5. Nora
NORA
I wake up to voices.
Somewhere deeper in the villa, carrying through open doors and high ceilings — the clatter of plates, water running, someone laughing. Jude. I'd know that laugh anywhere after forty-eight hours of it. Loud and unfiltered and completely shameless, like joy is something he refuses to keep contained.
I blink at the ceiling. White. Unfamiliar. The morning light is different here — softer, filtered through expensive curtains I don't remember closing. Then the rest comes back in a rush.
Rhett's bedroom. Rhett's bed. His sheets twisted around my legs, his scent on the pillow beside me — clean and warm and male in a way that makes my stomach flip even now. The ghost of his hands still pressed into my skin like a brand.
I shift. Feel the ache immediately. Not bad. Just there. A low, pleasant soreness between my thighs that reminds me exactly what happened last night. What happened twice last night.
Once with Cade, his weight pinning me to the bed, his voice low and filthy in my ear. Once with Rhett, his mouth trailing down my body, his hands impossibly gentle even when I begged him not to be.
I should probably be spiraling right now. Having some kind of moral reckoning. Calling Dina in a panic. Staring at myself in the mirror and asking what the hell I'm doing with my life.
Instead, my stomach growls.
Right. I'm starving.
I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest even though there's no one here to see. The fabric is cool and expensive against my skin, the kind of thread count I didn't know existed until two days ago.
My nightgown is on the recliner across the room, dry, clean, and folded, a pale crumpled heap against dark leather. I grab it, pull it over my head, and smooth it down over my hips. It's wrinkled. I don't care.
The fabric sticks to my skin. I smell like chlorine and sex and something else I can't name. Him, probably. Them. God, is that what I smell like now? Like I've been thoroughly worked over by two men who know exactly what they're doing?
The voices drift closer. Someone says something I can't make out and Jude cackles, and then there's a lower voice cutting in — steady, measured. Cade, maybe. Or Rhett.
Rhett, who tucked me into this bed last night. Who dried me off with a towel like I was something precious, kissed my hair, and held my hand until I fell asleep. Rhett, who told me he wanted to take care of me and then did.
I press my palms to my cheeks. They're warm. Flushed. I look like I've been fucked. Twice. Because I have.
Okay. I can do this. I can walk into a kitchen where three men are eating breakfast and act like a normal human being. A normal human being who had sex with two of them in the span of four hours and is apparently fine about it.
I'm fine about it.
I am.
My legs feel shaky when I stand. I ignore that. Ignore the way my thighs protest, the way my body feels loose and used in a way that should probably bother me but doesn't. I smooth my hair down — it's a mess, wild red curls tangled and knotted — and give up after three seconds.
There's no fixing this. I look like I rolled out of someone's bed because I did.
I follow the voices.
The kitchen is massive. Open-plan, white marble countertops, floor-to-ceiling windows that frame the ocean like a postcard. There's an island in the center with bar stools lined up along one side, and all three of them are there.
Jude's at the stove, waving a spatula and talking at full volume. Rhett's leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee, listening with a faint smile. Cade's sitting on one of the stools, scrolling through his phone, his posture relaxed in a way that should not be as attractive as it is.
They all look up when I walk in.
Cade's gaze is steady. Dark and knowing and completely unapologetic. He doesn't smile, but his eyes do something that makes my pulse kick.
Rhett's softer. Warmer. He straightens slightly, setting his mug down, and there's something private in his expression. Something just for me.
Jude grins. Wide and bright and utterly delighted, like I just made his entire morning by existing.
"Morning, sleeping beauty," he says, pointing the spatula at me. "Hope you're hungry because I made approximately seven thousand pancakes."
I glance at the stove. There are, in fact, a ridiculous number of pancakes stacked on a plate. Also eggs. Also what looks like bacon. Also something smoking slightly that might have once been toast.
"You made all that?"
"I reheated all that," Jude corrects. "The caterers left enough food to survive the apocalypse. I just had to figure out which buttons to press. Turns out, it's all the buttons."
"He burned three plates before this one," Rhett says mildly.
"They weren't burned. They were crispy."
"The smoke alarm went off."
"Ambiance."
I laugh. Can't help it. Jude looks so proud of himself, standing there in swim trunks and a T-shirt that says something I can't read from this angle, waving his spatula like he just won a cooking competition.
Cade glances up from his phone. "Sit. Eat."
I slide onto the stool beside him, hyper-aware of how close he is. How the scent of him — soap and something darker — is the same as it was last night when he had me pressed into his mattress.
