Page 67 of Four on the Floor: A Menage Romance

“Larkin, I’m sorry,” he says, his lips against my hair. “That’s not at all what’s happened.”

I swallow hard, trying to force my breathing to normal.

“You’re anything but a bit of fun,” he goes on, his tones soothing. “I don’t— I can’t—"

Here he takes a deep breath as well, holds me even closer. I’m almost afraid to breathe, not knowing what the next words out of his mouth are going to be.

“I’ve fallen for you, Lark. We all have. I never meant for you to think anything different.”

I try to move, to look up at him, but he just squeezes me even tighter against his chest.

“Please don’t leave,” he says. “Don’t even say goodbye.”

“Even if this wasn’t just a fling there’s no way it can work,” I say, the words just tumbling out of my mouth. “It’s too weird, one girl and four guys, it’s totally unconventional, plus you live across the country and then you’re going on tour and—”

He kisses me, shutting me up instantly. I hesitate for a moment and then kiss him back, tentative at first and then harder, needier.

“Apologies,” he says when he pulls away. “I needed that.”

“Me too,” I murmur, my heart still hammering in my chest. “I just—”

“If you’ll give me a few minutes, I think I’ve got an answer for you,” he says, standing. “We were going to do this later, but it seems now’s as good a time as any.”

Gavin offers me his hand. I take it, and he pulls me up, leads me out of the lobby and toward their rehearsal space. I can still hear the bass and drums playing the same groove over and over, and when he opens the door, it suddenly gets quite a lot louder.

Then the music stops, and now Cash, Dalton, and Slate are all looking at me, surprise and concern written across their faces.

“New plan, mates,” Gavin says, guiding me in with one steady hand on my back. “I think we ought to ask her now.”

Dalton slings the bass guitar off his shoulder and puts it down on a stand.

“But what about the cake I baked?” he asks, half-smiling.

“That cake looks terrible,” Cash says, both drumsticks in one hand. “It’s better this way.”

“Tastes fine,” Dalton mutters.

Slate shoots the two of them an annoyed look, crossing the room toward me. He takes my face in his hands, Gavin’s arm still around my waist, and lowers his forehead to mine.

“We were going to wait,” he says, a slight smile creeping onto his serious face. “We had a whole to-do planned out.”

I close my eyes, steady my breathing, and try to smile back.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t mean to ruin anything, I just—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Slate says, pulling back and taking both my hands.

My heart nearly stops.

He’s not— he can’t be—

“Larkin, will you be our artist in residence?” he says, his blue eyes serious and deep as the ocean.

My heart feels like a bird taking flight, and I smile from ear to ear, even though I don’t have any idea what he’s talking about.

“We’d need to hammer out the details,” he says. “And we don’t exactly know what the logistics of it would be, quite, but you’d come live with us in New York — or we could move to California, doesn’t matter — and paint, and maybe make some art for us but also work on whatever you wanted to work on? And then when we go on tour you could come as well.”

“We’d get you your own bus,” Dalton adds.

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