Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sloane
There’s a particular kind of silence that follows something you absolutely shouldn’t have done… but would one hundred percent do again.
The fire’s nothing but a soft orange glow, and everything smells faintly of smoke and lemon, and Creed Hunter, Mr. Broody, and Built like a Sin, just pulled his shirt over his head as if it’s the most casual thing in the world.
Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to remember how to breathe and possibly how to flee the country.
“So,” I say, because my brain has clearly checked out, “that was… not on the dinner schedule.”
Finally, I managed to move. At least enough to grab my underwear, to try and get it back on.
Creed gives this low laugh and drags a hand through his hair. “No. But I’m not complaining.”
Of course he’s not. He looks like he walked out of a Calvin Klein ad. I probably look like an emotional tornado has attacked me.
I huff a laugh, tugging the sleeves of my sweater down as if it grants me dignity.
“I should, uh, check the oven,” I say, gesturing vaguely at it even though it’s been off for an hour.
He smirks. “Yeah. Go check on the icy cold food.”
I shoot him a glare that’s supposed to look deadly, but judging by his grin, it doesn’t land.
And that’s when the front door opens.
The sound is a horror movie sting.
Creed freezes. I freeze.
We both … stare at each other.
Then… voices.
“…told you the gas light would make it,” Roman says, loud and obnoxiously cheerful.
Of course it’s Roman. Of course.
Ezra follows, low and unimpressed. “You didn’t make it. You coasted downhill and prayed.”
They’re home.
I turn toward the kitchen island, because maybe if I stand here and pretend I’m doing something domestic, no one will notice the emotional catastrophe happening behind my eyes.
Roman stops in his tracks, scanning the room as a detective walking into a crime scene. His grin falters the second he takes in me, Creed, and the general air of guilt and heat.
“Oh,” Roman says slowly. “Well. This is fun.”
Ezra appears behind him, expression unreadable, but his jaw ticks. Just slightly. Which is, you know, only mildly terrifying.
“Hey,” I say, squeaky and all kinds of unconvincing. “You’re back!”
Roman’s eyes narrow. “Snow picked up.” He leans on the doorframe, gaze flicking between us. “Didn’t want to get stranded.”
“Good call,” I say too brightly. “Safety first.”
Creed clears his throat. “We were just, uh…”
“Cooking,” I blurt. “Dinner. Cooking dinner.”
Roman looks me dead in the eye. “With your hair like that and his shirt on backwards?”
I glance at Creed.
Yup. Backwards.
Of course it is.
He mutters something that might be a curse and turns away to fix it.
I want to melt into the floor. Evaporate. Move to Alaska.
Ezra finally speaks. “So, this is going to get even more complex than I already thought it was.”
My stomach flips. “What do you mean?”
Roman sighs, pushing a hand through his hair. “We talked, okay? Me and Ezra. About you.”
Oh, perfect. My worst-case scenario just showed up in stereo.
“About me?” I manage, as if I didn’t just die a little inside saying it.
Roman exhales, the kind of sigh that says this is about to get messy. “Yeah. About you. About what happened. And what’s been… happening.”
I blink. “Define ‘happening.’”
Ezra’s eyes cut to mine. “You know what he means.”
Okay. No. Nope. Absolutely not.
The kitchen is suddenly way too small, way too warm, and I’d rather dig a hole through the floor than stand here and unpack this.
“Let me get this straight,” I say, hands on my hips because pretending to be confident has always been my only survival strategy. “You two were out there, what? Talking about me? And now you won’t tell me what was said.”
Roman smirks, but it’s thin. “You make it sound worse than it was. We like you. Both of us, and it seems like we aren’t the only ones.”
All eyes fix on Creed. Shit.
Then they swing back around to me, and the spotlight hits hard.
I rub my temples, pacing a few steps to give my brain something to do other than explode. “Okay, so what… you all expect me to pick one of you now? Like, this is some twisted rock band version of The Bachelor?”
