Page 31 of Eternally Devoted

“Fuck no,” I snap back, panic rattling my throat. “I mean, that’s incriminating. Unless you burn the entire notebook immediately after, it’s too risky. And if you burned it, there’d be no point.”

She puts the notebook back and smiles sweetly at me. “Noted—no notebook.” She lifts the foil back from the pie. “One slice or two?”

This is the weirdest night of my life.

But I’m also hard as a rock, and my blood has never pumped so fast. I’ve never felt so alive. I feel like I’m closer than ever to having something tangible with Sterling and Juniper. And that’s not something I ever believed I’d have access to. I never even thought I’d get to shoot my shot.

Now I’m not so sure.

But it comes at a cost. Or so it feels. “One for me,” I say, knowing Juni is right. When I worked in Riverside, I saw someshit while on duty. Having a little something in your stomach when approaching details of death is a good idea.

“You?” she asks Sterling, who is leaned back just slightly, arms folded over his pecs. He was watching Juniper, and that’s another thing I’ve come to love. Watching Sterling watch Juniper.

“Two, sweetheart.”

God, he has to stop saying that. We move from the couch to the barstools, sipping the hot cup of tea Juni poured. She settles in, sliding us each plates of pie.

“Please tell me you won’t hate me,” Juni whispers as she readies herself to come clean, pushing her hair off her face before dunking her tea bag forcefully.

“Impossible,” Sterl reassures.

“I love you too much to hate you,” I admit, because that’s the truth, no matter how aware of it she truly is or ever becomes.

“Okay,” she says, tears stinging her eyes. “Number one.”

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

YOU’RE NOT A BAD GIRL.

Juniper

“Justin Blockland. We met on Hinge, if you could believe it. I mean, I know I don’t seem like the Hinge type, and well, I’m not. It was the first and last time I used it. I mean—obviously,” I say, the words rushing out of me nervously, clinging together into anamorphous blob of thoughts. Sterling reaches out, canopying his hand over mine, using his thumb to calmly stroke my fingers.

“Probably feels weird saying his name, and talking about all this. I get that. It’s okay to need a minute to take a breath,” he says, his comforting words coiling me in warmth.

“You always know just what to say,” I murmur, exploring every fleck of color and insight in his eyes.

“You really do,” Dash adds quietly, almost hesitantly from his spot next to me.

Sterling winks, his face unmoving but for his eye. I love how subtly sexy he is without even realizing it. And I know that there’s probably a special place in Hell for the people who murder and manage to get turned on while coming clean, but the Devil has never met Sterling Ford.

“SoHinge,” Sterling starts.

I look between the two of them, ready to listen to things that can put us away forever. Their feet are planted firmly on the ground. Their eyes are on me.

They’re here to stay.

“I brought a jar of jam, as a first date gift. We went to this dumpling place in Oakcreek. After we ordered, I gave him the jam and he asked me if I really made it, or if I bought it and put my label on it since,” I pause, breaking out my finger quotes to send home the sentiment. Because Justin Blockland absolutely said this, verbatim. “Women these days are better at pretending than actually doing.”

Dash’s breath hisses through his teeth as Sterling rolls his eyes. “He wasn’t joking,” I add, not defensively but more so, in the way the world has trained me to always explain. The world wants answers from women, lots of them, no matter what asinine thing a man says or does to her. We must give logical reasons in the face of illogical trash. Always.

“I’m sure he wasn’t,” Dash adds quickly, reminding me there’s no scrutiny here. Not in these four walls, and not with these two men.

“I told him I indeed made the jam. And he told me that he once dated a woman who lied about being a bartender to look more attractive to him, and that he hoped I wasn’t doing the same thing. Then he joked he was going to take me home and put me over the stove, or chain me to it, and force me to make jam, to see if I was honest or not.”

“That’s… fucking weird,” Sterling says, causing a deep-seated giggle to break free from my chest.

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