Page 26 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
It’s a soft touch, but I mean it.
She doesn’t flinch or step away.
Instead, she turns toward me.
I look her straight on.
“You should stop pretending you’re not the most interesting part of this whole damn team.”
Her lashes lower and lift in a soft sweep.
I can see the gears turning, the part of her that wants to laugh it off, the part that wants to correct me, and the part—maybe the biggest—that doesn’t want to let go.
For a heartbeat, she just stands there.
Then she steps into my space, close enough for her shoulder to brush my chest.
She speaks so low I almost miss it. “You’re such a liar.”
I grin, let my fingers graze her back one more time, firmer this time. “Never lied to you.”
She holds my gaze, then shakes her head like she’s resetting a circuit.
“If you’re late to team breakfast, I’m taping your mouth shut,” she jokes, but there’s a crack in her armor.
“I’ll bring the tape,” I say.
She turns, walks down the hall to her room, never looking back.
I watch until her silhouette vanishes in the dark.
I stand there a minute, heart racing, then head to my own room, replaying the moment on a loop.
Tomorrow, everything will be different.
And I can’t wait.
5
SAGE
My toes are numb by midnight, and the fleece blanket I stole from the rec room might as well be a wet napkin. Theluxuryheating system at the lodge has been gasping for breath since dinner, and my single-window room collects cold like it’s auditioning for an Antarctic biopic. The storm outside has gone from scenic to vindictive, wind bullying the pine trees against the siding in a steady, arrhythmic thud that I’m pretty sure is designed to drive me insane.
I roll over and check my phone for the fifth time since two a.m.—no signal, just a spinning death spiral where the bars should be. Not that anyone’s texting at this hour, but it’s the principle that matters. My fingers are too stiff to type anyway. I could put on more layers. I could suck it up, wait for the morning, maybe even call maintenance if my tongue doesn’t freeze off first. Instead, I cocoon myself in every sweatshirt and towel I own, yank on the thickest socks in my suitcase, and fumble for the headlamp they gave us at check-in “in case of emergency.” I snap it on, and a weak white cone hits the ceiling. It’s the least flattering light on earth, but at least I won’t trip over my own feet in the hall.
The corridor is dead silent, except for the moan of wind around the eaves. The floors creak and protest, each footfall amplified like I’m in the third act of a horror movie. By the time I reach the main floor, the temperature has somehow dropped another five degrees. Every instinct says to double back and attempt the hypothermia sleep challenge, but I’m too wired, too hungry, and too pissed off to quit. My fingers are already itching for the kitchen’s Keurig or even better, the forbidden electric kettle I spotted behind the staff sink.
The kitchen itself is a cathedral of overkill, a ten-burner stovetop and a double fridge, but someone left the lights on low, so every surface throws a shadow twice its actual size. I almost miss Finn, sitting on the battered bar stool with his back to the room, staring into a chipped mug like he’s waiting for an oracle to speak from the dregs. He’s shirtless, which would be weird on anyone else, but with him it just reads ashockey player homeostasis. His broad shoulders are hunched, head bowed, and I catch the edge of a fading bruise under his clavicle. His hair’s a rumpled mess, the color of dryer lint left too long, but on him it works. Of course it does.
He doesn’t turn around, just grunts, “Could hear you coming all the way down the stairs.”
I ignore the greeting, head for the nearest cabinet, and rifle until I find a box of peppermint tea. “Aren’t you cold?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He finally looks up, and his eyes in this light are more wolf than man. “You get used to it. Cold is just a trick. You tell yourself it hurts, so it does.”
I fill the kettle, glancing at the sprawl of Finn’s arms on the countertop. They’re covered in fine blond hair and old tape residue, forearms corded and tan even in December. “You must be a riot at the team-building workshops,” I mutter.
He shrugs, a lopsided motion that suggests he’s been doing it since birth. “You here for a drink or just to steal the last blanket from the rec room?”
