Page 46 of Our Elliana

He opens his mouth only to close it again. “Uh, yeah...”

“I mean, this is my house, after all.” My tone comes out as supremely bitchy even though I don’t mean it to. Worse, I’m snapping at him despite the many glorious things the guys did for me during my party, a party Tristan apparently did the bulk of organizing.

Jesus fuck.

“It absolutely is your house,” he confirms as he takes a pace back, and I despise the carefulness of his voice. It’s like he’s being... deferential. “I didn’t intend to overstep.”

For the first time in weeks and weeks, I’m reminded of the reality of our situation. I’ve hired these men for specific purposes, and even though they’ve come to feel more like boyfriends than employees or contractors, dumping on them when I’m stressed out isn’t okay.

“Listen, I’m just upset, but that went over the line.”

“There’s nothing inaccurate in what you said,” Tristan says, coming up behind me and looping his arms over my chest. Not in a tweak my nipples way, either. But as a maneuver meant to soothe and pacify. “You have every right to do whatever you need to. In the meantime, we’ll do our best to take care of you.”

My eyes are hot, and I don’t want him to see. So, I pat his elbows, causing him to release me. I scramble over to my bowl and surreptitiously wipe at the tears that escape.

“Elliana,” Tristan whispers in my ear, and I nearly fall apart.

To keep from doing that, I ask him, “Slice some apples for me?”

He brushes his lips to my temple, then pulls out a chopping board and paring knife. He also turns on the oven to what I’m sure is the correct preheating temperature. We work in mutual silence, and the operation goes fast. I wonder if he’ll take over, but he doesn’t. Rather, he allows me to layer everything together and slip it into the oven.

I set the timer and proceed to clean up after myself—can’t leave his pristine kitchen a mess, after all—using some muscle so that I can feel the burn. I need to feel it, to feel like I’m doing something to expend all this anxiety and excess energy.

Yet once the timer dings, the entire lower floor smelling homey, I slide that homemade confection out and don’t even want to taste it. Setting it on a trivet that was once my mother’s, I twist to go be by myself but halt mid-turn.

“Thank you,” I tell Tristan, pushing up on my tiptoes and kissing the scruff on his cheek.

Even as I leave to be by myself, my mind attempts to process why someone would vandalize my business.

One I’ve spent so much of my blood, sweat, and tears on.

When Three Socks nuzzles my ankles, I switch to feeding her, knowing that’s a chore that unlike my baking, actually does need to be completed. Once she’s chowing down with her little peep purrs accompanying each bite, I depart for my bedroom.

Discarding everything I wore to the scene of the crime, I enter my bathroom and indulge in a long hot shower. I do this alone, not in the mood for sex or scrutiny. But as if par for the course, once in bed, I toss and turn.

For a fucking hour.

Frustrated and unsettled, I climb off my mattress. Normally if suffering a bout of insomnia—which is not the norm for me—I go design something. While everything essential is at my shop, I have a program on my laptop that enables me to make stuff virtually.

But the problem with that is thoughts of jewelry making remind me forcefully of the break-in, and I can’t with that right now.

I amble aimlessly until I glance up and realize my feet have led me to Jackson’s room. His door is shut, but I can hear him quietly strumming his guitar. I knock, and despite him not knowing who’s out here, he bids me come in, not missing a beat of his song.

When I enter, I find Jackson sitting up against the plain, slab of wood headboard I chose to put in here, one that doesn’t match his personality in the least.

How sad.

“Will you come to my room?” I inquire of him.

I would’ve predicted seeing his signature smirk coming my way, but that’s not what he grants me. Rather he sends this penetrating stare that seems to size me up, his pick going still on his guitar strings. Hastening to rise with Zelda in tow, he obeys without a single remark, draping his free arm over my shoulders and kissing the top of my head chastely.

But I don’t aim straight back to the master bedroom. Instead, I drop by both Tristan’s and Noah’s and collect them as well.

“I need each of you,” I inform them, but then qualify things before taking another step forward. “Not for fucking. I just need you around me.”

Maybe then, cocooned with them, I can catch some shuteye.

I know they’ll comply even if there’s some grumbling, but there’s no grumbling or even hesitation in the end. They simply take on the task of figuring out the logistics of four grown adults fitting on one bed.

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