Page 11 of Filthy Rich Daddies
We loop through more lightning questions. Go-to karaoke song? Me, “Shake It Off.” Theirs are a trio of songs I don’t know. Best thing they’ve ever eaten? Tic, oysters in Tokyo. Colin, churros in Madrid. Dean, his grandmother’s gumbo. Childhood pet? Tic had a Great Dane, Colin had a stray cat, and Dean had a rescue golden retriever. I hesitate to say mine. “Not really a pet, I guess, but I found a seagull with a broken foot that I nursed back to health.”
“That counts,” Tic says confidently.
But I shrug. “As soon as it could fly again, it brought the whole flock for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Eventually, my parents made me stop feeding them because we didn’t want them to depend on us instead of hunting for themselves.” I’d be over it one day. Just not now. “It makes sense, scientifically, but I was seven, so I didn’t get it back then.”
“Your parents always try to do the right thing, scientifically?” Colin asks, his pretty green eyes peering into me.
I force a smile. “If you don’t mind, I’d really rather not talk about my parents for now. Not when I’m here to…do what I’m here to do.”
“Fair enough,” Dean says. I appreciate him not pushing the matter. His lips don’t smile as easily as Colin’s, but his eyes do. In fact, he has the same bone structure too. Just different hair. And then it hits me.
“Are you two twins?”
Colin chuckles and passes Dean a twenty. “You were right. She’s more observant than I expected.”
Dean tucks it away. “We are. We’ve done things to differentiate ourselves, but the resemblance remains.”
After round one of banter, Dean clears his throat. Boss mode. “Full disclosure—we flagged our profiles kink-positive, but I didn’t see that on yours. How do you feel about exploring that this weekend?”
My cheeks go hot, but I refuse to shrivel. “Honest answer? Curious but clueless.”
Colin’s eyes get sparkly. “Explaining is our love language.”
“Safeword?” Tic asks.
The most random thing that comes to mind: “Giraffe.”
Dean nods like he’s engraving it into marble. “Green means keep going, yellow slow down, red full stop, giraffe nuclear stop. Agreed?”
“Sure.”
Something in my chest unknots. Question time for me. “Not to look a gift horse in the zeros, but why did you triple my rate? I’m the one who lowballed.”
Tic leans back, studying me. “Because first experiences matter. We value them—and you—appropriately.”
Colin adds, softer, “And your profile is cute and that counts for a lot in our book.”
I look down, pretend the straw needs adjusting, and fight a ridiculous grin. My phone buzzes in my lap, Arabella checking in. I text back to let her know it’s all good.
She replies with fifteen knife emojis. Fair.
We leave the bar not long after that. My heart is a hummingbird, but I want this. I want them. When else am I going to get the chance to do something this wild?
The door opens into the presidential suite, and I almost black out. There’s a spiral staircase, a grand piano, and a view of midtown I’ve only seen in drone shots. It doesn’t feel real. “This place is insane.”
Dean’s mouth twitches. “Best kind of insane.”
My anxiety boomerangs back for a second. What if they’re fancy axe murderers? But the vibe in the room is chill, not predatory. Plus, I have Arabella in the parking lot doing her FBI routine.
Speaking of which, I need to check in.
“Bathroom?” I ask.
Colin points. “Through the library.” Of course there’s a library.
The bathroom is marble-on-marble with a TV in the mirror and towels fluffier than marshmallows. I call Arabella. “Hey. No red flags yet, but I swear this suite is bigger than campus.”
“Please remember, rich men can totally afford a murder charge.”
