Chapter 15
Fifteen
Lacey
While I totally get that Christmas is generally a family-friendly holiday, I think we, as a culture, need to normalize the giving of orgasms as gifts. Between members of non-platonic relationships. Obviously.
First of all, they’re handmade. Who doesn’t like handmade gifts?
Second of all, they cost no money but do require a decent amount of quality time to deliver. Isn’t that the point of the holidays? Spending time with the people you care about?
And, thirdly, I’m pretty sure the endorphins I got from Wells and August were significantly higher than what I would have gotten from a pressure cooker.
It was amazing. This whole weekend has been, actually. Only a few days ago, I was in a full-on panic/imposter syndrome spiral because my two one-night stands had booked rooms at The Chestnut, and I was convinced my lapses in professionalism would become known.
Granted, I don’t think this weekend’s activities did much to restore my professionalism, but I feel better than I have in months. Kind of. I’m happy, sure. A little orgasm drunk, too. Whenever I allow my mind to stray beyond the present moment, however, my stomach drops like a stone.
This was supposed to be… I don’t know what it was supposed to be, but definitely not this. The connections I had with August and Wells individually were strong enough to abandon my professionalism without a second thought.
Both of them? Together?
Good lord, I went from no to hoe in five seconds flat. It was totally worth it, too. Even if I should regret it, or at least be a little ashamed of myself, the negative feelings about how we spent the weekend are nowhere to be found.
The thought of it ending, though?
I shove aside the doom and gloom as I slide off Wells’ bed, yawning. It’s dark outside, and Christmas Day is officially almost over. The space is illuminated by the light from the TV, which is playing a muted holiday movie to the room’s sleepy inhabitants.
Wells is passed out on his stomach, dressed in only a pair of gray sweatpants—providing a truly unparalleled view of his butt—and snoring quietly. August is still awake, though, and watches me get up from his place leaning against the headboard beside Wells.
“Are you cold?” he asks quietly, offering me a gentle, tired smile.
I shake my head, pulling on the cute, plaid holiday dress I snagged from my cabin this morning. “No, I just need to go close up downstairs and check the reservations for tomorrow.”
The mention of tomorrow is enough to send my stomach plummeting through the floor yet again, and my hands are a little clumsy as I redo the bow around my waist.
August must see it, too, because his smile slips a little as he sits up straighter. “My flight is at noon,” he tells me carefully, glancing at Wells to make sure our talking isn’t waking him. “I told my brother I would stop by before leaving.”
So he’ll need to leave early, then.
I’ve been stubbornly avoiding thinking about saying goodbye, and now, out of nowhere, it’s dawning on me that this is probably one of the last moments we’ll have together. I might see Wells, if that’s something he’s interested in, but even that doesn’t take away from the sense of loss.
Somewhere in the magical few days we spent together, the three of us have started to feel like a package deal.
“Okay,” I whisper at last, turning away as—to my utter embarrassment—my eyes begin to burn. As I’m busying myself with putting my shoes on, I hear the soft rustle of sheets and sense, rather than see, August standing behind me.
“Lace. This weekend has been—”
I don’t want to hear it, though. The very last thing I need is a reminder that he has important doctor things to attend to across the country, or hear that he had fun, but it’s better if we all go our separate ways.
“It’s fine, August,” I tell him, shrugging off the hand that comes out to land on my shoulder. “I’m just going to lock up, be right back.” And, without waiting for a response, I hurry out into the hall, closing the door noiselessly behind me.
The Chestnut is quiet as I creep downstairs to the lobby, moving through the familiar routine of adding logs to the fire and drawing the curtains on all the windows.
Tomorrow, our housekeeper will be back in, the maintenance guy is scheduled to fix the leaking bathtub in room two, and a produce delivery is arriving.
Everything will be the same as it was, except, instead of enthusiasm for it all, I’m so, so sad.
My shoulders are heavy as I reach the last window in the lobby; however, my hands pause on the heavy drapes as my gaze catches on a set of headlights making their way along the dark road that leads past The Chestnut’s parking lot.
