Chapter Twenty
Maddie
After a trip to the police station, where I made a report about the sheer stalkery that weirdo ex of mine is resorting to, I make a pit stop at a store to get a new phone and change my FindMe details for good measure.
That night, I spend my time in the presence of four delectable-looking men who cook me a beautiful dinner of tacos, nachos, and salad.
Through a date that no one actually calls a date but sort of feels like a date, Ryan helps me set up my new cell, programming his number in along with Caiden’s, Rayne’s, and Baxter’s.
As soon as everything is transferred over and my old phone is now nothing more than a short-lived relic, we spend the remainder of the night talking, watching TV, and getting to know one another.
It’s a really nice night, where I learn a whole lot about the men who now live in the same building as me.
I learn Caiden is an only child to two women who look like models, his genes very clearly coming from his blond-haired, green-eyed mom who looks like the female version of him.
Literally, there’s no mistaking which mama carried him, but the love he has for both women as he talks about them is so clear that I already know they’re good people.
They have to be, because Caiden can only be a byproduct of love, laughter, and a home filled with warmth.
It’s beautiful, and reminds me very much of the love I have for my own parents.
In addition to learning about Caid, I find out Ryan has a sister two years younger than him named Charlie, and wealthy parents who live across the pond in a rural country house someplace in England.
When I saw the photo of the house in question, I very much argued that it’s a fucking castle, but hell, what do I know?
I’m also told Ryan’s mom is close friends with Caiden’s mom, the dark-haired beauty with a dimple in her cheek.
Apparently, they were childhood besties, and so Ryan and Caiden have practically grown up together.
Since I already knew about Baxter’s mom, he tells me more about his dad and brother, Benji, and how their business started.
It’s clear the love came from his dad, passing down the restoration bug to his sons, who turned it into an entire franchise in honor of the man who started it all.
My heart feels all warm and fuzzy all night after that particular revelation.
The only one of the four I struggle to learn much about is Rayne.
It’s like trying to draw blood from a stone, every question batted away with short, clipped answers that reveal next to nothing about the guy.
I only learn that he’s an only child, he isn’t in contact with his father, and his mom isn’t around.
I don’t push more than that, feeling the clear signal that he doesn’t want to talk about it, leaving him in a tatted fog of mystery I want to walk right into.
The remainder of the night is spent watching Bob’s Burgers, Caiden and I doing our very best Bob and Linda impressions, Ryan throwing in the occasional Tina, and it’s genuinely one of the best nights I’ve had in such a long time.
So much so that I invite the guys to dinner three more times during that week, each of us taking turns cooking or ordering takeout.
And during each night spent hanging out, I find that I really love their company.
It’s easy with all of them, even Rayne. Hell, I could sit in silence with the guy and I’d be totally at ease, the strange comfort I feel around them inescapable.
I can’t even explain why I feel most relaxed around them, having never felt an ounce of what I feel now when I was around Toby.
But with every moment spent with them, laughing and joking, talking and listening, and simply existing in one another’s atmosphere, I find that I’m growing rapidly and scarily attached.
I know I shouldn’t, because surely that’s a disaster waiting to happen, but tell that to my head and heart.
Every time I’m with them, I melt. It’s like it’s wired into my DNA to absolutely fold like a deck chair when they're near, practically swooning at every smile, smirk, or laugh. And what’s worse is that I simply can’t choose which man I prefer.
It’s impossible. They’re all so different from one another, but coexist so harmoniously that it’s an impossible task to pick one man and brush the others aside.
Which makes me feel like a total hussy. Apparently, my vagina is a carnival ride, because I’d allow all four men to take a ride. Hell, they can have several turns and I’d be a happy camper.
Those thoughts plague me like a disease for the following four weeks, my mind only clearing when the four of them come over for dinner, dessert and movies, or TV shows.
In true maddening fashion, it’s grown into a bit of a habit to text or call and ask what we’re doing for dinner, with only a handful of nights spent with my best friends or working overtime at the studio.
When I’m not busy, I either end up at their apartment, or they’re at mine, as though we’ve formed a funny little routine where we eat, hang out, and learn all there is to learn about one another.
