Chapter Twenty-Seven
Breaking Point
Winnie
Logan’s new place is chaos.
I spot it from half a block away—a moving truck double-parked on the street, furniture scattered across the front lawn like the aftermath of a yard sale gone wrong, and what appears to be an abandoned ottoman sitting on the sidewalk.
The brownstone itself is charming: a brick duplex with matching bay windows, wrought iron railings on the steps, and a small front yard with a tree that’s probably beautiful in summer.
Right now, the tree is bare, the lawn is covered in cardboard boxes, and three large men stand in the middle of it all, looking completely out of their depth.
I park across the street and kill the engine, taking a moment to observe the scene. The spring air is crisp when I step out, carrying the smell of damp pavement. Brooklyn in early spring is caught between winter’s grip and the promise of warmth, everything gray and brown and waiting to bloom.
One of the guys spots me as I make my way across the street, dodging a rogue armchair that has somehow ended up on the sidewalk. Logan waves enthusiastically as he spots me, nearly dropping the lamp he’s carrying.
“Winnie! You came!” He sets the lamp down on the lawn (not the safest choice, but I let it go) and bounds over. “Thank God. We need an adult.”
Despite my somber mood, I smile. “You are an adult, Logan. You’re twenty-three.”
“Barely. And I don’t count.” He pulls me into a hug, all warmth and uncomplicated joy. Logan gives great hugs. It’s one of his many talents. “Thanks for coming. I need your eye. Everything I pick is apparently ‘too loud’ or ‘an assault on good taste.’”
“Who said that?”
“Weston.” Logan jerks his thumb toward the moving truck, where a guy is wrestling with a mattress twice his size. “He’s one of my new roommates. The fun one.”
I study the mattress wrestler, shading my eyes against the pale afternoon sun.
Weston is tall—not quite as tall as Banks, but close—with dark hair that’s short on the sides and longer on top.
His arms are thick with muscle, straining against his T-shirt as he maneuvers the mattress, and even from here I can see the sharp cut of his jaw and the intensity of his focus.
He looks like the kind of guy who takes everything seriously, including mattress transportation.
He also looks like he’s losing the battle.
“Need help?” Logan calls out.
“No,” Weston grunts, shoving the mattress another inch. The word comes out clipped and irritated, as if the question itself were an insult.
“He’s been at that for ten minutes,” Logan whispers to me. “Too stubborn to ask for backup.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
“Who?”
I don’t answer. I’m not ready to think about Banks right now.
“Come on,” Logan says, oblivious to my deflection. “I’ll give you the tour and introduce you to Rhys. He’s the other roommate.”
We head toward the townhouse, weaving through an obstacle course of boxes and furniture.
Rhys is sitting on the top step, icing his knee with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel.
He’s leaner than Weston—still obviously an athlete, but built more for speed than brute strength, with long limbs and a slimmer build.
Sandy brown hair falls across his forehead, and when he looks up at us, his hazel eyes are guarded.
There’s a fading bruise on his cheekbone, yellow-green at the edges. Old, but not that old.
“This is Rhys,” Logan says. “Rhys, this is Winnie. She’s the team’s yoga instructor and Banks’s girlfriend.”
Something flickers in Rhys’s expression at the mention of Banks—recognition, maybe, or something more complicated—but he just nods. “Hey.”
“Hi.” I gesture at his knee. “What happened?”
“Tweaked it carrying boxes.” His voice is quiet and measured, like someone who has learned to choose his words carefully. “Nothing serious.”
“Let me know if you need stretches. I can show you some that help with inflammation.”
“Thanks.” He goes back to adjusting the frozen peas, effectively ending the conversation. Okay then…
I raise an eyebrow at Logan as we step past Rhys and into the townhouse.
“He’s working through some stuff,” Logan murmurs once we’re inside. “Got traded from Tampa a few weeks ago. There was some drama with his old team.”
“What kind of drama?”
“The kind he doesn’t talk about.” Logan shrugs, but there’s something careful in his expression—protective, almost. “But he’s a good guy. Solid. Just… needs time to trust people.”
Great. Another hockey player with walls. Just what I need.
The inside of the townhouse is surprisingly spacious—high ceilings, hardwood floors that need refinishing but have good bones, and an open concept living area that flows into a decent-sized kitchen.
Big windows let in the afternoon light, making the space feel airy despite the boxes stacked everywhere.
The walls are a neutral beige that could use some color, and there’s a fireplace on one wall that looks like it actually works.
