Chapter Eighteen
Juliet
Things couldn’t be more perfect. Everything is exactly as it should be.
Orion hasn’t spent a single night at his place since that first dinner. His clothes are in my closet. His boots by the door. His scent woven into my sheets. Mine.
Tammy is spiraling. Showing up at the gym, blowing up his phone. Orion doesn’t tell me because he thinks I don’t know. Because he doesn’t want me to worry.
Sweet man.
But I see everything.
And what I see? He never answers.
When he does, it’s short. Sharp. Final.
Leave me alone, Tammy.
We’re done, Tammy.
Fuck. Off.
It makes me swoon.
But the best part? The part that warms me right down to my bones? The way Noah and Orion have bonded.
Noah goes to the gym now. Orion shows up at open mic night. They laugh together, talk together, watch movies with me curled between them.
The first time Orion called Noah bro, I thought my heart would actually burst.
And our nights?
Perfect.
Some nights, I have one of them in my bed. Some nights, I have both. And when it’s all three of us? It’s magic.
I twirl my fork through my pasta, savoring this perfect little lunch date, the three of us in our own world.
Then Noah smirks. “So, Juliet,” he teases, nudging my knee under the table. “Now that you don’t have to stalk Orion, what are you gonna do with all your free time?”
Orion pauses mid-bite. Then his brow arches, slow and sharp. “You did what?”
Noah laughs. “Oh, come on. I told you. She was in love with you before she even knew your name.”
Orion looks too damn pleased with himself.
Noah leans in, grinning. “She even kept a little notebook.”
I take a slow, thoughtful bite of pasta. Chew. Swallow.
Then I say, casually to Noah, “I had two notebooks on you, actually.”
Orion chokes on his drink. “Holy shit,” he coughs, then laughs hard.
Noah looks delighted. “Wait. You stalked me too?”
I give him my softest, sweetest smile. “Of course. I loved you before we ever met.”
Noah’s grin melts. His eyes soften.
He knows I mean it.
I adore them. Both of them. Completely.
The next day, I go to art class.
One, because I paid for it.
Two, because Orion walks me there, and that’s sweet as hell.
And three, because I’m actually pretty damn good at it. Turns out obsession breeds talent.
We walk close, side by side. We don’t hold hands, because Orion is working. Because it’d be inappropriate.
But that doesn’t stop him from looking at me like he could eat me whole.
“I need to go to the admin building,” I say, checking my watch. There’s time. “I want to sign up for next semester.”
Orion glances down, amusement flickering in his deep brown eyes. “You don’t gotta stalk me anymore, sweetheart. I belong to you.”
I laugh.
He makes a low, satisfied sound in his throat. “I love that sound.”
God, so do I. Especially when it’s him making me laugh.
“I like art,” I say, tilting my head. “You said I make pretty paintings.”
His gaze softens. “Whatever makes you happy.”
And then he stops at the door, holds it open for me. Just like he always does.
Because Orion takes care of me.
Because he’s mine.
“You make it to class okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I wink at him, and then I watch him walk away.
That ass still mesmerizes me.
Inside the admin building, I find the same disinterested woman I met when I first registered.
Except now she’s interested.
Because of him .
I stop in my tracks.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He’s leaning against the counter, casual, effortless, but there is nothing casual about him.
His suit is dark, expensive, tailored to his broad, strong frame. Sharp but not stuffy. Just… refined. Elegant. Controlled.
God, his hair.
Dark and thick, touched with silver at the temples. The kind of hair a woman could fist in her hands while he…
Jesus Christ.
And then… his eyes.
Steel gray. Sharp as a blade.
He doesn’t just see things. He studies them.
He’s older. Not in a way that makes him feel distant, no. In a way that makes him dangerous.
Like he knows things. Like he’s seen things. Like he’s touched women in ways I can’t even begin to imagine.
And fuck, I want to know.
I don’t even realize how long I’m staring.
I could be standing here forever.
But he doesn’t notice me.
That’s new.
That’s unacceptable.
I force my gaze away, at the drab little office worker he’s talking to.
I take a step forward. Clear my throat.
“I need to register for next semester,” I say, keeping my voice light, sweet, careful. I don’t even know what he likes yet.
And that’s not good.
