Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Vesper
I show up when the movers are basically packing up their last roll of tape, which is honestly a blessing, because if they’d caught me earlier, I would’ve become that person.
You know the one. The one who says, What if we move that chair two inches to the left .
. . no, wait—three to the right . . . actually back to the left, but like .
. . emotionally? The one who pretends she’s being helpful while actively spiraling in real time and making strangers regret their career choices.
Now I get to skip straight to the part where the house is mine and I have nowhere left to hide.
By the time the last truck leaves and the gate clicks shut behind it, the sky beyond the tall windows has gone deep navy, the lake stretched out in a dark sheen, threaded with tiny lights from the far shore.
Inside, lamps glow warm, too perfect, as if someone staged comfort and forgot to include the part where I’m supposed to believe I deserve it.
The windows reflect us back—me in an oversized sweatshirt and bare feet, hair pulled up in a “don’t perceive me” messy bun—like we’re characters in a scene meant for an audience.
And my brain, because it hates peace, immediately goes: Cool. Where’s the camera? Where’s the exit? If I had to run, which door would jam first?
I hate that I do this now. Take something beautiful and turn it into a checklist of ways it could go wrong.
I stand in the kitchen. The counters are pristine.
The sink looks like it has never witnessed a human error.
There is space everywhere—space to breathe, space to move, space to feel everything I’ve been dodging for months—and I don’t know what to do with it.
I’m used to small apartments and smaller expectations. I’m used to making myself fit.
A cardboard box sits by my foot with thick black marker screaming at me: VESPER’S — DON’T LOSE THIS.
I blink at it like it might bite.
Cally. Obviously. My boxes from New York had my address and a vague vibe of “this is none of your business.” This one has warning signs.
The things they brought from my studio are in what they’re calling “Vesper’s office,” which feels like both, a threat and a gift. A room with my name on it in a house that still feels like I’m trespassing.
I hate this place for being so . . . much.
I’ve never lived in something so luxurious and big.
Dad had hockey-player money, but he spent it like it had a purpose.
Mom’s camp. Schools. Donations with no press releases.
Every house we lived in was a home, not a mansion.
Vancouver. Hartford. North Carolina. San Jose.
Then Portland, because he promised my mom he’d bring her back to where she was born when he retired, and Dad always keeps his promises.
This place doesn’t feel like a promise. It feels like a flex.
And still—fuck—it’s beautiful.
Which makes it worse, because beauty is how you get tricked into accepting things you swear you don’t want.
I toured it. I said yes. I even smiled like a normal person who isn’t internally screaming.
But touring a place and moving into it with two men who have rewired the meaning of mine are very different levels of reality.
We are actually moving in together. Together-together. Like grown-ups. Like people who aren’t terrified of being a family.
I open the first cabinet I find and pull out a mug, because of course Cally’s people already organized the kitchen. The mugs are lined up like they’re posing for a catalog, and I hate that my first thought is, If I put this back wrong, will the house reject me?
I fill it with water and take one sip.
Immediate regret.
My stomach has been acting like a petty little tyrant all day, turning its nose up at everything that isn’t bland, safe, and emotionally unavailable. I swallow hard, but it’s already too late. Heat rises fast, and my body makes the decision without consulting my pride.
I turn and—like the classy woman I am—puke into the sink.
The pristine, probably never-been-touched-by-human-mistake sink.
I brace myself on the counter, breathing through it, eyes watering, humiliation buzzing under my skin. Seven bathrooms in this mansion and I couldn’t find a single one in time, so congratulations to me. I’ve christened the luxury kitchen like a raccoon with anxiety.
A soft sound comes from behind me, footsteps barely there.
Monty.
I don’t need to look. I feel him the way you feel a door close behind you. He moves like he’s constantly tracking. Like there’s an invisible map in his head and every exit is marked.
“You okay?” His voice is low, careful, but there’s an edge under it that doesn’t belong in a house with designer lamps and a lake view.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and snort, because if I don’t laugh, I might start crying and then we’ll have to live with that memory forever. “Define okay.”
Monty’s mouth twitches. He hands me a paper towel without making a big deal out of it, like throwing up in a showroom kitchen is just another Tuesday, and then he pours me a glass of ginger sparkling water like it’s a cure and a command.