While we don’t see a ton of traffic so far out of town, there’s no reason at all to believe they’re headed here.
Still, I pause, my heart pounding as I wait for them to pass us by.
They don’t pass by, however. My breath catches as the car slows, a blinker visible even from here, and turns slowly into The Chestnut’s nearly empty parking lot.
I gasp, darting away from the window and almost sprinting across the lobby to my office.
A single, horrible realization is blaring like an alarm in my— suddenly wide-awake—mind; I didn’t close online reservations for the weekend.
Why would I, when I was practically praying some other guest would book an eleventh-hour reservation to be an inadvertent buffer in my one-night-stand reunion?
“Shit, shit, shit,” I hiss, skidding into the small space. Lunging forward, I wiggle the computer mouse. It seems to take much longer than usual for the device to come to life as I stare at it, straining my hearing for the sound of guests approaching.
Sure enough, as soon as I get the reservations software up, there is a notification of a last-minute booking, made only an hour ago.
Groaning, I seize a hair clip from the corner of my desk, thanking all the heavens and stars above that I didn’t decide to wander down here with no pants on.
Just as I’m examining my reflection in my phone screen, searching for indications that I just finished a weekend-long sex marathon, the bells on the front door chime softly.
My practiced hospitality smile is a little stiff as I set down my phone and step out of the office. A young family is making their way clumsily into the room, weighed down with several bags, a toddler, a baby in a car seat, and a collection of stuffed animals.
“Hello! Welcome to The Chestnut Bed and Breakfast!” I greet them, hurrying out from behind the desk to close the door after the husband, who is too preoccupied making sure their baby is asleep to pay me any mind.
His wife, however, smiles gratefully, pulling the toddler higher on her hip as she follows me back to the desk. “We literally just reserved a room like an hour ago. I’m so sorry. It’s been a whole freaking day.”
I feel a pang of sympathy. She does look exhausted, and so does the little boy in her arms, who gazes blearily at me from beneath an untidy mop of brown curls.
“Oh my gosh, I’m just happy we had something available,” I assure her warmly. “Travel trouble?”
She makes a face that clearly confirms this assumption was correct.
“We were supposed to arrive this morning and drive in to spend the day with my grandparents. They’re an hour from here.
There was a delay, and we missed our connecting flight.
Then the stinking rental car place gave away our car, and…
” She trails off, shaking her head in disgust.
“Well, how about I make something special for breakfast? Since you were so good for Mom and Dad during all that nonsense?” I address the little boy, who appears pleased by this information.
“Pancakes?” he asks, looking to his mother for approval.
She looks like she could hug me.
“You’ve got it.” This is the stuff I live for, making my guests feel welcome and appreciated, and my heavy heart is a little lighter as I pull up their reservation on the reception desk computer.
“It should be under Harrison,” she tells me, “either Brooks or Delta.”
Her husband appears at her side, carefully swinging the baby seat to keep their infant asleep, and up close, I can see he looks almost as exhausted as she does. He’s also older than her. By more than a few years, judging by the silver threading through the temples of his dark brown curls.
“We booked it with your account,” he reminds her patiently, wrapping his free arm around her shoulders. “So the reservation would be under Delta Harrison.” He leans down to press his lips to her temple.
God, does everyone have a gorgeous, adoring older husband but me? It’s starting to seem that way, and I need to cool it, because the jealousy definitely isn’t a good look.
“Okay, I’ve got you in room number one, which is our largest,” I tell them once we’ve taken care of the check-in business, snagging the appropriate key from its hook.
“Technically, checkout is at eleven, but please take your time tomorrow. I’m sure you’re all exhausted, and we have nobody in there until Wednesday. ”
The couple looks extremely relieved and thanks me profusely as they make their noisy way upstairs. I remain at my post, smiling at Mr. Harrison when he comes back downstairs to get the rest of their things from the car.
When he’s back inside, and it’s clear they’re situated for the night, whatever energy I had left seems to drain from my body. Tired and sad, I round the desk and sink down in one of the lobby’s many squashy armchairs.
