Page 98 of Unstitch

She’s not the only one terrifyingly happy.

Max returns and insists on carrying Darcy into the bathroom like a bride over the threshold of her forever home. He’s lit a multitude of candles on the marble surfaces, and the enormous oval bath is full and fragrant with bubbly water. There are three pint glasses of water on the vanity with electrolyte tablets fizzing in them and a box of Nurofen. He sits her on the side and has me hold her while he climbs in. When he’s settled, I help her in, and she nestles between his legs.

She sucks in a breath through her teeth as her abused undercarriage hits the water. ‘Ow. It stings.’

‘Poor baby,’ he purrs. The way he raises his knees and wraps his arms around her to cage her in has my heart hurting and an odd, unwelcome burst of something between FOMO and jealousy flaring, sharp and bright, inside my abdomen.

He jerks his head at me. ‘Come on. Get in. Darcy and I want to enjoy the view. Don’t we, sweetheart?’

I roll my eyes to conceal the pleased pang his words give me and clamber in, sitting so I’m at the far end, facing them. As soon as I’m down, Darcy stretches out her long legs and slides one between mine so we’re alternating. Dark and hairy against slim and creamy.

The two of them, though. Fair and elegant and beautiful. I drink them in and wonder at this new me: the man who chooses his own pleasure, his own instincts, over everything he’s ever been told he should want, or strive for. Who chooses the company and comfort of not one, but two extraordinary lovers.

I lie back against the generous lip of the huge marble bath and enjoy the view of Max soaping Darcy up, her head lolling against his chest. I take one of her feet in my hands—the one tantalisingly close to my dick—and use my thumbs to massage the arch of her foot until she’s purring like a contented cat.

I smile at them, but I’m already grieving the bubble of wonderment we find ourselves in. Because bubbles are, by their very nature, beautiful, and fragile, and ephemeral as fuck.

And when their fleeting beauty bursts, they leave nothingness in their wake.

68

MAX

It turns out Dex is fucking useless in the kitchen.

‘I finished uni and moved to Manhattan, where no one cooks at home,’ he protests after I pry a massacred potato from his hand. ‘I don’t know what you expect. We can’t all be Gordon Ramsey.’

I mock-glare at him. ‘If you weren’t so pretty, I’d toss you out onto the street.’

‘I was doing fine. I’m peeling it, aren’t I?’

‘It’s the way you’re peeling it. It’s offensive. I thought this peeler was fucking foolproof—until you proved me wrong.’

‘You need to chill.’ He wrangles the potato out of my grip. ‘It’s just a potato. Fuck’s sake. No one’s saving lives here.’

Despite the fact that it’s the beginning of August and very warm, I’ve insisted on a full Sunday lunch. Dex mentioned yesterday that Sunday roasts were one of the things he missed most about living in the UK, and now that I understand how totally incompetent he is in the kitchen, I can see why. Clearly, the only roasts he has are the ones his doting mother cooks for him.

So no, I’m not chilling, because I want this lovely piece of sirloin with all the trimmings to be the best fucking Sunday roast he’s ever put in that lovely mouth of his. And I know for sure the company will be far better than if he had to suffer through lunch with that bigoted bloody father of his.

‘You turned down lunch with your family today,’ is all I say. ‘I want to make it worth your while.’

He puts the potato on the chopping board and sets down the peeler like he’s laying down his weapons. His arms go around my neck, his head goes to my shoulder, and I enfold him in a hug.

‘You could serve me up Pot Noodle,’ he says against my neck, ‘and it would still be worth my while.’

He is the sweetest, loveliest thing.

I hug him more tightly.

‘Wow,’ Darcy says from where she’s doing a thoroughly decent job of julienning carrots in a palest pink terry-towelling romper so skimpy it should be illegal, ‘that’s really sweet. Never try to feed me Pot Noodle.’

I smile fondly at her over Dex’s shoulder. ‘I know your preferred currencies, sweetheart. Food and sex. Luckily for all of us, I’m highly skilled at both.’

‘That you are,’ she says, saluting me with a carrot stick. ‘Dex, you need to know that cooking is Max’s love language. That and shagging us senseless, obviously. So be a babe and just let him peel the fucking potatoes the way he likes them. He’s making this entire meal because of you.’

I swear he stiffens a little in my arms at her casual use of the L-word before he kisses my cheek and releases me.

‘I know. You’re spoiling me. Just take the potatoes and give me something unskilled to do.’

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