased.
“We’re going to try this again.” Cole folds his arms across his chest. “And this time, we’re doing it our way.”
I love when they talk in terms of we, like they’re a team. Using it in this context, however, implies I have no say in whatever they’re planning. It makes me tense. “If you intend to team up against me—”
“Your way didn’t work.” Impatience seeps into Cole’s voice. “When you were with one of us, the other one was left alone to stew and fester in jealousy.”
My mind jumps to a threesome, triad, or whatever it’s called when two men share a woman. Except they would never be okay with that, and I don’t think I could handle it emotionally. On the surface, it sounds like a dream, but the reality wouldn’t be good for them. Their happiness is more important than a sexual fantasy.
“What are you proposing?” I swallow.
“Not what you think.” Trace pulls in a slow breath and releases it. “Look, Cole and I have gone through a range of emotions and expectations since he returned. In the beginning, jealousy drove most of our actions. Then came the rivalry. Suspicion. Bitterness. When you left, we reached a point of resoluteness.”
“Meaning?” I hold my breath.
“We understand the stakes,” Cole says. “I know he’s not going to give up and vice-versa. And we know the ultimate decision is completely out of our hands. We’re going to stay in his house, focus on you, and when arguments arise, we’ll talk through it. Together.”
It sounds wonderfully ideal. And unrealistic. How can I spend time with one while the other one is present? They haven’t mentioned sex, but it’s a complexity we can’t avoid. It’ll start with meaningful glances and subtle gestures of affection. Then it’ll build and invade until it refuses to be ignored. I tried the celibacy thing, the co-dating thing, the bed-hopping thing. I’ve resisted, surrendered, sneaked around, and run away. None of it worked. Because I’m right back where I started.
They’re proposing that we stay here together, under the same roof, until I make a decision. The difference this time is better communication. I can get behind that, but it doesn’t solve the problems we had before.
I suck at managing more than one relationship. It brings out the worst in me. I’ve never suffered from mental illness, but since Cole’s return, I wonder if I’ve developed bipolar disorder. Narcissism. Maybe sex addiction. I guess it could be worse. Severely distressing events can breed all sorts of nutjobs—psychopaths, serial murders, scientologists. Bottom line is I’m not good at bouncing between them.
“What’s putting that look on your face?” Trace captures me in a penetrating stare.
“All the reasons why your proposition won’t work.”
“Such as?”
Shifting toward him, I slide a hand down his chest while meeting Cole’s eyes. “What would you do if I kissed him right now?”
“Nothing.” Cole stands taller. “I won’t like it, but it’s better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“You choosing Florida, a new life, and eventually another man who will never bring you the happiness you deserve.”
I drop my hand and step around them, pacing toward the island in the kitchen. “Where’s my phone and my car?”
“The phone is on the kitchen counter,” Trace says. “Your car will be delivered tomorrow, along with the Maserati.” He hardens his tone. “It’s after ten o’clock. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
“My parents expect me—”
“In two days. You’re going to stay the night and think about everything we’ve told you. If you’re still set on leaving tomorrow, you’ll have your car.”
It’s a logical argument. But he’s always logical. And compelling. And impossibly gorgeous, studying me with those intelligent eyes.
This is a bad idea. The worst. Yet the next question is already falling out of my mouth. “Where would I sleep?”
“Follow me.” Cole turns and heads toward the slight gradient of stairs that leads to the bedrooms.
Trace extends an arm, gesturing for me to walk ahead of him. I assume they have a guest room made up for me, but when I join Cole at the end of the hall, the room he unlocks with a passcode is not what I expected.
A massive king-sized bed sits in the windowed corner. Given the unmade bedsheets and picture frames cluttering the furniture, this isn’t a guest room. I recognize the photos of me in the dance studio, Cole and me at my house, and Cole with my sister’s family. There are others, however, I’ve never seen before. Like the photos of me at the casino.
The camera angles suggest they were taken with the surveillance equipment, and I’m surprised by the high quality of the zoomed-in images. There are some of Trace and me dining together at Bissara, mingling at the casino bar, and holding hands in the lobby.
I didn’t know he was capturing and saving those images, but that’s not what makes my pulse speed up. It’s the sight of them intermixed with Cole’s pictures. I recognize other things, too—Cole’s sneakers on the floor by the bed, his watch on the side table, and the headboard that looks almost identical to the one he bought me years ago.
As Trace’s scowling shadow follows me around the room, I shift to look at him and Cole. “Whose bedroom is this?”
“It used to be mine.” Cole leans against a chest of drawers and straightens a picture frame.
Trace watches me intently. “Now it’s ours.”
My mouth opens and closes, forming words that have no sound. Breathe, dammit. I can’t tell them how insane they are if I’m hyperventilating.