7. Nora
NORA
The risotto has truffle in it.
Actual truffle. Little dark flecks throughout the creamy rice, the scent earthy and rich and so decadent my brain shorts out for a second. I scoop another forkful into my mouth and close my eyes because anything less feels disrespectful to this level of flavor.
"Good?"
I open my eyes. Rhett sits across from me, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
"This is criminal," I say around the bite. Swallow. Point my fork at the dish. "I eat canned soup for dinner three times a week. Sometimes four if I'm budgeting for emergency vet bills. And now I'm sitting here with reheated wedding leftovers that probably cost more per ounce than my rent."
Jude laughs, loud and bright. He's sprawled in the chair beside me, barefoot, hair still damp from the pool. "Don't think about the cost. Just eat."
"That's easy for you to say. You've probably never eaten canned soup in your life."
"Not true." He grins. "I had ramen once in college."
"Once."
"It was an experience."
Cade sits at the head of the table, quiet, watchful. He cuts into a slice of beef Wellington with surgical precision. The pastry flakes under the knife, golden and perfect even a day later. He glances up, catches me staring.
"What?"
"Nothing. Just... beef Wellington. For lunch. On a Wednesday."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. "It's Monday."
"That doesn't make it less insane."
Rhett refills my water glass without asking. The pitcher sweats condensation onto the table. Ice clinks against the sides. He pours his own next, then Jude's.
The dining area opens onto the pool deck through massive sliding glass doors. Sunlight pours in, bright and warm, turning the white marble floor into something that glows. The ocean stretches endless beyond the infinity pool, blue meeting blue at the horizon line.
I spear a piece of duck confit from the platter in the center of the table. The meat falls apart under my fork, tender and rich, the skin crispy despite being reheated. A fig reduction pools around it, dark and sweet.
"Okay, real question," I say. "Do you guys eat like this every day? Or is this just because the wedding caterers went completely overboard?"
"Both," Jude says.
Cade doesn't look up from his plate. "We eat well."
"That's an understatement." I gesture at the spread. Lobster thermidor in a ceramic dish. A charcuterie board with cheeses I can't pronounce. Bread so artisanal it looks like it belongs in a museum. "This is a Michelin-star buffet. I'm eating lunch with people who think truffle risotto is normal."
"It is normal," Rhett says, deadpan.
"For you, maybe. For me, normal is a peanut butter sandwich over the sink while I'm checking adoption applications."
Jude leans forward, elbows on the table. "Do you actually do that? Stand over the sink?"
"Sometimes I sit on the counter if I'm feeling fancy."
He grins wider. "I like that image."
"Don't."
"Too late. Already filed away."
I roll my eyes, but warmth curls through my chest. The conversation flows easy, no tension, no weight. We're just... eating. Talking. Existing in the same space without everything feeling charged and impossible.
Cade finishes his Wellington, sets down his fork. "You want more?"
I glance at my plate. Still half-full. "I'm good. If I eat any more I'll need a nap."
"Naps are allowed," Jude says. "Encouraged, even."
"By you, maybe. You'd nap through an apocalypse."
"Damn right I would. Why face the end of the world on low sleep?"
Rhett shakes his head, but his mouth curves. He reaches for the bread, tears off a piece, offers it to me. I take it. The crust cuts into my palm, rough and real.
This moment—this exact moment—feels more surreal than anything else that's happened on this island. Not the private helicopter. Not the infinity pool. Not waking up in Cade's bed or Rhett's arms or coming apart in the water with Jude inside me.
This. Lunch. Four people eating reheated wedding food and passing bread and laughing about canned soup.
I bite into the bread. It tastes perfect.
"Wait, I have to show you something."
I grab my phone from where I left it on the counter, swipe it open. My screen saver is a photo of Houdini. His tongue lolls out, ears askew, eyes bright and full of mischief.
Jude perks up. "Who's that?"
"Houdini. He's my baby." I scroll through my camera roll, looking for the best shots. "Three legs, zero brain cells, the sweetest soul you'll ever meet."
"What happened to his leg?" Rhett asks.
"Hit by a car." I pull up another photo—Houdini sprawled across my lap, head on my knee, eyes closed in bliss. "He's been with us ever since."
Cade leans forward slightly. His gaze drops to the screen. "No one adopted him?"
"Not yet. People see three legs and assume he's broken. But he's not. He runs, he plays, he's just... Houdini." I swipe again. "This is Duchess. She hates everyone except Dina."