He moves, shifting his weight slightly and then he reaches out and pats her hand.
I hate that.
I hate that she gets his attention.
Is she his?
She’s so dull. Her clothes are thoughtless. Bland, uninspired. Office wear.
A man like him deserves better.
A man like him deserves me.
And then, just as I’m stewing in my own jealousy, he looks at me.
And oh.
Oh.
My breath catches.
His gaze meets mine, holds it, lingers like he’s assessing.
Like he’s seeing right through me.
Like he knows exactly what I am.
Then he smirks.
Just a little. Just enough.
And my stomach?
Fucking plummets.
Oh, god.
I’m in trouble.
I can’t help myself.
I don’t even try.
As soon as he leaves, I pounce.
I turn to the dreary woman, the one still watching the door like she thinks he’s coming back for her.
Pathetic.
“Who was that?” I ask.
It’s the least smooth I’ve ever been about collecting data. But fuck subtlety.
What am I supposed to do? Just run after him? Throw myself into his arms? Shove him against the nearest desk and climb him like a tree?
God, I should have.
Because what if I never see him again?
My chest tightens at the thought.
I will.
I will.
The woman sighs. Actually sighs.
“Mr. Sterling,” she says.
Her voice holds a dreamy quality, like she’s just been dicked down by the very mention of his name.
Oh.
Oh, I don’t like that.
Bitch is thinking about my Mr. Sterling in ways she has no business thinking about him.
I fight the urge to slam her head into the desk.
Instead, I smile. Pleasant. Friendly. Normal.
“What does he teach?” I ask.
She blinks at me, like she’s just realizing she has a job and isn’t on a fucking date with him.
“He’s the student counselor.”
I tilt my head. “You mean like an advisor for classes?”
Why is she so thick? Just tell me what the man does.
Tell me everything.
“No, dear,” she says like I’m a fucking idiot. “He’s a therapist. Sometimes students have issues, personal issues, and Elliot is amazing to talk to.”
Her voice softens on his name.
Elliot.
She’s got it bad. On a first name basis. That could be an issue.
Like Tammy.
She needs to learn her place.
But a therapist?
Huh. I guess I need some fucking therapy, then.
I’ll get his office hours off the website.
I nod, barely listening as she drones on about some online portal where I can add new classes.
Who cares?
I’m already plotting.
I can’t even think as I leave, moving on autopilot toward class.
Elliot.
It sounds so dignified.
Mr. Sterling.
Oh, I like that even better.
Shit. Maybe he likes being called sir.
That could be… fun.
My very own sir.
I swallow hard.
How am I supposed to get through class now?
I should be following him home.
I need a new notebook.
Elliot.
I let the name roll around in my head, savoring it, tasting it, imagining it whispered against his skin.
I need to know something before I turn up in his office, don’t I?
Yes.
Definitely.
As much as I want to throw myself onto his couch and let him ruin me, I have standards.
He might snore.
Or chew with his mouth open.
Or… God forbid… wear one of those ugly woven belts.
I need to do my research.
Step one, get his address.
Step two, find out if he’s worthy.
And then?
Then the work begins.
Maybe Orion knows him.
He works here. Surely he’s seen him.
By the end of class, I swear I’m giddy with excitement.
Whoever said love at first sight was bullshit was full of shit.
Three times now.
And I just know he’s feeling it too.
The night is as magical as ever with Noah and Orion.
They are perfect. So mine.
But I don’t mention Elliot.
Not yet.
Not because I’m hiding anything, because I don’t lie to my men. Never.
But because men are so sensitive about these things. Their tender egos don’t need to know every single time someone catches my eye.
It’s a kindness.
To let them settle before introducing someone new.
And besides…
I don’t even know if Elliot is a keeper.
Yet.
Soon.
Because I need more.
More details.
More insight.
More of him.
So, before work, I adjust my routine.
I drive to campus and park somewhere with a good view of the faculty lot.
And then I wait.
Sure enough, he arrives before classes start.
Punctual. Disciplined.
He carries a briefcase. A coffee cup.
Not one of those stupid cups with silly writing on them.
No “Don’t Talk to Me Before Caffeine.”
No “Best Dad Ever.”
No “World’s Okayest Therapist.”
Just a solid, deep, woodsy green.
I make a note.
