Chapter 14 William
William
Iwake earlier than normal, after another restless night filled with dreams I refuse to think about. Dreams where Carina's hands are in my hair, where she whispers my name, where I don't pull back, don't want her to stop, don't—
I force myself out of bed, needing movement, needing coffee, needing anything to stop the endless loop of wanting what I can't have.
The sheets are twisted around me like restraints, damp with sweat despite the cool Alpine air.
How many nights has it been now? How many hours of staring at the ceiling, knowing she's just down the hall, probably warm and satisfied in Travis's or Knox’s bed?
The house is quiet as I make my way to the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the cold wooden floors. But I can already smell coffee brewing, hear the soft murmur of voices. Someone else is awake. Multiple someones.
I round the corner and freeze.
Carina and Travis are cooking breakfast together, moving around each other with the easy synchronization of longtime lovers.
She's wearing one of Travis's button-downs over her leggings, the pale blue fabric hanging loose on her smaller frame, the sleeves rolled up to reveal her delicate wrists.
Her hair is messy from sleep. Or from other activities.
The thought makes my jaw clench so hard my teeth ache.
"Pass the eggs?" she asks, and Travis hands them over without looking, his hand brushing her lower back as he moves past her to flip bacon. The touch is casual, familiar, intimate in a way that speaks of repeated mornings just like this.
They're laughing about something—an inside joke I'm not part of—and the domesticity of it all is too much to deal with. She's humming under her breath, that same tuneless melody she hums when she's content. When did I learn that about her? When did I start cataloguing her habits like precious data?
"No, you have to whisk them harder," she's saying, taking the bowl from Travis. "Like this. It incorporates air, makes them fluffier."
"I've been making eggs for twenty years," Travis protests, but he's smiling, watching her with such obvious affection it makes my stomach turn.
"And they've been okay for twenty years, but now they can be better," she teases back. "Now watch and learn."
This is what I could have if I wasn't so fucking broken. If I could just let go, just reach out and take what I want instead of standing in doorways like a ghost haunting my own life.
"Morning, Will!" Knox bounds into the kitchen, already dressed in paint-splattered jeans and a t-shirt that's seen better days.
He makes a beeline for Carina, kissing her cheek like it's the most natural thing in the world, his hand squeezing her waist with a casual type of possession. "Something smells amazing."
"Just scrambled eggs and bacon," Carina says, but she's smiling, leaning into Knox's touch like she belongs there. Like his hands have the right to touch her whenever they want.
"Just eggs and bacon, she says." Knox steals a piece of bacon, dodging when she swats at him with a spatula. "Like she doesn't make the best scrambled eggs in existence."
"Secret ingredient," Travis says, winking at her. "Which she still won't tell me."
"A chef needs some mysteries," she replies, and they all laugh.
The sound is like nails on a chalkboard to me. When did they develop this? When did my kitchen become their stage for domestic bliss?
I stand in the doorway, watching this scene that I'm not part of.
Can't be part of. They're a unit now—Carina at the center with Knox and Travis orbiting her like she's their sun.
And what am I? The black hole in the corner, sucking all the joy out of everything with my inability to just fucking relax, to just reach out and—
"Oh, remember that thing we talked about?" Knox says suddenly, waggling his eyebrows at Carina. "The special project?"
She blushes. Actually blushes. "Knox, not now."
"What special project?" Travis asks, looking between them with amused suspicion.
"Nothing," Carina says quickly, but Knox is grinning like the cat that ate the canary.
"She's going to model for me. Nude study. Very artistic, very tasteful—"
"Knox!" She smacks him lightly with the spatula. "I said I'd think about it."
"You said yes last night. Very enthusiastically, if I recall—"
"William!" Carina notices me finally, her smile faltering slightly. Something shutters in her eyes when she sees me. "I didn't hear you come in. Want coffee?"
"I can get it." My voice comes out sharper than intended, cutting through their playful banter like a blade.
"Don't be ridiculous." She's already pouring, using my black mug without having to ask which one. Because she knows. She pays attention. She sees me even when I'm trying to be invisible. "Breakfast will be ready in five."
I take the coffee, our fingers brushing. The contact burns, sends electricity shooting up my arm, and I jerk back like I've been shocked. Something flashes in her eyes—hurt? disappointment?—before she turns back to the stove.
