Page 63 of Repluse

“You’re not a friend or family.” He pauses with the bottle still in his hand.

“What am I?”

“More. Exactly what kind of more, we need to sit down this weekend and work out.”

“We? The three of us?” My cheeks burn, and I don’t know why. We’re a threesome, a thruple, whatever the fuck you want to call us. There are three of us involved, but talking about it has me blushing. Thankfully, the overhead lighting is off, and the under-cabinet lighting on, so hopefully, Frankie doesn’t notice.

“Yeah, but I’m not discussing it now. We’ll wait till Sam’s here, none of us have had a drink, and then we’ll talk. That reminds me, what was he on about earlier when he mentioned you serving Logan with divorce papers next week?”

I let out a loud huff, and I swear my eye twitches. “You know what, I don’t want to talk about it. When we discuss us, we’ll discuss him, because right now, I don’t want him ruining my perfect day and the beautiful buzz I have going on.”

“Fair enough. You wanna go get dressed? Sammie will be back soon.”

I empty my glass and slide it forward for a top up. He raises his brows as he looks from me to my empty glass. “Oh, come on. I’ll be sober by the time I get to your precious club. I won’t breach any of your rules, I promise.”

He tops me up, and I step off the stool, hoping I don’t look as drunk as I feel as I head for my bedroom. When I reach the entry to the hallway, I turn back and look at him.

“Thanks for today. No one has ever done anything like that for me. You made me feel really special.”

Holding his glass in front of his handsome face, he stares at me for a long moment. “You are special, Mila. You just need to realise that.”

I don’t have a response, so, while holding back more tears—this time, the happy kind—I head up the hallway, up the stairs, and to my room.

CHAPTER 18

Frankie.

I told her I loved her earlier, and she’s not mentioned it all day. Did she hear me? Is she deliberately ignoring that I said it? I have no fucking clue, but the feeling is obviously not reciprocated because she hasn’t said it back.

Not that I expected her to.

I mean, it’s been a week. Who says that after a week?

This dickhead, apparently. Or was it cockhead she called me? That should’ve given me a clue as to where her feelings are at.

It would’ve been nice to hear someone say it and mean it, but I didn’t expect it.

Did I?

Fuck me. This isn’t who I am. Except right now, it is. I hate feeling so out of control. No, that’s not right. Ihatewhen things are out ofmycontrol, but also, yeah, Iamapparently out of control if I’m saying stupid shit like ‘I love you’. I need to get a grip.

I head up to my room to get ready, and when I pass Mila’s, Rihanna’s “Only Girl” is playing. It sounds tinny coming straightfrom her phone, reminding me that I should show her how to hook up to the Bluetooth.

Not wanting to come across as a creeper and knock on her door when I know she’s getting ready, I find the song on my playlist, connect my phone, and blast it on repeat.

I don’t want to ruin this one-on-one time I’ve had with her. If we’re going to explore this, what the three of us have, it needs to be about more than just sex, which for me, and I think for Sam, it already is. She’s swept us both off our feet but, unfortunately, Mila’s the only one not grasping that.

ThePretty Womancomment really pissed me off earlier. Not just because that’s totally not what today was about, but because I fucking hate that that’s how she sees herself.

By the time I’ve overthought everything I’ve said to her today at least forty-eight times, I’m dressed and back downstairs. Sam’s arrived and is pouring himself a bourbon in the kitchen when I enter.

“We doing the right thing taking her there?” is what he greets me with.

“She’s a big girl, Sam. She’ll be fine. She’s been asking me questions for the past hour. I’ve given her an idea of what to expect. We can just watch from the viewing platform first. We won’t take her down to the floor. We’ll see how she handles that and go from there.”

“Fuck me dead,” is not the response I’m expecting, but when I realise he’s looking over my shoulder and not at me, I turn.

“Fuck,” I say on a sigh. Yes, a fucking sigh, because fuckme.

---