The photo shows a sleek gray cat with yellow eyes, sitting on a shelf, staring directly into the camera with pure disdain.
Jude laughs. "She looks like she's plotting murder."
"She probably is. Dina's the only one who can pick her up without losing skin." I scroll faster now, excitement bubbling up. "This is Hank. Senior dog. Twelve years old. Arthritis in his hips. Moves slower than molasses but he's the gentlest thing alive."
Rhett studies the photo. Hank's graying muzzle, droopy eyes, the way he's curled on a blanket in the corner of a kennel.
"Does anyone want him?"
My chest tightens. "Not so far. People want puppies. They want energy and years ahead. Hank's got maybe two, three years left. But those years deserve love too."
Silence.
Then Cade's voice, low and steady. "Show us more."
So I do.
I show them Peanut, the kitten found in a dumpster who screams at the top of his lungs every morning until someone feeds him.
I show them Rosie, the pit bull mix with the cropped ears and the scar across her shoulder who curls into the smallest ball when she sleeps.
I show them the bonded pair of orange tabbies who have to be adopted together or they cry.
I talk faster, gesturing with my free hand. The screen blurs as I swipe through photos—animals in kennels, animals in play areas, animals curled on laps or stretched in sunbeams. My throat warms. My voice speeds up.
"This one's Moose. Hundred-pound lab who thinks he's a lapdog. This is Buttons—yes, we let Dina name her, terrible choice—she's blind in one eye but she navigates the center better than I do. Oh, and this?—"
I stop on a photo of a scruffy terrier mix with wiry fur and one ear that flops while the other stands straight.
"This is Kevin."
Jude snorts. "Kevin?"
"Dina named him too. Don't ask." I zoom in on Kevin's face. "He's been with us for eight months. Barks at everything. Loves squeaky toys. Sleeps under my desk when I'm doing paperwork."
Rhett's still watching the screen. "You love them all equally?"
"Yes."
"Liar."
I glare at him. "I do."
"You have favorites."
"I—" I falter. Look down at the phone. Kevin stares back at me, tongue out, looking ridiculous and perfect. "Okay, maybe I have favorites. But I love them all. Every single one."
Cade's eyes haven't left my face. "How many are at the center right now?"
"Twelve."
"How many staff?"
"Two. Me and Dina."
His brow lifts. Just barely. "That's it?"
"We have volunteers who come in on weekends. But yeah. It's mostly us." I set the phone down, suddenly self-conscious. "It's not a big operation. We do what we can."
Jude leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "Sounds like a lot."
"It is. But I wouldn't trade it."
"Even for a job that pays more?"
"Even for that."
Silence settles again. Not uncomfortable. Weighted.
Rhett pours more water into my glass. Cade's fingers tap once against the table, a slow deliberate rhythm.
Then Cade speaks.
"You own part of it. How much do you actually make?"
I pick at the edge of my napkin. "Not much."
"How much?"
"Cade—"
"How much, Nora?"
I meet his eyes. Brown and steady and relentless. "Enough to cover rent and food. Barely. But it doesn't matter. I'd do it for free if I could."
His jaw shifts. He doesn't respond. Just looks at me, calculating something I can't read.
Rhett's voice cuts through the quiet. "Do you rent?"
I blink at him. "The apartment?"
"The center."
"Oh. Yeah. We rent the space. First floor of a three-story building near downtown." I twist the napkin between my fingers. "The lease is up in a year. We've been trying to save for a renewal, but the building owner mentioned selling. If that happens..."
I don't finish. Don't need to.
Jude sits forward, elbows on his knees. "What happens if you lose the space?"
"We find somewhere else. Or we don't. I don't know. Dina and I pooled everything we had to start the center. We took out a loan. If the building sells and we can't afford the new terms or find another place..." I shrug, aiming for casual. Missing. "We'll figure it out. We always do."
The weight in the room thickens. All three of them watch me. Not pity. Something else. Something I can't name.
Jude's the one who breaks it.
"If funds weren't an issue, what would you change?"
The question lands soft, curious. No pressure behind it. Just genuine interest.
I stare at him. "What?"
"The center. If money wasn't a problem, what would you do differently?"
My brain stalls. Restarts. "That's a big hypothetical."
"Humor me."
I exhale. Look down at my phone, still open to Kevin's ridiculous face. "Everything. I'd change everything."
"Like what?"
"More space. Better facilities. Right now the kennels are small.
Functional, but small. I'd want bigger runs.
A real play area, indoors and out. Separate spaces for cats so they're not stressed by the dogs.