I don’t know why I’m making a sarcastic remark out of this. It isn’t funny at all.
Roman smirks. He can’t help it. “Well, if we’re auditioning, I think I’ve got the best charm rating.”
Ezra shoots him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “This isn’t a joke.”
Roman’s grin falters. “Didn’t say it was.”
The silence that follows feels like a drop into free fall. Everyone is too stubborn or too hurt to be the first to move.
And then I move.
Straight out of the kitchen.
“I’m done,” I mutter, half to them, half to myself. “I can’t do this right now.”
I hear Creed say my name, but I don’t stop. My pulse is a freight train as I bolt down the hall and shove my bedroom door closed behind me.
The second it clicks shut, I sag against it, heart hammering.
My reflection stares back from the mirror across the room. Hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes wild.
I look like someone who’s been kissed, cornered, and emotionally steamrolled, all before dinner.
Great job, Sloane. Really thriving out here.
I grab my phone off the nightstand and hit call before I can talk myself out of it.
Riley answers on the second ring, voice muffled with what sounds like chips in her mouth. “Oh my, I was just about to call you. Things did not work out with the Paris guy. But I’m about to head to Japan…”
“Japan, really?”
“Uh-huh, but what is up with you? I can hear it in your voice. Did you burn something in the rock stars’ kitchen?”
“Not burned,” I say, pacing. “More like imploded. Emotionally. Romantically. Possibly existentially.”
There’s a crunch on the other end. “Okay, go on. I’m intrigued.”
So, I tell her. Not everything, but enough. The kiss, the fight, the part where all three men apparently have feelings, and I’m the idiot standing in the middle of it like a deer caught in emotional headlights.
When I finish, there’s a pause. Then Riley says, “You realize this sounds like a dream scenario for ninety percent of romance novels, right?”
I groan. “It’s not a dream, it’s a disaster. I feel like I accidentally wandered into a fanfic written by someone who hates peace.”
She laughs, delighted. “You’re so dramatic. Look, Sloane, you’ve been through hell. Maybe this is the universe’s way of saying you get to have a little fun. Stop overthinking and date all of them.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You heard me. Date them. All. You’re single, they’re grown men, and it’s 2025. Nobody owns anyone. Test drive before you sign the lease.”
I let out a strangled laugh. “You make it sound like I’m picking a used car, not… human beings with egos and guitars.”
“Exactly. You’re not picking. You’re exploring.”
I flop back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. “Riley, that’s insane.”
“Is it? Didn’t you say Ivy has three men now? The tattooists?”
“Well, yeah, and Olivia too, with the firemen, but…”
“They make it work,” she says, going all smug. “They’re happy. They communicate. You always say you envy how open they are about their relationships.”
I groan into my pillow. “Yeah, because they seem balanced, not because I want a personal soap opera.”
“Well, congratulations, babe, you’ve got one. Might as well get good ratings.”
I roll onto my side, staring at the snow gathering outside the window. “I can’t do that. I don’t even know what I want. One of them? None of them? To go back in time and maybe not fool around with anyone?”
Riley hums thoughtfully. “That’s fair. But maybe it’s not about choosing. Maybe it’s about seeing who shows up when it matters.”
Her words sink in, quiet but sharp.
Who does show up? When things get messy, who reaches for me, and who steps back?
“I hate when you sound like a therapist,” I mutter.
She snorts. “You love it. Now go take a bath or something before your anxiety eats your face.”
I smile despite myself. “Thanks, Ry.”
“Anytime, chaos queen.”
When the call ends, the silence creeps back in. But it’s softer now.
Maybe Riley’s right. Perhaps it’s not about choosing, not yet.
Maybe it’s about seeing who’s willing to stay when I stop trying to make everyone comfortable.
Still, I can’t shake the thought that no matter what I do, someone’s going to get hurt.
And I have a sinking feeling that someone might be me.