Chapter 10 Savannah #2
God, sometimes Xavier opens his mouth and I need either a dictionary or a translator. Why can't he just say "nice job chopping" like a normal person? Why does everything have to sound like a medical textbook?
"Xavier supervised," Griff adds, and there's the first real smile I've seen from him all day. It transforms his whole face, making him look younger and less like he wants to punch something.
"Someone has to maintain quality control," Xavier says with mock seriousness, taking a sip of wine.
The conversation starts to flow more easily, helped by the wine and the fact that nobody's broken anything in the last ten minutes.
I'm feeling the alcohol, which means my filter is about to malfunction completely.
Dangerous territory when sitting across from three stupidly attractive men who apparently think cooking dinner gives them relationship points.
"So," I say, twirling pasta around my fork, "tell me about your days. Anyone else have disasters, or am I the only one living in a sitcom?"
Griff actually smirks, leaning back in his chair. "Spent the morning explaining to a client that reclaimed barn wood doesn't come with authenticity certificates proving it once housed prize-winning cattle."
"Please tell me you're joking." I lean forward, genuinely interested despite myself.
"Wish I was. They wanted 'rustic character' but were horrified when the wood looked actually used." His hand brushes mine as he reaches for his wine glass, and I ignore the electricity that shoots up my arm.
"Shocking. People wanting Instagram-worthy rustic without actual rust or dirt," I say dryly. "What's next, demanding that antiques come with warranties?"
Logan snorts into his wine. "Had a woman today who set off smoke alarms in a three-block radius because she tried to make bacon in her toaster oven."
"A toaster oven?" I stare at him. "How do you even... no, wait, don't tell me. I've lost enough faith in humanity for one day."
"Very carefully and with complete disregard for fire safety," Xavier interjects, refilling my wine glass. His fingers graze mine as he sets the bottle down, and these "accidental" touches are definitely getting less accidental.
"Says the man who probably organizes his spice rack by molecular structure," I tease, taking a larger sip than I probably should.
"Alphabetically, actually," Xavier responds with a perfectly straight face. "Much more efficient for meal preparation."
I nearly choke on my wine. "Of course you do. Let me guess, your sock drawer is color-coded too?"
"By function and season," he confirms, and I genuinely can't tell if he's serious.
"Jesus Christ, Xavier," I mutter, shaking my head. "Do you ever do anything that isn't systematically perfect?"
Griff laughs - actually laughs - reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, but I swat his hand away.
"No touchy. More groveling required," I say firmly. I'm not letting down my guard that easily, no matter how good the pasta is.
"Don't let him fool you," Logan grins, and it does unfair things to my pulse. "He spent twenty minutes yesterday wrestling with a fitted sheet. Looked like he was fighting a ghost."
"I don't understand the physics of fitted sheets," Xavier says with the kind of serious tone most people reserve for discussing actual physics. "The corners are mathematically impossible."
"They're sheets, not rocket science," I point out, though I'm fighting a smile. "You literally save lives for a living, but you're defeated by cotton blends?"
"Everyone has weaknesses," he says, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. "What's yours?"
The question hangs in the air, loaded with meaning I'm not ready to unpack. The wine is making me honest, and honesty around these three feels like stepping into quicksand.
"Bad decisions and men who think they're charming," I say quickly, taking another sip of wine as armor.
"Are we charming?" Griff asks, his voice dropping to a low rumble that should come with a warning label.
"You're something, all right," I mutter, then immediately regret it because now they're all looking at me with varying degrees of smugness.
"Really?" Logan asks, holding my gaze across the table.
"The verdict's still out," I lie, because admitting they're the most attractive disaster I've encountered in years seems like a spectacularly bad idea. "Though your ceramic destruction skills definitely lean toward the 'disaster' category."
"Hey, those dishes attacked me," Logan protests. "It was self-defense."
"Right." I roll my eyes. "And I'm sure the next kitchen casualty will also deserve it. You three are idiots," I say, but I'm fighting a smile. "Attractive idiots, but idiots nonetheless."
"I can work with that," Xavier says, tilting his head with a smirk that does things to my blood pressure.
"Don't let it go to your head," I warn, pointing my fork at him. "I also think Chris Hemsworth is attractive, but that doesn't mean I have good judgment."
"Ouch," Griff says, clutching his chest dramatically. "Comparing us to movie stars. That's harsh."
"Who says you're unattainable?" The words slip out before my brain can stop them, and I immediately want to crawl under the table and hide.
The temperature at the table rises about ten degrees. Logan's hand somehow ends up near mine on the table. Xavier is looking at me like I'm a fascinating puzzle he wants to solve in great detail. Griff's eyes have gone dark and hungry.
"That sounds dangerous," I admit, because the wine has apparently made me temporarily honest. "The kind that usually ends with me making spectacularly bad decisions and wondering what the hell I was thinking."
"And yet you're still sitting here," Xavier observes, his thumb tracing along the back of my hand.
"Yeah, well," I say, trying to ignore how his touch is making my brain short-circuit, "I never claimed to learn from my mistakes. I prefer to make new and creative ones."
"What if this time isn't a mistake?" Griff asks quietly, his voice serious for the first time all evening.
I look around the table at three faces watching me with expressions ranging from hopeful to hungry, and I feel that familiar flutter of panic mixed with want.
"Then I'm about to find out if I'm brave enough to find out," I say, surprising myself with the truth. "Or stupid enough. Hard to tell the difference sometimes."
"Both," Logan says with a grin that should be illegal. "The best things usually require both."
"Great," I mutter, draining my wine glass. "Nothing could possibly go wrong with that philosophy."
But even as I say it, I'm not pulling my hands away from theirs, and I'm not getting up from this table, and I'm definitely not running for the door like every self-preservation instinct is screaming at me to do.
Maybe it's time to be the idiot who takes a chance.
"More wine?" Xavier asks, already reaching for the bottle.
Griff suddenly pushes back from the table, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'll get another bottle from the kitchen."
"God, yes," I say. "If I'm going to make questionable life choices, I might as well be properly lubricated for the experience."
The sound of breaking glass echoes from the kitchen.
"Son of a bitch!" Griff's voice carries frustration and resignation in equal measure.
"What now?" Logan calls, but he's grinning.
"Wine glass," Griff responds with weary acceptance. "And it's one of the good ones."
"Maybe," I suggest with a smile that feels genuine despite the domestic chaos, "we should invest in plastic everything for special occasions."
The laughter that follows is warm and real and exactly the kind of sound that makes a house feel like home, even when home includes broken dishes and men who apparently can't handle fragile objects without creating casualties.
Thank you, universe, for letting me think a lavender bath would give me peace while three alphas turned dinner prep into a contact sport with expensive dishware.