Page 87 of The All-Inclusive

Logan locates his shorts and pulls them on. “I’m up for anything.”

Of course he is. And I’m the repressed asshole who buries his feelings inside him. It’s another good reason I could never make Sara happy. Not as a husband or partner. Finding my shirt on the floor, I yank it on over my head. “I thought we agreed,” I say, cursing when I realize I’ve got it on backwards. “We weren’t going to talk about this right now.”

“You said a few days at the start of this,” Sara fires back. “It’s been more than a week, Trent. Isa fewlikea fuckton—an imprecise unit of measure you can bend however you want to?”

Logan’s mouth quirks. “Is that more or less than a shit-ton?”

She shoots him a startled look, but we’re getting off track here. “I’m not ready, okay? It’s one thing to do this stuff here, but in the real world?—”

“Jesus.” Logan shakes his head. “What is this fucking real world you live in?”

“Not one that suits me anymore.” Sara crosses her arms. “This whole Jilted Brides experience has opened my eyes to what I want. What Ireallywant—not what my parents raised me to think wasnormalandrightandgood.”

The words hit like darts to my forehead. I flinch as she says them, gritting my teeth through the strikes.

“And what is it you want now, Sara?” I pray she won’t say it out loud. I’m so fucking scared of the answer. Afraid of these feelings boiling up from my chest to my throat. “You think the three of us could just—what? Set up house together? Have kids and a dog and a church that we go to each Sunday?”

“Works for me.” Logan pulls on his shirt. The bastard gets it right the first time, while I’m pretty sure mine’s still backwards. “Never been to church, but I’m willing to give it a go.”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I fight back the feeling of helplessness. Of my life spinning out of control. I want this so badly—this dream they’re describing—but there’s no fucking way that could happen.

“What would your parents say, Sara?” I’m pleading with her to see reason.

Or maybe that’s not what I’m pleading for.

Deep down, I’m desperate for one of these fools to say what I’m hoping to hear.

We’ll make it work, Trent.

Together, we’ll figure it out.

But that’s not what she says. “I thought we could take it slowly at first.” She nibbles her lip, glancing at Logan like he might have the answers. “Like, maybe you and I get married after all. We have a small wedding and gradually introduce our new roommate to the family. Then after a while?—”

“Wait.” Logan cocks his head. “I’m the roommate in this scenario?”

Sara bites her lip so hard I’m afraid she’ll hurt herself. “I—I guess I hadn’t thought it through. To be honest, I don’t know what our options are.”

Gritting my teeth, I order myself not to yell. “I’ll tell you what they are.” Like I’m some kind of expert here. I’m so far out of my depth I can’t touch the sand with my toes. “Our options are losing each other or losing our families and community. Our parents who raised us and spent all their money keeping a roof over our head.” I sound like my dad, and I hate that so much I want to punch through the window.

Or punch my own face, which feels like the best move right now.

Logan sits down on the edge of the bed. “Look, we don’t need to figure this out right away.” He’s slouched with his hand on Sara’s bare thigh, and it takes all my strength not to drop to my knees and get lost in her soft heat. In the pleasure of Logan’s toned body.

But that’s not an option. Not now, maybe not ever.

The affable dumbass keeps talking. “It’ll all be okay,” Logan insists. “We’re still figuring this out for ourselves. We don’t need to have answers for our families just yet.”

“Easy for you to say,” I fire back. “You work at a sex resort. I’m a fucking Navy SEAL. Can you even imagine me going to work and telling my teammates, ‘Sorry I can’t grab beers tonight. Gotta get home to my boyfriend and wife.”

“Yes,” Sara snaps back. “I can.”

So can I, that’s the thing. I can picture it clearly in my head.

Then I picture my dad, crowding my mom back against the kitchen wall. He’s snarling and spitting, enraged that she let me try out for church choir in fourth grade.

“You want him to be a fucking fairy?” Grabbing her arm, my old man shook her so hard her teeth clacked. “Is that what you want, Becks? You want your son to grow up getting his porthole stuffed by some goddamn ass bandit?”

The shame I felt then is nothing compared to the shame I feel now.

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