By the end of week four, my bruises have long since healed, my face is back to its default settings, and I feel like I pretty much know these men like the back of my hand.
Well, other than Rayne. But even then, I come to the startling realization that my heart is fucked six ways to Sunday, because there isn’t a chance in the pits of hell that I could allow myself to fall for only one of them.
Despite what little I know about him, he’s wormed his way into my heart alongside the others, and I’m not sure how the hell I’m meant to carve them out without hurting myself in the process.
Shaking my head out of that thought, the very one that has haunted me since I realized I might be developing feelings for four separate men, I refocus on my cell and reread the messages I’ve tried three times to read in the group chat I’ve been added to.
BAXTER: Please, I beg, stop sending photos of potatoes.
CAIDEN: Well, then, help me choose which ones look better for dinner, dumbass. Why the hell do you think I’m even sending them? For the plot?
RYAN: Isn’t a potato a potato? Surely it doesn’t matter what they look like?
RAYNE: What Ryan said. I’m muting the chat if you send more.
I snicker as I scan the photos of the potatoes Caiden has posted into the chat, yawning loudly while checking them over very closely, diligent in my perusal before texting.
MADDIE: Uncultured swines, the lot of you. Go with the taters in the second photo. They’re chonky and aren’t deformed like the ones in picture four.
A reply comes quickly, as though Caid was waiting for me to chime in, knowing damn well I would. Apparently, I’ve already grown predictable in the weeks we’ve spent hanging out, because where there’s an odd and unusual conversation, there is a very interested me.
CAIDEN: See, I knew you’d be the voice of reason. Potatoes Two, it is. Thanks, Blue.
I laugh-react to the message with a tired smile and tuck my phone away, finally climbing out of my Jeep and dragging my tired ass through the underground apartment parking lot after retrieving my camera bag, laptop bag, and purse with a tired groan.
My entire body aches, my head hurts, and it’s been a long, tiring day at the studio.
Two sessions ran over because a certain celebrity cut her hair before the shoot, and we had to basically construct a whole new head of hair before we could take the photos, and another drama queen refused to wear the clothes a popular company loaned to us because they were blue and his superstitious ass said they were bad luck.
I don’t know what happened today, because I usually only work with cool, chill, and nice people.
These folks must have slipped through the cracks at some point, because none of them were cool, chill, or particularly nice.
They’ve certainly been added to my “never shoot again” list, that’s for sure.
To say the day was a test of my patience is putting it mildly, and Ryan wasn’t there to help break it up like he has been over the past four weeks.
In fact, I’ve grown pretty used to driving him to work with me, allowing him free rein of my lounge while I work, and meeting up during small breaks or lunch.
Sometimes we spend it with the rest of the guys, sometimes it’s just the two of us simply eating a sub sandwich in my office while we chat.
There have only been a few days he hasn’t joined me, and today was one of them, the hellish day dragging more than I’m used to.
Tucking a hand into my loose-fitting beige slacks, I drag my tired ass through the door to the lobby, my platform Vans scuffing along the floor to emphasize how drained I am. I yawn loudly, my free hand covering my mouth just as Callie spots me and waves.
“Hi, Miss Fowler! How was your day?” the petite woman asks, always so friendly and sweet.
I wait until my jaw is no longer unhinged to reply, shooting the girl a smile as I say, “It was long and hard.”
There’s a pause between us before I sigh.
“That’s what she said,” I deadpan, and Callie slaps a hand over her mouth as she giggles at my childish joke. I shake my head and walk toward the desk, almost slumping against it as I ask, “Any messages or mail for me today, Cal?”
Thankfully, she shakes her head, her blond hair brushing her shoulders with the action. “No, ma’am. And we’ve had no more sightings of Mr. Moore.”
“Oh, thank God,” I breathe, hanging my head for a long moment before pulling myself together. Offering Callie an exhausted smile that is quickly overtaken by another yawn, I mutter, “Thanks, Cal. Have a beautiful night.”
“You, too! Get some rest. You look tired,” she replies, waving as I push away from the desk and head toward the elevator.