Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Roman
There’s nothing quite like being back in a house that looks like a magazine spread and feels museum-esque.
Cold floors. Perfect lighting. No fingerprints allowed.
Thanksgiving at the West estate, where gratitude comes in the form of stock options and champagne flutes.
I shouldn’t complain. There are worse places to spend a holiday than a ten-million-dollar townhouse in the city. But the second I step through the glass doors, I’m already counting down the hours until I can leave.
I’m standing in the foyer of my parents’ house, staring at an ice sculpture shaped as a turkey. An ice turkey.
Which, combined with the Christmas décor, is just too much for me.
Everything is adorned in rich red, gold, and silver. A towering, perfectly symmetrical tree stands in the corner of the grand hallway, its branches dotted with platinum ornaments, shimmering snowflakes, and lights that blink in perfect rhythm.
The garlands lining the banister are so thick with gold thread that they might as well be solid gold, with red ribbons tying them off in impossibly perfect bows. There’s a warmth to it, sure, but it’s so carefully curated that it feels detached, like it’s all for show.
“Roman,” my mother says, appearing as some perfectly moisturized apparition. “You look… casual.”
Translation: You look like you’ve joined a biker gang.
I glance down at my jeans and Henley. “What can I say? I left my tux in the woods.”
Her lips twitch—not a smile, more her face just remembering what muscles are. “Jeena said you’re… still in the mountains with your band again? Somewhere… rustic?”
“Coyote Glen,” I say. “We’ve got trees, cows, and a coffee shop with a woman named Dottie who judges me for ordering lattes.”
She blinks as if I’ve spoken a foreign language. “Ah. How quaint.”
Before she can start asking if I have electricity, Jeena swoops in, the only sane person in the building.
“He means it’s authentic, Aunt Evelyn.” She kisses my cheek and lowers her voice. “You look like hell. It suits you.”
“Love you too, Cuz.”
Jeena smirks. “Your dad’s bragging about his new protegee again. Apparently, he really knows finance.”
Perfect. My favorite kind of dinner. One where everyone pretends to be proud while secretly wondering when I’ll stop embarrassing the family name.
We walk into the dining room. It looks exactly how I remember it: long table, ten crystal glasses per person, and the faint smell of wealth and disapproval.
Dad’s at the head, of course. Perfect posture, perfect smile, perfectly uninterested in anything that doesn’t come with a profit margin.
“Roman,” he says, as if my name’s a quarterly report he has to review. “I haven’t heard any new music from that band of yours. Are you still… hiding away?”
He can’t mask the disdain in his voice.
“Yeah,” I say, sitting down and reaching for a glass of wine. “Little creative reset. Out in the mountains.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding as if I just said rehab. “And that’s going… well?”
“It’s going.”
He chuckles. “Good. You know, your mother and I were saying, if things don’t work out with the little music project, you will always have a place in the business.”
Oh good. Finance. Really me.
Because nothing screams “fulfilled rock musician” like quarterly forecasts and a lifetime of pretending not to want to scream into the void.
Damn it, I wish I were back at the retreat. With the guys, having a creative Thanksgiving instead of this hell. I’d even prefer to be close to Sloane, even though none of us has any idea what she’s thinking right now.
I swirl my wine, mainly to keep from saying something that’ll end up quoted at the next family brunch.
“I appreciate the offer, Dad,” I say, tone light, as if this conversation isn’t making my skin crawl. “But I think I’ll stick with the ‘little music project.’”
A distant cousin across the table, one of the interchangeable finance bros my dad loves to parade in front of me, leans forward with a too-white smile. “So, what’s that like, Roman? You guys … jam all day? Sounds chill.”
“Yeah,” I say, flashing a grin. “We just sit in a circle and manifest money.”
He doesn’t get it. Of course he doesn’t.
They start talking about IPOs again, and I tune them out, let the sound fade into the background as static. My mind drifts, and before I can stop it, it goes exactly where I don’t want it to.
Sloane.
I can still see her face when she walked into my room that morning. All fire and sarcasm, pretending she wasn’t completely thrown by me being naked. That sharp tongue, the way she crosses her arms when she’s trying not to feel something.
And before that, ten years ago, when I first met her. Back when I was all ego and adrenaline, running through the world as if it owed me something. She’d been this spark in the dark, someone who didn’t fawn, didn’t flatter, didn’t play games. Just saw me.
And I wasn’t ready for that.
Didn’t know what to do with something real.
So, I did what I always did. Burned too bright, too fast, and walked away before it could matter.
Now?
Now it matters.
I take another drink, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the crystal glass because it’s safer than admitting anything out loud.
Because it’s not just her, it’s the whole damn thing. Ezra, Creed, Sloane, the retreat. The late nights and early mornings, the arguments that turn into laughter, the music that actually means something again.
It’s different.
We’re different.
And yeah, I’ve had my share of flings. Groupies, quick hookups, that blur of wildness that comes with being on the road. Same for the guys.
None of it ever meant anything. We didn’t let it. That was the rule: no attachments, no consequences, no messy emotions.