The décor is currently nonexistent unless you count the couch that’s been shoved haphazardly into the middle of the room, a stack of pizza boxes on the kitchen counter, and what appears to be a life-sized cardboard cutout of… is that Baby Yoda?
“That’s Weston’s,” Logan says, following my gaze. “He’s weirdly attached to it. Don’t ask.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good. Because he gets defensive.”
I walk through the space, taking it in. The kitchen has decent appliances—nothing fancy, but functional. There’s a half-bath off the main area and a set of stairs leading up to what I assume are the bedrooms. Through the back window, I can see a small patio with a grill that has seen better days.
“So,” Logan says, spreading his arms wide like a real estate agent presenting a mansion. “Thoughts? Ideas? Please tell me you have ideas because my plan was literally ‘buy stuff that looks cool,’ and apparently that’s not a strategy.”
“What’s your budget?”
“Uh… flexible?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I make four million dollars a year, and I’ve never bought a couch before. Does that help?”
I laugh despite myself, despite the heaviness I’ve been carrying for days. “We can work with that. First things first—what vibe are you going for? Modern? Industrial? Cozy?”
“Yes.”
“Logan.”
“What? I want all of them. Is that not allowed?”
The front door opens, and Weston appears, mattress apparently conquered.
Up close, he’s even more imposing—at least six-three, with shoulders that barely fit through the doorframe and a scowl that seems permanently etched into his features.
His dark eyes, fringed with lashes, sweep over me with the kind of quick assessment I’ve seen Banks do—almost like he’s cataloging my threat level.
Apparently, I pass, because he addresses me directly.
“Tell him he can’t paint the living room orange.” His voice is deep and a little rough. “He won’t listen to us.”
“I never said orange. I said burnt sienna.”
“That’s orange,” Weston growls.
“It’s a sophisticated orange.”
“It’s still orange.” Weston crosses his arms, and the movement makes his biceps strain against his sleeves. “Orange is for traffic cones and prison jumpsuits. Not living rooms.”
“You have no imagination.”
“I have taste.”
I look between them—Logan with his hopeful puppy eyes, Weston with his arms crossed and murder in his gaze. Behind us, I hear Rhys limp inside, settling onto the arm of the displaced couch with his frozen peas.
Three good-looking guys sharing a townhouse. A golden retriever, a wounded bird, and a grumpy cat. I don’t even want to know what kind of shenanigans they’re going to get into.
“No orange,” I finally say. “But we can do an accent wall in something bold if you want personality. Deep green, maybe. Or navy.”
Logan pumps his fist. “See? Compromise. This is why we needed Winnie.”
Weston grunts—not exactly approval, but not disapproval either—and disappears toward the kitchen. A moment later, I hear the refrigerator open and then close. He returns with three beers, handing one to Logan, one to Rhys, and pausing when he gets to me.
“You want one?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Another grunt. He takes the third beer for himself and leans against the wall, watching as I continue my assessment of the space.
“He’s warming up to me,” Logan says brightly.
“Is he?”
“That grunt was way friendlier than his grunts yesterday. There’s a whole grunt spectrum. You’ll learn it eventually.”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
“Too late. You’re part of the chaos now.” Logan throws an arm around my shoulders. “Welcome to Casa de Chaos. Population: three idiots and one very patient yoga instructor.”
I spend the next hour helping Logan map out a design plan.
We walk through the space room by room, and I take notes on my phone—measurements, lighting observations, ideas for furniture placement.
Logan is surprisingly receptive to feedback once he understands the logic behind it.
He just needs someone to explain why behind things instead of simply telling him no.
Rhys drifts in and out, offering quiet opinions that are usually the best ones. He has a good eye for scale and proportion—when I suggest a sectional for the living room, he points out that the dimensions I’m describing would block the flow to the kitchen. He’s right. I adjust my recommendations.
Weston hauls furniture and glowers at everything, but when we’re debating between two different layouts, he surprises me by pulling up a 3D room planning app on his phone.
“It’s easier to visualize,” he says gruffly when Logan stares at him. “What?”
“You have a home design app?”
“It’s useful.”
“You are full of surprises, Westy.”
“Don’t call me Westy.”
They’re a strange little trio. Logan, all sunshine and chaos, fills every silence with chatter. Rhys, wounded and watchful, speaks only when he has something worth saying. Weston, grumpy and guarded, is clearly more thoughtful than his scowl suggests.
“More muscles incoming!” Logan announces, peering out the window. “Zay and Banksy are here.”
My stomach drops.