"So what's everyone doing today?" Knox asks, settling at the island with the casual sprawl of someone who's never met a chair he couldn't lounge in. "I was thinking we could go to the Christmas market in the village. Carina hasn't seen it yet."
"That sounds fun," Travis agrees. "We could get lunch at that place with the fondue fountain."
"And I could get some new brushes from the art supply store," Knox adds.
They're making plans. Together. The three of them, like I don't exist.
"We have supplier calls," I interrupt, the words coming out before I can stop them. "Nine AM sharp. Carina, I'll need those comparison reports we discussed."
Travis looks up from the bacon, his brow furrowing. "The Milan calls? Those aren't until three."
Fuck. He's right, but I can't back down now. My pride won't let me. "They were rescheduled."
"It's the week of Christmas," Travis says slowly, in that careful tone he uses when he thinks I'm being unreasonable. "In Italy. No one's working."
"The Germans, then. The Berlin suppliers." I'm grasping, we both know it, but I need something, anything to break up this cozy little scene. To insert myself into their perfect morning somehow.
"Will." Travis's voice is patient but firm, the voice of someone who's been managing my moods for fifteen years. "There are no calls this morning. I have access to the same calendar you do."
Heat floods my face. I've been caught in an obvious lie, and everyone knows it. The silence stretches, uncomfortable and damning. Knox sets down his coffee with a deliberate clink.
"What's your problem lately?" he asks directly, none of his usual diplomatic cushioning. "You've been a complete ass for days. More than usual, I mean."
"I don't have a problem. I'm trying to run a company while the rest of you play house."
"Play house?" Carina turns from the stove, spatula still in hand. Something dangerous flashes in her green eyes. "Is that what you think we're doing?"
"What would you call it?" I gesture at the domestic scene, the bitter words pouring out before I can stop them. "We're here for business, not... this."
"Not what?" Knox stands, crossing his arms. His usual easy-going demeanor is gone, replaced by something harder. "Not being happy? Not acting like humans instead of corporate robots?"
"Someone has to maintain a sense of professionalism."
"Professionalism?" Travis laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Will, we're not at the office. We're at home. Making breakfast. Like normal people do."
"We're not normal people," I snap. "We have responsibilities. The company doesn't run itself just because you've all decided to play polyamorous house party."
The words hang in the air like a slap. Carina flinches. Knox's hands clench into fists. Travis just looks tired.
"This isn't about business and you fucking know it," Travis says quietly, his diplomatic mask finally slipping fully. "This is about you being jealous and not knowing how to handle it."
"I'm not—"
"You are," Knox interrupts. "You're jealous that Carina wants us. That she smiles at us. That she's happy with us. That we can touch her and you can't because you're too much of a coward to—"
"Knox," Carina warns, but he's on a roll now.
"No, someone needs to say it. He stands there every morning watching us, wanting you so badly he can barely function, but he won't do anything about it because that would mean admitting he's human."
"That's ridiculous." But my voice sounds weak even to my own ears.
"Is it?" Carina sets down the spatula carefully, too carefully. When she turns to face me fully, I see the hurt I've caused. "Then why are you trying to magically come up with some sort of work? Why are you lying about meetings? Why have you been sabotaging every moment of peace we find?"
"I'm not lying, I'm—"
"Will, you can't micro-manage every moment of our day." Her voice is quiet but firm, and somehow that's worse than if she were yelling. "You can't schedule away feelings or spreadsheet your way out of wanting someone."
The words hit like she is physically slapping me. Control. Schedule. Want. She sees right through me, past all my defenses. When did she learn to read me so well? When did I become so transparent?
"I'm not controlling anything," I say desperately. "I'm trying to run a company that you all seem to have forgotten exists."
"You're trying to run our lives," Knox shoots back. "There's a difference. A big fucking difference."
"Someone has to! You're too busy painting and fucking to notice the business is—"
"The business is fine," Travis interrupts, his voice sharp now. "Better than fine. Revenue is up twelve percent this quarter. The European expansion is ahead of schedule. So stop using Eden Provisions as an excuse for your inability to process emotions like an adult."
"I know the numbers!"