I’d known this was very nearly it for me, Wells, and August’s weekend together, but the unexpected arrival of the Harrison family took whatever was left.
My head snaps up at the unexpected sound of footsteps on the stairs, and I tense, preparing to lurch to my feet.
It isn’t my guests, though, or at least, not the ones I’ve maintained any level of professionalism with.
Neither of them looks particularly happy, but August’s frown deepens further as he scans the room, his eyes finding me in the chair by the fire.
“Unexpected guests,” I inform them quietly, curling my arms around my middle, and watching as they cross to sit on the couch beside me. “They had little kids; I couldn’t exactly turn them away.”
“Of course not,” Wells agrees, glancing at August before his eyes return to me.
None of us speaks.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I attempt a smile. “I thought we’d all say goodbye in the morning, but…” No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to make the words come. This is it for us.
August rakes a hand through his hair. “It’s goodbye for me, anyway.” There’s an unmistakable bitterness in his voice, and as he glances between us, I can sense the question he’s aching to ask but won’t allow himself to.
I grimace. Wells didn’t come looking for me after we slept together last summer, so I’m hardly expecting him to do so now.
Except, I know and understand him a little better than I did. For such a gruff, unapologetically masculine person, Wells Davis is also surprisingly soft. He might have a bigger heart than anyone I’ve ever met, and he’s put up a whole lot of defenses to stop himself from getting hurt by it.
He was never going to be the person to make the first move toward a relationship.
Then there’s August Vogel, who hides his loneliness and yearning behind the gleaming facade of the intelligent, confident doctor. He almost had me fooled, too. I know better now.
Spurred on by a reckless, desperate daring, I lift my chin to peer between them. “I liked the three of us together. A lot. Not just the sex, but,” my words falter as August leans back on the couch, his expression grave, “all of it. I liked all of it.”
Wells’ throat bobs as he stares at me. “Yeah,” he admits. “I did too.”
We both look to the third participant in this conversation, who is staring, silent and grave faced, at the wall across from the couch.
I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen him so serious.
Finally, when I’m about a second from begging him to say something, August blows out a heavy breath, turning his gaze to meet mine, then Wells’.
“Obviously, I liked it too. That doesn’t mean it could work, though.
Realistically speaking, this is an unconventional relationship dynamic, which would almost certainly require some navigating.
Taking that into consideration, along with my work schedule, and the fact I live across the country, and the time difference—”
“We get it,” Wells interjects, calm but not cold.
Silence falls again, broken only by my tiny sniff. “Sorry.” My voice cracks, and I look at the ceiling, willing the burning in my eyes to lessen without any success at all. “This just really sucks.”
Across the room, the antique grandfather clock chimes, announcing the end of Christmas Day.
“Lace.” I lower my watery gaze back to August, who offers me a sad smile. “Come here.”
The guys shift, making room for me to sit between them, and I do, tears streaming down my cheeks. They’re both attentive and sweet, kissing my hair and wiping them away, showing me with quiet, placating words that do nothing to lessen my sorrow.
When I have no more tears left to cry at last, and there’s nothing to be done but the inevitable, August gets slowly to his feet.
He pauses before the couch, looking down at Wells and me with a grim sort of acceptance.
“I wouldn’t blame either of you, if you”—he swallows—“if you… Carried on without me.”
The wound borne from his leaving is too new, too raw, to find any comfort in that. No, I’m not losing both of them, but it’s painful to think the magic which existed between the three of us will never be again, or of August all alone in California while Wells and I are happy here.
It just doesn’t feel right.
“Will you come back?” I ask him, a little desperately. “Just to visit?”
August smiles sadly. “I’m not sure I could stand it, Lace.” His gaze lifts from mine to Wells’. “Take care of our girl?”
The arm Wells has wrapped around my shoulders tightens. “I will,” he promises.
I really thought I’d run out of tears, but I’m proven wrong as August turns toward the stairs, leaving us behind.