Page 8 of Four on the Floor: A Menage Romance

“I think Slate had it the worst of anyone,” Cash goes on. “It can be hard to make art and also listen to what everyone’s saying about you, you know? He really wanted the headspace and the chance to be alone for a while.”

I stop chewing for a moment, because the name Slate rings a bell. It’s a pretty unusual name, and I could swear that I just read something about someone named Slate recently.

“And the rest of us like playing in the snow, so when he suggested the winter artist’s residence at The Centennial, we said yes,” Dalton says, shrugging. “Escaping for a few months really isn’t so bad.”

I’m still racking my brain for that name, looking from Gavin to Dalton to Cash, suddenly wondering if I should know who they are.

Poppy starts to quiz them about what they’re working on, what sort of songs Slate might be writing, whether they think they’ll be playing any shows nearby once the weather warms up, that kind of thing.

Finally, there’s a brief lull in the conversation.

“What did you say your band name was?” I ask.

“We’re the Wreckers,” Cash says casually.

I start coughing and nearly choke on my sandwich. Poppy reaches over and pats me on the back while she asks another volley of questions, and the guys give me a concerned look, but keep answering.

Holyshit, no wonder I thought the name Slate sounded familiar. The Wreckers are absolutely huge right now, big enough that even I know who they are, and I don’t particularly follow music. My friends areobsessedwith them. Their songRun Me Raggedis on the radio constantly.

And they’re here. With me. For the winter.

I should make sure to get Maddy some autographs, I think.She’ll flip her shit.

ThankGodfor Poppy. I’m not usually big on people who talk almost constantly, like she does, but right now I’m glad for it. I still haven’t recovered from my harrowing drive up the mountain only to be suddenly face-to-face with a half-naked man andthenimmediately face to face with further hot men.

Who are very, very famous.

And who I’ll be all alone with.

For three months.

Did I mention that they’re very, very hot and I’m an awkward dork who just wanted to come paint? Now I’m worried that I’ll just be distracted by constantly thinking about the specimens of male perfection roaming the halls of The Centennial while I’m trying to concentrate on my art. Hell, they’ve already proven that any of them could be naked in a hot spring at any given time.

Besides, it’s… been a while since I’ve had a guy. Things didn’t end too well with my last boyfriend, I sort of dove headfirst into nonstop work and painting, and before I knew it, I’d worn out three vibrators and a dildo in the space of a year without even seeing anactualdick.

Did you know you can break a dildo by using it too much? Apparently you can! The silicone started to crack, so I threw it out. Ew.

But none of that matters, because I’m here to paint. I’m going to work on my art, improve my craft, produce like a madwoman, and definitely not waste my time even looking at these guys who are completely out of my league anyway.

Besides, if I were going to have a fling, I’d have to pick one of them.

And who the hell wants tochoose?

* * *

After lunch,I head back up to my room. I really need to unpack, but my first order of business is to change out of my travel leggings and tank top. I probably smell like anxiety and stale goldfish — my car snack of choice — and even though I’ve already met the three hottest men I’ve ever seen while smelling like a vending machine, I’d prefer to smell better from here on out.

I grab my bag of shower stuff and head for the bathroom, but the minute I open the door I remember something.

There’s a jacuzzi tub in here. It’s not heart-shaped or anything goofy, but itisa large, luxurious bathtub with soothing water jets and heated porcelain.

It’s not a hard sell. I’d intended to take a quick shower and get unpacking over with so I can start painting in earnest tomorrow, but what’s another half-hour? That drive was harrowing, and the boys here are also kind of harrowing, so I deserve to soak.

Ten minutes later I’m in heaven.

The water’s hot. I’m naked. It even smells good, because I found a bath bomb under the sink so I’m floating away on a cloud of lavender-scented relaxation, letting my thoughts wander where they please.

Well, almost anywhere. I am definitely not thinking of any of my retreat-mates, because I’m currently naked in a jacuzzi tub with the jets turned on and thinking of them would be wildly inappropriate.

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