Chapter 38 #2
The air is warm. Humid. It smells faintly like chlorine and clean tile. The pool is long, sleek, lit from beneath as if it’s glowing. There are windows on one side—high enough that no one could see in unless they were a bird with malicious intent.
It’s . . . perfect. Dreamy and I remember why I said, This is the house.
I could move into just this room and never look back.
Which makes my eyes sting, because apparently my body is in its “cry at everything” era and I hate it.
“Jesus,” I whisper, and it comes out like a prayer.
Callaway watches my face like he’s trying to decide whether he won or lost.
Monty’s gaze stays on me, steady and quiet, like he’s bracing for the moment I break.
I refuse.
I set the glass Monty handed me down on the narrow corner table beside the bench, the ice clinking against crystal like it knows I’m about to misbehave.
The air in the pool room is warm. Not hot, but warm enough to make my skin hum in anticipation. The water glistens under low lights, and I can feel both of them watching. Pretending not to. Pretending they’re gentlemen.
They’re not.
I hook my fingers under the hem of my sweater and pull it over my head in one smooth motion, dragging the fabric up my body until it brushes my ribs, then my bra—simple black, nothing fancy, but the way Monty’s jaw tightens tells me it doesn’t matter.
His eyes snap to the flash of skin. Callaway shifts where he stands, hands shoved in his pockets like that might keep him from reaching.
It won’t.
I let the sweater fall to the side, leaving me in nothing but my bra and leggings.
And then, slowly, I press my thumbs beneath the waistband and start to peel them down.
Inch by inch. Over hips, thighs. I turn just enough to give them the full view of my back as I bend at the waist, tugging the fabric past my knees.
I know exactly what I’m doing. The cotton clings to my skin, the lace of my panties cutting across the curve of my ass like a provocation.
Let them look.
Let them burn.
I step out of the leggings and straighten, bare now but for the thin black bra and matching panties I threw on this morning without thinking. Practical. Comfortable.
Lethal, apparently.
Callaway exhales a curse under his breath. Monty doesn’t say a word—but his silence feels like an earthquake.
Both of them go still.
I glance over my shoulder. “What? It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”
Callaway’s throat works. “Nothing.” He shrugs. “We could go find your swimming suit.”
It’s impossible not to laugh. A snort slips out of me before I can stop it. “Yeah, let me know how that goes. It’s either in one of the boxes they shipped or the pile of laundry I’ve been heroically ignoring.”
Monty’s jaw clenches so hard it could cut stone. He looks away—like I’ve scorched him. Like he needs to stare at anything that isn’t my bare thighs.
Callaway doesn’t look away. His gaze drags over every inch of me like he’s memorizing the way I breathe. Gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, doing absolutely nothing to hide the way he’s getting hard—thick and unmistakable, stretching the fabric like he’s aching for me to notice.
“You two are acting like I haven’t been half-naked in front of you before,” I say, trying to shake off the tension coiling between us like it doesn’t belong.
“That’s not the issue,” Callaway says, eyes narrowing.
I tip my chin. “Then what is?”
Monty doesn’t blink. His voice is low, dangerous in how calm it tries to be. “You’re . . . cold.”
That’s the excuse?
I blink once. Then laugh so hard it bounces off the water’s surface like an insult.
“Cold?” I repeat, letting the absurdity hang between us.
“Are you serious? I’m not cold,” I say, taking a step back into the shallow end, the water lapping at my thighs.
“But thank you for pretending this is about my comfort and not your complete lack of self-control.”
Monty’s eyes snap to mine, his control visibly cracking, heat leaking out. Callaway shifts beside him, the air around him practically vibrating.
I dive.
Water welcomes me like an old friend. Familiar. Honest. It doesn’t care that I’m terrified or confused or pretending I know what I’m doing with this love—this us. It doesn’t care that I’m pregnant and hormonal and aching in ways I can’t talk about without crying.
Here, I can just move.
I slice through the water while I forget about the curve of Callaway’s mouth when he’s teasing. The low rumble of Monty’s voice when he reads instructions aloud because he doesn’t trust anyone else to follow them correctly.
I forget that this—this thing between us—isn’t safe.
But when I surface, they’re still watching me.
Callaway’s hands are shoved deep in his pockets like they might keep him from doing something reckless.
But he’s hard—his body already betraying him.
His sweatpants are a goddamn cry for help.
And Monty—Monty looks like he’s holding himself together with threadbare restraint, arms folded, jaw locked, eyes dark with heat he’ll pretend he doesn’t feel.
