Page 28 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys
But I always do. “I’m not disappointed,” I say, voice rough. “I just wish people would do what they say for once.”
He nods, like he already knows. “My father used to say expectations are a sickness. The only cure is to expect nothing.”
That pulls a laugh from me. “Your father sounds like a real motivator.”
“He wasn’t.” His eyes darken, but he doesn’t elaborate. “But he wasn’t wrong.”
We sit in the echo of that for a while, neither of us in a rush to change the subject. The tea in my mug is almost cold, but the heat in the room has crept up.
I watch Finn’s hands, fingers steepled around the mug. They’re bigger than mine, rough and solid, veins visible beneath the skin. The kind of hands that leave marks—on the ice, on your body, in your memory.
“You ever play chess with the rookies?” I ask, desperate for a safer topic.
He shakes his head. “No point. They just want to win, not to learn. I prefer an equal match.”
I lift my chin, letting him see the dare. “You think you could beat me?”
He considers it. “Yes. But you’d make it interesting.”
The way he says it, I know he’s not talking about chess anymore.
I could lean in, could close the distance, but I don’t. The anticipation is almost better than the act.
Finn’s eyes flick to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You should get some sleep,” he says, but it’s more wish than advice.
“Not tired,” I whisper.
He nods, like he expected that answer. “Me neither.”
We sit, the only two people awake in a world that’s frozen solid. He pours the last of the cider, slides the mug to me, and this time our fingers linger.
“Thanks,” I say, and mean it.
“Anytime,” he answers, and I know he means that too.
The next interruption is inevitable. The kitchen door thumps open, letting in a scythe of hallway light and a swirl of frigid air. Beau walks in like he’s headlining, bare feet slapping tile, sweatpants hitched so low on his hips I briefly forget how language works. He sees us—me and Finn, hunched close over the mug—and gives a wicked grin.
“Are you two running a speakeasy?” he asks, eyeing the stove. “Or is this the world’s saddest after-party?”
Finn leans back, spine straightening. The brief warmth between us evaporates, replaced with something more cautious, defensive. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes avoid mine now. I feel it too, a flush of disappointment, then the rush of adrenaline that always comes with Kingston in the room.
I slide off the barstool, holding the tea mug like a shield. “If you wanted a nightcap, you should’ve come sooner. Finn’s got the last of the cider.”
Beau ignores that and goes straight for the fridge, rummaging until he finds a carton of orange juice. He drinks from the spout, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and looks at us with theatrical innocence. “Generator’s toast,” he says. “Ryland’s threatening to sleep in the equipment closet until sunrise. We’re supposed to keep the water running or the pipes freeze and kill us all. Who’s got the over/under on survival odds?”
Finn just shrugs, but I can see his lips fighting a smile.
Beau puts the juice back, then leans against the counter, arms folded, and gives me a once-over. “You always look this cute at four a.m., Moretti? Or is it just the socks?”
I glance down. My socks are mismatched, one purple stripe and one Storm blue. They look ridiculous, but I’m not too bothered. “You have a thing for socks, Kingston?”
“Only when someone wears them better than I do.” He’s pure swagger, but the edges are soft tonight—maybe the dark, maybe the hour, maybe the way Finn still holds himself between me and the world like it’s instinct.
Before I can fire back, there’s a new sound in the hall, heavy steps, no rush, just a steady advance. Grey McTavish appears in the doorway, filling the frame. He’s in a T-shirt and flannel pants, both too tight for decency, and his hair is damp, plastered to his forehead like he walked through the storm instead of just sleeping through it. He doesn’t speak. Just surveys the room, scans each of us in turn, and takes up position by the coffee maker.
He starts it, not looking at anyone, but his presence bends the room’s gravity. For a few seconds, nobody talks. The machine coughs to life, the only noise in a kitchen suddenly too small for four people with this much history and heat.
Beau breaks the silence first. “McTavish, you ever actually sleep?”
