Page 21 of Our Elliana

“Mind telling us who this elder is?”

“He’s one of the leaders of my church. My former church back in Utah.”

“Utah?” Jackson scoffs. “You one of those Mormons with a bunch of wives, kid?”

Noah purses his lips and clenches his jaw a few times before replying. “I used to be a Mormon, but not that kind. And we—they—don’t use that term anymore. It’s now called the Church of Jesus Christ of Ladder-Day Saints.”

What a mouthful. Noah sounds almost surly at this particular topic of discussion. I didn’t have a clue that he came from such a zealous and restrictive upbringing, but it certainly makes sense. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him curse beyond “shoot,” but considering how cloistered and ultra-religious those people are, it’s no wonder Noah was a virgin.

Still, it’s time for me to make good on my promise.

“Ask me one, Noah. Whatever you’d like.” His gaze alters from the ferocity he showcased while describing this possibly nefarious elder to something more reverential, but that’s not what this is about. “Don’t hold back, either. Just go for it.”

“Is there anyone you’d like to talk to, if you had the opportunity?”

The kid couldn’t know it, but he’d accidentally landed right on a sore spot. But merciless candor is what this is all about.

“Two people, actually. My parents. My mom passed fifteen years ago when I was a teenager, and my dad five years ago. I’d give anything to see and speak to them again. To hug them.” My throat tightens, so it’s time to move along. “Tristan, what would you say is your overall view on life? And why?”

The chef’s face slackens and his lips cinch into a flat relentless line.

“You can’t depend on anyone but yourself, so don’t try,” he snarls out quietly, but that snarl isn’t directed at anyone in the room. He’s bitter about something. Something that apparently had a huge impact on him. Tristan is older than me by a decade, and I’m guessing that his life must not have been one of leisure. I let several long heartbeats whisk by before I repeat my last query.

“And why?”

He’s staring at some undesignated location next to his utensils.

“It’s something I learned at a young age. Don’t look to those in charge of your care to give you what they gave their other kids. Not when you’re the last one, and not when they’re already finished raising their family.” He blinks over at me as if coming out of a reverie. “Don’t look for help or a leg up in life because there aren’t going to be any.”

None of us say a word to this, not even Jackson, the one who’s typically much more of a blabbermouth. None of us take a sip from our coffee mugs. None of us move to take a bite even though Jackson’s holding an empty fork in his palm. It strikes me how heavy this game of mine—one I planned to be lighthearted, sexy, or even silly—has become.

“Your turn,” I remind Tristan, causing a divot to appear in his forehead. “For you to ask me one.”

The chef scrubs a hand down his face, and as his features reemerge, he’s back to wearing his usual vague scowl. “What’s the craziest thing you would do on a vacation?”

“Good one,” Jackson remarks, laying his fork down and rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Is it skinny-dipping? Please say it’s skinny-dipping.”

Naturally, he would ask that, and I snort before I can stop myself. Noah ducks behind his hand as he releases a tiny huff of laughter, and even Tristan’s scowl is less scowl-like.

“I’d say the craziest thing I’d do on vacation is what I’m doing now with you three. Scope out three men to have some wild times with.”

It’s true. But I don’t mention how difficult doing such a thing really is. Finding three men willing to hook up with me all at the same time? Three men I could have some form of insurance on that would make it safe enough for me to go through with? Three men who loved me, and who I loved?

Yeah, that last one’s a no-go. That’s why I’m settling for what I have here.

I turn to Jackson who’s openly smirking at me as he eyes me up and down, no doubt picturing me naked. Whatever. It’s not like he hasn’t had a bird’s eye view of the actual goods. And it’s not like I haven’t had the same of his. So, I eye him right back as I let my question fly.

“In a single sentence, describe your idea of happiness.”

His smirk grows brighter. “That’s easy. Standing at the front of a stage with Zelda and leading my own band to a sold-out stadium.”

“Who’s Zelda?” I ask him.

“She’s my guitar.”

Tristan scoffs. “You named your guitar?”

“Most musicians name their instruments, especially guitars. Don’t chefs name their spatulas and shit?”

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