Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
PENELOPE
Red and blue light flickers over the walls, sirens whining from the TV while Buckley and Díaz sprint across another disaster. The couch’s got my shape carved into it after a day of grading and pretending I’m a functioning adult. I’m half-watching, half-melting.
I watch them trade lines and sideways glances. Too handsome. Too easy. The kind of men who ruin you by accident. I slide lower into the couch, eyes half closed, and let the picture shift—Buckley’s hands steady at my waist, Díaz’s breath hot against my neck, the world blurring at the edges.
The buzz on the coffee table snaps me out of my daydream. Gideon’s name glows on the screen, and I’m already smiling when I pick up.
“Hi.” I smile even though he can’t see me.
“Hey, trouble,” he says. “Let me guess, you’re watching that firefighter show again.”
I stretch out, one leg sliding off the couch. “It’s called therapy, and how did you know?”
“Is that what we’re calling it now? I can hear the voice of Captain Nash in the background.”
“Watching men in turnout gear save the world is cheaper than actual therapy.”
His laugh slides through the phone, warm enough to crawl under my skin and stay there. “You’d fake a house fire if it meant Buckley would carry you out.”
“Don’t tempt me.” I giggle.
There’s movement on his end—the muted thud of steps, the quiet slide of a chair. Even when he isn’t talking, the sound of him carries that careful kind of control that fills a room.
Then his tone shifts. “How’s the situation with your student?”
My stomach tightens. “Which one?”
“The one pushing his luck.”
The ceiling fan hums above me. “He’s still testing boundaries. Not backing off yet.”
“Penelope.”
Just my name. He doesn’t need to say anything else.
“I know,” I tell him. “But it’s manageable. He’s all talk, that’s it. If he opens his mouth about me, he opens it about himself, and he’s got a lot more to lose. I’m keeping it close to the chest.”
“That sounds like gambling.”
“It’s strategy. He’s bluffing.” I pause, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “I swear, Gid, if it gets worse, I’ll call.”
He exhales, a slow drag of air that fills the quiet. “I hate when you say that like it’s a comfort.”
“It should be. You know I mean it.”
“I’d rather you didn’t wait until it’s too late.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I know you’re not.” The words are softer now, like he’s reminding himself.
Silence settles between us, steady and familiar, until I hear him shift, a soft exhale—then his voice drops back in, dry and amused. “Fine. New topic before I get in my car and commit an academic felony.”
I laugh. “You’d hate campus parking.”
“Probably.”
The edge in his voice softens, and I hear the quiet clink of ice, the sound of him settling back—probably smiling, shirt sleeves pushed up, drink in hand.
“So,” he says, dragging out the word, “when do I get to meet the other man?”
I sit up, caught between a snort and a blush. “You’re already scheduling introductions?”
“Just trying to keep things civilized. If we’re doing this, I want it to work. And that means knowing who’s sharing your bed.”
“You make it sound like a merger.”
“Think of it as networking.”
I laugh, pressing the phone to my ear. “He’s more calculating than you, more instinct than gruff.”
“Then we might get along better than you think.”
“He’ll want to meet you too,” I admit. “He’s curious.”
“Next week?”
“Maybe. Dinner somewhere public.”
“I can behave in public.”
“Define behave.”
He chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. “Long enough for dessert.”
I bite my lip, grinning at the ceiling. “This could be dangerous.”
“I like dangerous.”
“I noticed.”
“You sure about this?” he asks.
“Yes.” The answer slips out without hesitation. “It’s time.”
“Good. I want to look him in the eye. I want to see the man who gets to make you laugh when I’m not around.”
“Confident, aren’t you?”
“Always.”
He’s smiling; I can hear it. I roll onto my stomach, chin propped on my hand. “You know, you’re making me sound like some kind of prize.”
“You are. I just like knowing who I’m competing with.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Completely.”
I laugh again, the sound softer now. “Imagine the teasing though. You two in the same room.”
“I’m imagining.”
“The looks. The comments. The possibilities.”
“Keep talking like that and I’ll book a hotel instead of dinner.”
I groan, burying my face in the pillow. “You’re evil.”
“You like me that way.”
The TV fades to credits, soft light pulsing against my skin. When I close my eyes, I feel them instead of seeing them—Silas rough and grounding, Gideon sharp and deliberate, both waiting to see which one I’ll reach for first.
“Next week then,” Gideon says. “I’ll make a reservation and tell you the time and place.”
“Perfect.”
“Get some sleep, sweetheart.”
“I’ll try.”
The line clicks, and I stare at the screen as the episode banner idles—dim, blue-tinted, waiting for me to pick something else. Not quite blank, not quite bright. Just enough to catch a ghost of my reflection.
The idea of them together sparks something wicked. The teasing. The heat. No more being edged for hours; I could use one to drive the other crazy. The laugh that escapes me sounds dangerous even to my own ears.
I shut off the TV, and the silence presses in, broken only by the sound of the fan and the soft patter of rain against the window.
I wash my face, brush my teeth, then leave the bathroom light on low, and climb into bed.
The sheets smell faintly of wine and body spray and something warm that reminds me of Silas.
The pillow still holds the indentation from the last time he stayed.
I trail my fingers over it before pulling the blanket higher.
Sleep doesn’t come quickly. My brain keeps replaying Talon’s face from earlier, that smirk that tried too hard to look harmless.
He’s a problem I don’t have the energy to solve tonight.
I tell myself he’s bluffing, that he wouldn’t risk his own secret just to drag me down.
But the image of his grin lingers, carved under my eyelids like a warning.
When I finally drift off, the dream feels too real—hands that don’t belong to one man, voices overlapping until I can’t tell them apart.
Morning light filters through the blinds. The rain hasn’t stopped, only softened to a steady tap. I make coffee in silence; the smell chasing away the last fragments of the dream.
The phone buzzes again on the counter, this time a number that makes my stomach sink. I swipe to answer.
“Penelope,” Abi says. Her tone has a bite, the kind that doesn’t invite small talk.
I grip the mug tighter. “Good morning to you too.”
“We need to talk,” she says. “Your father and I expect you at the country club tomorrow. Brunch. Ten o’clock.”