Chapter Twenty-Nine
Juliet
My men are perfect.
Utterly, devastatingly, unreasonably perfect.
Callum has officially left that trailer park nightmare and moved in.
Orion loves having someone who actually challenges him at the gym. Noah loves having a fellow troublemaker. Elliot loves shaking his head at us all.
And I?
I love them.
I love watching Callum and Orion bicker over whose bench press is bigger.
I love how Noah sneaks love notes into our lunch bags.
I love how Elliot humors my insanity while secretly encouraging it.
I also love that Callum handled my little Tammy issue.
The neighbor?
Oh, she remembered wrong.
Really wrong.
Detective Grimm, the absolute moron, still tried to pull me in for a fucking lineup.
Can you imagine?!
Me, standing next to a bunch of ragged-out, bleach-fried, Hot Cheeto-smelling, knockoff versions of myself?
I have never been more personally offended in my life.
Naturally, I wasn’t identified. Because I’m flawless.
Orion patted my ass on the way out of the station. “Told you, baby. They don’t got shit.”
Callum laughed like he was deeply proud of himself. “If they were smart, they’d call me in to make people disappear, not question me about it.”
Elliot was deeply exasperated. “Should I be concerned that we’re celebrating avoiding a murder charge like it’s a promotion?”
And Noah?
Sweet, darling Noah?
Noah suggested we have a picnic.
My new minivan is pink.
PINK.
Elliot had it special ordered.
Because of course he did.
And Callum and Orion? They doubled down.
They found the cutest seat covers, black and pink, covered in tiny, grinning Cheshire Cats.
And the floor mats?
“We’re All A Little Mad Here.”
Because they get me.
And Noah, my precious sunshine, took it a step further.
He handmade a stick-figure decal for the back window.
A full-blown family portrait in vinyl sticker form.
Me: tiny dress, a knife in one hand, a heart in the other.
Orion: crossed arms, little dumbbells in each hand.
Noah: a music note, a little heart floating above his head.
Elliot: a book, the smug aura of superiority.
Callum: a cigarette, middle finger up.
And beneath them?
“Room for More.”
Because my men are all smartasses.
The picnic basket is packed to perfection.
Crusts off for Noah.
Cut diagonally for Orion.
Perfect squares for Elliot.
Not cut at all for me and Callum, because we are not civilized.
Some are egg salad. Some are ham and Swiss.
(Obviously deli ham, sliced thin, and I had to send it back twice because if you don’t supervise those workers, they will absolutely try to give you ham slabs thick enough to build a house with.)
We set up on my new pink blanket with the ribbon trim, because I refuse to sit on just anything.
Noah sprawls out like a contented cat.
Orion pops the cap off a protein shake.
Callum lights a cigarette, because he’s allergic to peace.
Elliot watches us all, eyes full of regret, like a single father wondering how the fuck he got here.
And me?
I smile.
Because this is my life.
And I wouldn’t change a single thing.
I have everything I need.
The perfect men.
A pink picnic blanket.
The dumbest police department in the country keeping their noses out of my business.
I stretch out, utterly content, leaning back against Orion’s solid chest, my feet resting right in Callum’s lap.
Noah feeds me, because he’s precious like that. Elliot reads Keats, because he’s an insufferable intellectual.
And then I hear it.
The single most panty-dropping sound of my life.
A voice.
Deep. Rough. A little sharp around the edges.
My God.
I sit up so fast I almost whip my own neck.
My plate clatters to the blanket.
I slap my hand over Elliot’s book, shushing him.
His glare could kill a small animal.
I don’t care.
I have a crisis.
“What the fuck kind of voice is that?” I whisper, barely breathing.
“I think that’s a Russian accent, sweetheart,” Orion says.
I grab his face, stare into his soul. “We don’t have one of those.”
All four of my men turn their heads in unison, like a pack of wolves who just heard a twig snap.
He’s right there.
Sitting just a few feet away, at the benches, talking on his phone, gesturing with long fingers.
Dark hair. Expensive jacket.
And that voice. That voice that sounds like he’s either a hitman or a billionaire, and honestly, I’ll take either.
“Oh fuck,” Noah whispers. “Are we watching love at first sight happen in real time?”
Orion tilts his head, sizing the man up. “Want me to go get him?”
“Don’t be absurd,” Elliot scoffs, ever the voice of reason. “She doesn’t even know if he chews with his mouth closed.”
“Are you already wet?” Callum asks, pure amusement in his voice.
“All of you, shut the fuck up,” I hiss. “Did we pack a goddamn notebook?”
Elliot, without missing a beat, hands me his phone, notes app open.
He’s already written:
Accent that makes her wet. Black hair. Dresses almost as nice as Elliot. Not as refined. Not as built as Orion. Not as dangerous as Callum. Not as romantic as Noah.
And then, at the bottom…
We’ll get him a notebook on the way home.
I look up at Elliot.
He raises an eyebrow.
I beam. “God, I love you. All of you.”
And maybe Mr. Accent over there.