But lately, I can’t stop thinking maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe the thing that kept us numb all these years wasn’t fame or exhaustion or burnout. Maybe it was that we were too damn scared to want something real.
The thought sticks in my chest, heavy and uninvited.
Jeena elbows me.
“You’re a million miles away,” she murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
“Just thinking,” I say.
“Dangerous,” she teases, but her eyes are kind. “You look… different, you know. Softer. Happier.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you mean tired.”
She smirks. “No. I mean, like you finally stopped running.”
I let out a short laugh, but it’s not really funny. “Maybe I just found something worth staying for.”
“‘Something,’ huh?” she says, clearly fishing.
“Someone,” I admit before I can stop myself.
Her eyes light up. “Oh my. Roman West actually likes someone?”
“Calm down,” I mutter, but I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.
“Who is she?”
I could lie. But what’s the point? Jeena’s the only person in this family who ever gave a damn about me.
“Her name’s Sloane.”
Jeena grins as if she’s just uncovered state secrets. “Sloane. The chef?”
I smirk, but it fades quickly. “She’s… complicated.”
“Sounds like your type.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Creed, Ezra, and I are not really the “one woman, one man” type. It’s sometimes been a shared thing, a “no strings” situation.
I know that’s worked with “no strings,” but could it work with feelings involved? Could we actually make this work as a relationship? Coyote Glen is full of relationships like that. It’s a great, open-minded place.
Could we at least try?
I get back to the house after dinner, still feeling the fake sweetness of my parents’ false compliments and not-so-subtle digs, lingering like cheap cologne.
The usual Thanksgiving charade. But my mind’s not on their bullshit, it’s on her.
Sloane.
And on what’s been running around in my head all day.
I wander into the living room, and there they are. Ezra strumming his bass because he’s got nowhere better to be, Creed tapping away on the snare, with some major thoughts brewing. They’re wrapped up in their own world, music flowing through the room, which honestly is a vibe.
Exactly where I need to be.
But I’m not feeling the soundtrack right now. I need to talk.
I walk into the room, clearing my throat a little too loudly, making sure they notice me.
“Alright, enough of the jam session,” I say, about to drop some big news.
Ezra doesn’t even pause. “Ah, Roman, what’s the matter? You look like you’ve just emerged from a tempest. Did your mother finally crush your spirit under her perfection?”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the grin. “You have no idea. But actually, I need to ask you guys something. Serious question.”
Creed gives me a look, as if he’s expecting some ridiculous Roman idea to follow. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
I sit down, trying to look casual, as if I’m not about to dive into the weirdest conversation ever. “So… it’s about Sloane.”
Ezra’s fingers freeze on the guitar strings. “Uhh, yeah. It’s still a little strange, isn’t it?”
Creed looks up, clearly intrigued now. “You got some ideas?”
I let out a breath. “Well, I’ve been thinking…
what if we proposed something a little unique?
Something that means she doesn’t have to choose.
Such as what Ivy and the guys have? Or the firemen and Olivia?
” I offer them both a one-shouldered shrug.
“I know it’s something we’ve had fun with before, but never taken it seriously… ”
Ezra looks at me as if I’m speaking a different language, but he’s curious enough to give me his full attention. Creed raises an eyebrow, clearly waiting for me to finish the thought.
“So, what exactly are you suggesting here?” Ezra asks, leaning forward slightly, his guitar forgotten for a moment. “Like… do you mean all of us together? Like… a thing? A relationship thing?”
I throw my hands up in a don’t shoot the messenger kind of way.
“Yeah, maybe? I’m not saying it has to be some huge thing right now, but we’ve all got a thing with her, and she’s cool.
We all know that. And, I don’t know, maybe it’s time we talk about it.
See if it’s something she’d want to explore with us. It doesn’t have to be weird, but—”
Creed cuts me off, grinning. “Wait a second. So, you want us to be like… the world’s most laid-back love quartet?”
I throw a pillow at him. “Don’t make it sound weird, man. I mean… if she’s into it, maybe we could give it a shot? All three of us, seeing if it clicks. If she’s game, then why not?”
Ezra leans back, tapping a finger to his lip, seriously thinking it over.
“You know,” he says, carefully picking his words, “it’s not the worst idea, really.
I mean, sure, it’s far from conventional, but who’s to say what normal even is these days, right?
But… we need to make sure she’s on board first. We need to ask her, in case she doesn’t want any of us.
If she doesn’t, well, then that’s the end of it. Simple as that.”
Creed chuckles and leans forward, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Yeah, no offense, but I think we need a little more than ‘let’s see where this goes’ from her first.”
I laugh, relieved that they’re not freaking out, but yeah, they’re right. “Right. I’m not saying we jump in. But it’s been on my mind, and I think we need to ask her at least what she thinks. It’s not like we’re tying ourselves into some serious commitment. We’re just—”
“Curious,” Creed finishes for me, dripping with sarcasm.
“Exactly,” I say, holding up a finger, relieved that he gets it. “Just curious. But let’s wait until the moment is right before we bring it up. No pressure, right?”
No pressure.
If only I weren’t dying under the pressure…