" I'm talking faster now, hands moving. "I'd upgrade the medical suite.
We partner with a vet clinic down the street, but it would be better to have everything on-site. And I'd?—"
I stop. Bite my lip.
"What?" Rhett prompts.
"I'd make it feel like home. Not just a holding space until someone adopts them.
Comfortable beds. Toys. Enrichment. I want every animal to feel loved.
Even the ones who never leave." My voice cracks slightly.
I clear my throat. "Especially the ones who never leave.
Hank deserves a soft bed and a warm room and someone who scratches behind his ears every day, whether he gets adopted or not. They all do."
The room goes still.
I glance up. All three of them stare at me. Cade's expression is unreadable. Rhett's eyes are too bright. Jude's mouth curves, but it's not his usual grin. It's softer. Smaller.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing," Jude says. "Just... you're really fucking good, you know that?"
"I'm not?—"
"You are."
Cade cuts in. "What does the building cost?"
I blink. "What?"
"The three-story building. What's the price?"
"I—I don't know. The owner hasn't listed it yet. Probably more than Dina and I could ever afford." I laugh, but it sounds thin. "We're barely covering rent as it is. Buying the building? That's not... that's not realistic."
He doesn't respond. Just nods once, slow and deliberate.
Rhett shifts in his seat. "How many square feet?"
"Maybe four thousand? The first floor is ours. The upper two are empty. The owner mentioned converting them into apartments, but I don't think they ever did."
"So you'd have room to expand."
"In theory. If we owned it. Which we don't."
Jude taps his fingers on the table. "The animals that don't get adopted—where do they go?"
"Nowhere. They stay. We're a no-kill shelter. Once they're with us, they're with us. Forever, if it comes to that."
His face does something complicated. "You keep them all?"
"As long as we can. That's the whole point." I pick up my water glass, take a sip. My hands shake slightly. "I know it's not practical. I know most shelters can't operate that way. But I can't—I can't give up on them. They've been abandoned once already. I'm not doing it again."
The silence stretches.
Then Rhett's voice, quiet. "What's Kevin's story?"
I glance at the phone. Kevin's lopsided ears, his scruffy face.
"Puppy mill rescue. Spent the first two years of his life in a cage.
He didn't know how to walk on grass when we got him.
Peed on the floor for weeks because he didn't understand outside.
" My throat tightens. "He's getting better.
Slowly. But he's still scared of most people. "
"Except you."
"Except me. And Dina. Sometimes."
Cade leans back in his chair. His gaze hasn't wavered. "You're good at this."
"At what?"
"Caring."
The word sits heavy between us. I don't know what to do with it. So I look away, out toward the ocean, and try to breathe past the fullness in my chest.
Lunch winds down slowly.
Jude clears plates without being asked. Rhett wipes down the counter. Cade lingers at the table, scrolling through something on his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration.
I stay in my chair, phone still in my hand, screen dark now. My brain feels full. Overfull. The conversation loops in my head—the questions, the answers, the way all three of them listened like they genuinely cared.
Because they did.
That's the part that breaks me open.
They cared about Biscuit. About Hank. About Kevin and Duchess and the bonded orange tabbies. They asked real questions. They didn't get bored. They didn't check their phones or change the subject or make jokes to fill the silence.
They just... listened.
I glance at Cade first. He's still focused on his screen, jaw tight, fingers moving fast. Whatever he's reading, it matters. He asked the hard question—how much do you make—and didn't soften it. Didn't apologize. Just wanted the truth.
Then Rhett. He's drying his hands on a towel, gaze distant, thinking about something I can't see. He asked about the building, about the logistics. He remembered details I mentioned an hour ago. He poured my water without me asking.
Finally Jude. He's leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with that open, easy expression that makes my chest ache. He asked the dream question. The what-if. The impossible hypothetical that unlocked everything I've been holding back.
Three men.
Three completely different men.
And I want all of them.
I can't choose.
Cade, who sees through my deflections and asks the questions that matter. Rhett, who notices everything and makes me feel seen in ways I didn't know I needed. Jude, who makes me laugh and dream and believe in impossible things.
I don't want to choose.
I look at each of them again—really look—and the realization expands, filling every corner of my chest.
They fit. Not interchangeable. Not competing. Just... fitting. Each one offers something the others don't. Each one fills a space I didn't know was empty.
Together, they make me feel whole.
I press my palm flat against the table. The marble is cool under my hand.
There's no way I can choose between them.
And maybe—maybe—I don't have to.