Rhett pours me coffee without asking. Slides the mug across the counter. Our fingers brush when I take it.
"You sleep okay?" he asks.
"Yeah." My voice comes out steadier than I expected. "Really well, actually."
His mouth quirks. "Good."
There's weight in the word. Weight in the way he's looking at me. I sip the coffee to give myself something to do with my hands.
Jude slides a plate in front of me. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, something that might be a hash brown. It smells incredible.
"Eat," he says, echoing Cade. Then he leans on the counter across from me, propping his chin in his hand. "So. How's your morning so far? Scale of one to ten. And be honest, because I'm very emotionally invested in this breakfast."
I glance at the plate. At him. At the other two, who are both watching me with varying degrees of amusement.
"It's... surreal."
"Surreal good or surreal bad?"
"Surreal like I'm eating reheated wedding food in a kitchen that costs more than my entire apartment building while three men stare at me."
Jude grins. "We're not staring. We're appreciating."
"That's staring."
"No, staring would be if we didn't blink. I blink. See?" He blinks exaggeratedly. "Totally normal."
Rhett shakes his head. "Ignore him."
"I'm right here."
"I know. That's the problem."
I take a bite of pancake. It's perfect. Fluffy and sweet and exactly what I needed. I might have moaned. Just a little.
Cade's gaze sharpens. I feel it like a touch.
"Good?" he asks.
"Really good."
Jude beams. "Told you. Championship-level reheating. It's a gift."
"You pressed a button."
"A very specific button. There were options. I chose wisely."
Rhett takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes on me over the rim. "You hungry? There's more if you want it."
"I'm good. This is—" I gesture at the plate. "This is a lot."
"You didn't eat dinner."
I blink at him. He's right. I didn't. I went straight from the jacuzzi to his bed and passed out in about thirty seconds.
"How do you know that?"
"I was paying attention."
The way he says it — casual, matter-of-fact — makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
Jude leans closer. "So. Question."
"Oh no."
"Important question."
"That makes it worse."
He grins. "Is the chopper coming to pick us up tomorrow?"
I freeze mid-bite. Set my fork down. "Wait. Is it?"
Jude tilts his head. "Do you want it to?"
The question hangs there. All three of them are looking at me now. Not just looking. Watching. Waiting.
I meet Jude's gaze. "Depends on whether the present company bores me to death."
His grin widens. "Challenge accepted."
Something shifts in the air. Not big. Just enough that I feel it. The way Jude's eyes brighten, the way Cade's mouth twitches, the way Rhett's focus sharpens.
Jude straightens, clapping his hands together. "Okay. New plan. Pool party. Half an hour. Music, sunshine, questionable dance moves. It's happening."
"Pool party," I repeat.
"Mandatory. All four of us. No excuses."
"It's not even ten in the morning."
"Perfect pool party time. And—" He points at me, grin turning wicked. "Wear your skimpiest bikini."
My brain short-circuits. "My what."
"You heard me. Skimpiest. Tiniest. Most illegal-in-several-countries bikini you packed. I know you have one. Everyone has one."
"Challenge accepted," I say.
The words come out before I can stop them. Before I can second-guess or backtrack or remind myself that I don't do this. I don't take dares from men who look like they were designed in a lab to make women forget their own names.
But I just did.
Jude's grin turns blinding. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
Cade sets his phone down. Looks at me. Doesn't say anything. Just looks.
Rhett's smiling. Quiet. Warm. "Half an hour," he says.
"Half an hour," I confirm.
Then I stand, grab my coffee, and walk out of the kitchen before I can change my mind.
My guest suite is exactly as I left it. Suitcase open on the luggage rack, clothes spilling out in a chaotic pile because I still haven't fully unpacked. I set the coffee on the nightstand and dig through the suitcase, pushing aside sundresses and shorts and the one pair of jeans I brought.
There. At the bottom.
I pull it out and hold it up.
It's barely there. Two scraps of turquoise fabric held together by strings that look like they'd snap if I breathed wrong. The top is a triangle bikini that might cover my nipples if I'm very, very still. The bottoms are worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it.
Dina packed this.
I can see her now, standing in my bedroom two days before I left, holding this thing up with a wicked grin. "For emergencies," she'd said. I'd laughed. Told her absolutely not. She'd stuffed it in my suitcase anyway because Dina has never once in her life respected a boundary.
I stare at it.