That could be his favorite color.
You can tell a lot from a man’s coffee cup.
Because he didn’t choose it by accident.
He reached for it without thinking.
Which means it’s a habit.
I wonder what kind of coffee he likes.
Noah could make him the perfect, life-changing cup.
Oh.
That would be adorable.
But I don’t have time to linger.
So I scribble down his plate number and head to work.
At work, I run his background.
No criminal record.
That’s not a given.
You’d be shocked at how many seemingly normal people have a past.
Hidden little sins.
Embezzlement. DUIs. Assault. Even the occasional murder charge.
But Elliot?
Spotless.
His address history tells me he’s new in town.
Less than a year here.
He came from a big city.
Which means he’s either feeling like a fish out of water… or he’s lonely.
I can work with that.
And then?
Oh.
Divorced.
Poor thing.
That’s probably why he moved.
I bet she was a proper nightmare.
And since his old address is halfway across the country, little Mrs. No Longer Sterling won’t be an issue.
Perfect.
Now I know where he lives.
A nice apartment.
Gated.
Not easy to get into.
But not impossible.
I tap my nails against my desk.
I don’t have anything pressing to do tonight.
Which means…
It’s time to start studying.
As soon as I’m off work, I pull out my phone and text Noah and Orion.
Because even when I’m busy, I take care of my men.
My loves. My perfect boys.
Me: There’s dinner in the fridge. Eat, relax. I love you both.
Orion texts back first.
Orion: I’ll heat it up for Noah. Love you, sweetheart.
Noah: Love you, baby. Don’t work too late.
Oh.
They’re so good.
So mine.
And they don’t even realize how much more I’m about to give them.
Because soon?
They’ll have a new best friend.
And I?
I’ll have a sir.
I follow Elliot Sterling as soon as he leaves work.
He doesn’t rush.
There’s something calm about the way he moves. Unbothered. Certain. Effortless.
A man who commands rooms without even trying.
I don’t let myself daydream too much.
Not yet. Not before I know if he’s worth it.
Some men are beautiful disasters.
They look perfect from a distance, then you get too close and they ruin it.
Sloppy. Rude. Clueless.
I will not be wasting my time on a disappointment.
So I drive carefully. Keep two cars between us. Watch as he pulls into a nice little bistro.
Oh.
I love that.
No shitty fast food.
A real meal.
Maybe wine.
Maybe something expensive.
I park down the street, fixing my lipstick in the mirror before stepping out.
And as I approach, I peek through the window.
Damn it.
His table is too far back.
I can’t see what he ordered.
That won’t do.
So I walk inside, smile sweetly at the hostess, and ask for a table in the back.
From my seat, I can see everything.
Him.
His posture.
The way his fingers skim his menu, slow, deliberate.
How he adjusts his glasses, thoughtful, before ordering.
God.
I’m so gone.
I peek over the top of my menu as the waitress comes back.
He orders steak. Medium rare.
Classy. Decisive. Perfect.
And then?
Oh.
He takes a book out of his briefcase.
I lean forward.
My heart actually flutters.
I have to know.
What are you reading, Mr. Sterling?
I squint, biting my lip, trying to make out the title.
Hemingway.
Oh, fuck.
I press my thighs together.
Of course, it’s Hemingway.
Not some trashy crime novel. Not a self-help book. Not some cheap nonsense.
Literature.
God, I think I love him.
I flip open my notebook, my newest one, just for him.
I draw hearts around his name.
Elliot Sterling.
I mouth it to myself, just to feel it.
Then, I start writing.
Orders steak. Medium rare.
Drinks water, no straw.
Reads while eating. Hemingway. A man of taste.
Chews with manners. Doesn’t talk with his mouth full.
Holds his silverware properly.
Oh, thank God. He’s housebroken.
I almost moan.
He cuts each bite precisely.
No exaggerated chewing. No shoveling food into his mouth like some barbarian.
This man…
This man eats like he fucks.
Slow. Intentional. Completely in control.
Oh.
Oh, I think I need him even more than I thought.
I watch him turn a page, slow, thoughtful.
He chews. Swallows. Reads. Adjusts his glasses.
I whimper.
I barely even notice when my own food arrives.
Because Elliot Sterling just became my next love.
And he has no idea.
Yet.