Page 107 of Hired Help

He sweeps his arms under my knees and swings me up as he stands, spinning me in a circle while I shriek in surprise. When he sets me on my feet, I stumble to the side, letting Daegan catch me and hold me steady.

“Thank you for the ring. I suppose now is a good time to admit I’m not sure about getting married.” The idea lent me security, but I don’t need it any longer. I have security all around me. In just a few days, I’ve grown to trust my partners, revelling in our shared connection. The strength of our bonds is well above anything a marriage licence could give me.

Harrison tilts his head, scrunching up his face. “No?”

“Nah. I think we should all just be involved in flagrant debauchery instead.” I twiddle my fingers. “With beautiful accessories.”

Daegan links his hands over my abdomen while Harrison closes in for another kiss and I can’t imagine anything being as perfect. I close my eyes, reducing my senses so the ones still in action can be indulged to the fullest.

As Daegan lifts my hair to press a row of kisses along my neck, Harrison’s fingers blaze a trail of fire along my collarbone, his lips still soft but pressing against me with increasing dominance.

It feels like the beginning of something special and I rest one hand on Harrison’s chest, one atop Daegan’s hand, holding both close, my heart now complete.

EPILOGUE

HARRISON

The house isempty when I arrive home, undoing my tie the moment I’m through the door, my shirt off by the time I hit the bedroom, the stiff suit-trousers following a moment later.

Rather than go back to school, I’ve spent the last four months of the year interning in the sales office of a corporate real estate agency that Ollie’s dad runs.

The days are long, the money’s almost non-existent, but I still find a lot of satisfaction in the work, in building a rapport with clients and striving to meet their needs before they organise their own thoughts long enough to voice them.

Next year, I’ll work on my own commissions. The last internal review is Friday week, and I fully expect to pass with flying colours. My team leader already pulled me into his office to give me a glowing assessment.

It mightn’t be my ideal career—and god knows what that will turn out to be—but it’s satisfying and it feels incredible to build a skill-set that is of actual use rather than totting up scores that only matter within the confines of the schoolyard.

“Anyone home?” I call out, opening the back door dressed only in my boxers and staring across the lawn.

Summer has browned the grass, but the native plants dotted along the border of the fence are thriving. Close to the house, a patch of rosemary attracts dozens of early season bees, prepping them for the berry plants that will soon blossom.

Brooke lies on her stomach on a beach towel, the bright red and orange stripes a vibrant counterpoint to the dull grass and cracked clay. She’s slathered in sunscreen, wears an enormous hat to protect her face, and her genetics guarantee she might burn but never tan. Still, she loves to read on the back lawn, splayed beneath the unforgiving rays of the antipodean sun.

She rolls onto her back in greeting, raising a hand to shield her eyes where the hat doesn’t cover.

Without asking, she gets up and folds away the towel, clutching her kindle in one hand as she walks over to plant a kiss on my cheek. In the long months since we moved in together, I’ve grown closer to her than I thought possible.

Now, as she throws her arms around my neck, extending the kiss until my senses are drowning in her, it’s almost like we’re melding into one, becoming a better person together than we ever were apart.

“I should come home early, more often.” I rest my forehead against her, brushing strands of hair from her face only for the gentle breeze to blow them straight back to unkemptness. “What have you been up to today?”

“Reading. Pondering. I’ve been tracking some stock prices back a decade because I think I’ve spotted a pattern, but I need more data points before I can verify that for certain.”

“Mm. Crunching numbers. My one true hatred.”

“Liar,” she teases, poking me in the ribs. “Your hatred was English, followed by maths, general science, geography—”

“Enough of that,” I say, tickling her until she doubles over laughing. “If I want to hear a list of my faults, I can return one of Mum’s calls.”

“You should.” Brooke face straightens as she takes my hand and hauls me inside. “Because you know who she calls when she can’t get hold of you or Daegan? Give you three guesses.”

“You don’t have to answer, either.”

She rolls her eyes as though I’m spouting nonsense, then opens the fridge and glares accusingly at the contents. “These food box companies need to include a packet of motivation in their list of ingredients. How am I meant to put everything together without that?”

“Hire a staff member to do it for you.”

Brooke scrunches her nose, and my breath catches in my throat for a second. I remember how we were at the beginning of the year, tiptoeing around each other, scared to grab for what we wanted in case it sent the other sprinting headlong in another direction.

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