Page 56 of Filthy Rich Daddies
Oops.
But we giggle our way through it, and try something new. I end up on top of Dean, facing outward. The angle is different, challenging. It hits all new spots inside. Tic stands on the bed, one hand on the ceiling, the other on the back of my head as Itake him into my mouth. He’s all I can see, a ripple of muscles that lead to his handsome face.
We explore each other, not like conquest but mapmaking. When climax hits again it’s layered. Mine first, then Tic losing himself in my lips. Dean follows, and Colin comes last with a soft groan hushed against my shoulder after he took me on my hands and knees. None of it rushed, all of it savored.
After, they arrange themselves as living pillows. I lie atop Dean’s chest, Tic strokes my hair, and Colin’s legs tangle mine. Breath synchronizes.
The ceiling has tiny recessed star lights. Someone dims them to the night sky. I whisper into the dark. “Twins.” As if speaking makes it real again.
Tic replies, voice velvet, “A miracle times two.”
Fear tinges. “Two miracles that need money, stability, and probably therapy.”
Dean’s heart thumps under my ear. “Whatever path, we’re resources on tap.”
I bite my lip. “I still haven’t decided.” The admission hurts, but honesty is required.
Fingers tilt my chin. Colin’s gaze is earnest. “That decision doesn’t change how we feel. Doesn’t change this.” His hand slides to connect with my belly. “We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”
For the first time, the future forks feel less like cliffs, more like branching rivers. Some are rapids, some are calm, but boats and paddles are ready. We can do this.
My stomach growls, and Dean kisses my forehead. “Food?”
“Focaccia smells and sounds amazing, if that’s still available.”
Colin chuckles. “Better be. I requested it for you.”
They dress and exit to orchestrate a feast, leaving me in a giant bed smelling of sex, lavender linen, and hope. I clutch the ultrasound print from my hoodie pocket and hold it to the soft star ceiling. The two bean shapes blur as my tears slip out.
Whatever comes next, I’m not alone.
I let my eyes close, ultrasound resting on my chest. Outside the window, maple leaves flutter crimson. The world spins, irrespective of the huge choice I have to make.
But not today. Today is heartbeat day, twin surprise day, ginger-tea day, second-chance day. And that’s enough.
22
ATTICUS
The jet banksnorth and slips past the old Spanish fort that guards San?Juan harbor. Stone ramparts look soot-gray in the lowering light, and the sea glitters like hammered tin around them. I watch the coastline unfold—a belt of hotels, billboards, and pastel suburbs—right up until the wheels kiss the runway. Then the cabin jolts and the engines reverse, and the panorama shrinks to concrete and hangars.
Inside the terminal, tropical air rolls through the open doors and slides under my collar. It smells like jet exhaust, asphalt, and something sweet I can’t name—maybe gardenias, maybe overripe fruit stacked somewhere behind the customs hall. My linen shirt sticks to my spine in under a minute. Atlanta humidity prepares a man for a lot, but not for Caribbean humidity that carries the same weight as a wet towel.
A car service picks me up. A silver SUV, air-conditioning already blasting away the unseasonable February heat wave. The driver, a trim man in his fifties, has his hands at ten and two, eyes forward, no small talk. I’m grateful. I’ve rehearsed what I will sayto James and Cynthia Howard at least a dozen times, and every rehearsal ends with me staring at the windshield, speechless.
I’m not a tourist here. I’m a spy.
The ride east shows me suburbs that look half-familiar—chain stores, bus benches—but then the road cuts inland and the world turns wild. Hills rise green and sudden, like damp velvet throw pillows tossed on a hardwood floor. Storm clouds crouch over the ridgeline. Each time the sun slides under them, the light changes color—copper for half a mile, then raw pewter, then blinding gold.
I keep thinking,This is the light she grew up under. The colors, the vibrancy. How could she leave it behind for Atlanta?
Not that I don’t love my city. I do. But this is another world. Breathtaking, in all the right ways.
But I did my overdue research. I should have looked into it sooner. A hurricane wiped out the tiny, Puerto Rico–adjacent island she lived on. I don’t imagine it’s easy to get past that.
The Howards maintain a bare-bones field office in a rented cottage near Fajardo. The cottage sits back from a two-lane road at the edge of a mangrove inlet. Its siding, once white, is now the color of stale cream. A single porch light burns even though dusk is still an hour away.
I step from the SUV and crunch across the white shell gravel. The air smells of mud, salt, and mosquito coils. Something buzzes in the underbrush—cicadas, maybe, or frogs. When I lift my hand to knock, the door opens first.