I stare at it. “Has Benji visited already?”
“Yep.” Monty sets the glass into my hand like he expects me to obey. Which is . . . yes. That is exactly what he expects. “He came for a couple of hours, walked the rooms, and made a list.”
“This house is going to run on efficiency,” I mutter, taking a careful sip, “and I don’t know how to live in that.”
Monty leans in, kisses my nose, and then—like he’s possessed by someone playful—he winks.
He fucking winks.
I freeze mid-sip, because Monty does not wink. Monty does not flirt. Monty does not offer me cute. Monty offers me safety, blunt truths, and the occasional look that says he would burn the world down if it touched me.
So this? This is suspicious.
“Everything okay, big guy?” I manage, voice thin with disbelief.
His eyes shift toward the kitchen entry. “Indoor pool.”
It isn’t a suggestion. It’s an instruction dressed in a neutral tone.
Before I can respond, Callaway appears like my thoughts summoned him.
He’s changed out of his moving-day clothes into a soft T-shirt and gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips like he has no idea what he’s doing to my brain.
Like he doesn’t know I’m one fragile moment away from biting him just to prove I’m still capable of making choices.
He looks comfortable. Domestic. Too real.
And my body, traitor that it is, remembers that night on the couch.
It remembers hands with dirty words and praise because my reactions gave it willingly. It remembers my own voice breaking, my own need spilling out of me like it had been trapped there for years. It remembers how I shattered into stardust and they put me back together with praise and love.
Since then, there’s been . . . nothing much between us.
Chaste kisses. Soft touches. Space. And a lot of restraint.
My stomach rolls again, but this time it’s not nausea. It’s heat, sharp and sudden, low in my belly, and I hate myself for it because I’m standing in my brand-new kitchen with puke in the sink and I’m still thinking about the way Callaway’s sweatpants sit on his hips.
Hormones, I decide. Blame the hormones. Hormones are a valid scapegoat. Hormones don’t require me to admit I want him.
Or both of them.
“Before you say anything,” I warn, lifting the mug like it’s a weapon, “if you tell me this house came with a panic room, I’m moving back to the apartment.”
“It came with a panic room,” Callaway says immediately, bright as sunlight, and then adds, “but you can’t move back because we already returned the keys.”
I glare at him so hard my face might cramp.
His mouth quirks like he’s proud of himself. Golden retriever energy with a millionaire bank account and absolutely no fear. “But I won’t tell you where it is.”
Monty makes a low sound—almost a laugh, nearly a growl—and something in me eases for half a second.
I hate that. I hate that relief is even possible, because relief is how you get careless. Relief is how you get hurt.
Callaway steps closer, careful but not hesitant, like he’s learned the exact distance where I won’t bolt. His gaze drags over me with open want, and he doesn’t hide it, doesn’t pretend he’s above it. Possessive without being cruel. Like he’s claiming me with his eyes and asking me to let him.
“Pool?” he says, casual on the surface, but he’s watching me like I’m weather—like he knows I can turn fast. “I know you’d rather swim in the lake, but let’s not be all daring and shit. Let’s stay inside the boundaries tonight—and probably always.”
Monty’s hand lands on the small of my back, grounding me. I swallow, tasting ginger and nerves and something that feels dangerously close to hope. We’re doing this. Living together and trying to become and us. It’s possible, right?
“Okay,” I say, because it’s easier than saying what’s really in my throat.
Which is: I’m scared. I’m in too deep. I want this so badly it terrifies me. And if either of you break me, I don’t know if I’ll be able to put myself back together again.
Instead, I force a crooked smile and go for sarcasm because sarcasm has always been my favorite life jacket.
“Lead the way, my noble knights.” I sweep my arm out dramatically.
They go with it and lead me down a hallway that smells like fresh paint and expensive wood. The doors are heavy. The lighting is soft. Everything about this place whispers, You could be happy here, and that’s what makes my pulse jump.
The thing about happiness and us is that it can’t stay. We’re too messy, complicated, and are zero for three when it comes to having experience with committed relationships, but hey, at least nobody’s headed for the hills yet. Not even me—shocking, I know.
The indoor pool room is behind a glass door with a keypad.
When Cally taps the code, I’m not surprised that it’s my birthday.