“The pool is warm. What is it, seventy-five degrees?” I ask, breathless, pushing wet hair back from my face.
“As the doctor recommended,” Monty replies. Clipped. Controlled. So Monty.
“Perfect.” I tread water.
Since I have something important to say, I begin.
“I spoke to the owner of Transcend,” I say, louder than I need to.
Callaway tilts his head. “Yeah?”
“He said we might be a good fit. I’ll help with a documentary—ongoing, something they want continuity for. If it works, I’ll stay on. Freelance. No commitment unless I want one.”
Monty jumps in like I knew he would. “You sent your portfolio—what else do they need to see?”
“More than some reels and my scripts,” I snap, and then soften. “It’s a test. If I match their style, great. If not, there are other projects they need me to work on. I really want to do this.”
“You don’t need to prove anything,” Callaway says.
“I’m not trying to prove anything.” But my voice wavers. Just a fraction. I hate how easy it is to fall apart in front of them.
They both give me worried looks.
“I know you think you’re helping.” My voice lifts and breaks, not loud but loud enough. “You think if you buy a safer house, hire a team, control every detail, you can protect me.”
Callaway’s mouth tightens. Monty doesn’t move, but something inside him does—like a fault line shifting.
“But I’m not crystal,” I say, throat pulling tight. “I’m not something you pack away because you’re afraid I’ll break.”
Monty flinches. Not visibly. But I see it.
“I love you,” I say, eyes bouncing between them, trying not to drown in how exposed I feel. “Both of you. And I’m here. I’m choosing this. Choosing us.”
Callaway takes a step forward like he wants to wrap me in his arms and never let go.
“No,” I stop him. I lift my hand from the water, droplets falling like punctuation. “You don’t get to interrupt me when I’m finally saying the shit I never say.”
His eyes drop to my fingers, tracking the way they glisten. His jaw flexes again, but he nods.
“And you,” I say, locking eyes with Monty. “Don’t stand there like you’re the only one who’s ever been scared to lose something that matters. We’re all fucking scared.”
Monty doesn’t answer.
“I’ll agree to security. But I’m not a dependent. I want a voice. If I can’t contribute to the mortgage, fine. But I’ll pay expenses. I want to build this life with you. Not be tucked away in it.”
Callaway’s gaze softens, but Monty’s mouth is a firm line.
“We’re trying to take care of you,” Monty says.
“I know. But I’m not a porcelain doll.” I laugh without humor. “I’m already cracked. But you don’t fix people by smothering them.”
Silence.
Then I shift, swimming to the edge of the pool and bracing myself against the side.
“There’s more.”
Callaway’s breath catches. Monty doesn’t move.
“If you’re jealous,” I say slowly, “say jealous. If you’re scared, say scared. Don’t punish me with silence because you don’t want to fight in front of the girl as if you were in the middle of an ice rink.”
They look at each other.
Callaway smirks. “We are literally hockey players.”
I roll my eyes but continue. “And stop talking through me. You’re not teenagers using their friend as a go-between. You speak. To each other.”
Monty’s brow twitches. Callaway actually salutes me.
“And if we’re doing this,” I say, quieter now. “Then we don’t pretend. We don’t lie. We don’t turn things into secrets because we’re scared of what happens if we say them out loud.”
Callaway’s voice drops. “Okay.”
Monty’s answer is delayed. Barely a whisper. “Okay.”
There’s a pause.
“That’s it?” Callaway strips off his shirt. Like he’s been waiting for the cue.
“You joining me?” I ask, lifting a brow, pretending like I don’t notice the way his eyes crawl over me. Like he doesn’t look like sin carved out of gold.
Callaway grins, wolfish and eager. “You want me wet, sunshine? Just say the word.”
Monty groans. “Jesus Christ.”
Callaway steps closer, his voice low and rough. “I’d fuck you against the wall right now if I didn’t think you’d kill me for ruining the grout.”
Heat pools in my gut. A breath catches. My knees wobble in the water.
“You’re not helping your case,” I say, breathless.
“I wasn’t trying to,” he growls. “You stripped in front of us like it was nothing—bra, panties, that fucking body—and you think I’m not gonna get hard?
I’ve been rock fucking hard since you bent over to take your clothes off, and if I touch you, Ves, I’m not stopping.
Not until you’re coming with both our names in your mouth.
So think about what you want, because when we enter that pool, I want to know your boundaries, little minx. ”
Monty moves then. Fast. Controlled. Controlled for him. He doesn’t speak—he never does unless it matters.
But his eyes? They promise things.
Things I’m not sure I’m brave enough to ask for.
But maybe tonight, I will.