Epilogue
CHLOE
The coffee shop near campus serves decent lattes and terrible pastries, but it's halfway between my advanced finance class and Chris's office, which makes it perfect for our Tuesday routine.
He's already claimed a corner table when I walk in, sleeves rolled up, reading something on his phone that makes his mouth tighten at one corner.
"Bad news or just Dad being Dad?" I slide into the chair across from him.
"Your father sent another email to my assistant about 'discussing the family situation.'" Chris doesn't look up from his phone. "I told her to send him a fruit basket."
"A fruit basket."
"Seemed more polite than what I wanted to send him."
Three weeks since the cabin. Three weeks since Dad cut me off completely — tuition, apartment, credit cards, the works. Three weeks since Allison stopped taking her sons' calls.
The financial nuclear option that was supposed to bring us crawling back lasted approximately forty-eight hours before Chris handed me a new credit card and Adam moved my things out of my Evanston apartment.
Turns out when three men collectively own more real estate than small countries, one vindictive stepfather becomes irrelevant pretty fast.
"How's the penthouse living treating you?" Chris signals the barista for two lattes without asking what I want. He already knows.
"Terrible. Your shower has six different settings and your coffee maker requires an engineering degree." I lean back in my chair. "Also your neighbors keep leaving fancy wine outside the door."
"They're trying to figure out who you are."
"What did you tell them?"
"That you're my girlfriend." He finally looks up from his phone. "They stopped asking questions after that."
My girlfriend. Still sounds strange coming from his mouth. Not wrong — just strange in the way that all good things feel strange when they're new. Like wearing expensive clothes or living in a place with more square footage than my childhood home.
The lattes arrive. Chris tips the barista twenty dollars for two drinks that cost eight.
"Harry called earlier," he says, stirring sugar into his coffee with the kind of precision he brings to everything. "Wants to know what you want for lunch tomorrow."
I think for exactly half a second. "Italian."
"Italian," he repeats, typing something into his phone.
"The place on Clark Street does good carbonara."
"Mmm." Chris finishes typing and slides his phone back into his pocket. "I'll let him know."
My last class — International Business Strategy — runs until four. Professor Morrison keeps us an extra ten minutes discussing export regulations, which means I'm speed-walking across campus toward the pickup spot when I see the limo.
Not unusual. These men have money and they use it, including hiring drivers instead of dealing with Chicago traffic. What's unusual is that all three of them are inside when I climb in.
Adam's loosened his tie. Harry's jacket is folded neatly beside him. Chris has changed out of his work clothes entirely and into dark jeans and a sweater I've never seen before. They look like they're dressed for travel.
"Where are we going?" I settle into the seat across from them and reach for my seatbelt.
"Airport," Harry says without looking up from his bourbon.
I pause, seatbelt halfway across my chest. "I don't have my passport."
Chris reaches into his jacket and produces a small blue book. My passport. He lifts it slightly, like proof.
I roll my eyes. "This is why you asked me to put it in the hallway drawer."
The limo pulls away from the curb, heading toward I-94. Definitely airport-bound. I look from Chris to Adam to Harry, all of whom are watching me with expressions ranging from barely contained amusement to outright anticipation.
"Okay." I fasten my seatbelt and lean forward. "Where exactly are we going?"
Harry takes a sip of his bourbon and meets my eyes. His face is completely serious. "You said you wanted Italian for lunch tomorrow."
The words land in my brain and bounce around for a few seconds before connecting to anything resembling meaning. I said Italian. For lunch. Tomorrow. And they are taking me to the airport.
"You mean the restaurant on Clark Street."
"No," Harry says, still deadpan. "I mean Italy."
The silence stretches long enough for the full absurdity to sink in. They are flying me to Italy. To actual Italy. Because I said the word "Italian" and these men heard that and thought, naturally, transatlantic flight.
The laughter starts small — just a huff of disbelief — and builds until I'm doubled over in the leather seat, laughing so hard my eyes water. Not delicate, pretty laughter. The kind of full-body response that makes my ribs ache and my face hurt.
"You're insane," I gasp between fits. "All of you. Completely insane."
Adam grins and reaches over to brush a tear off my cheek. "You said Italian."
"I meant pasta! From a restaurant! In Chicago!"
"Too late," Chris says, but he's smiling too. "Harry already filed the flight plan."
I look at Harry, who's watching my breakdown with the kind of satisfied expression most people reserve for successfully parallel parking. "This is your fault."
"You were very specific about your lunch preferences."
"I said one word!"
"Italian," he agrees. "So we're going to Italy."
The laughter bubbles up again, and this time I don't try to stop it. I lean back in the seat and let it wash over me — the ridiculousness of my life, the sheer over-the-top insanity of being loved by three men who hear "Italian food" and start planning international travel.
"How long is the flight?" I ask when I can breathe again.
"Eight hours," Adam says. "Give or take."
"And you're all just... taking time off work to fly to Italy for lunch."
"We're the bosses," Chris points out. "We can take time off whenever we want."
"For lunch."
"For you," Harry corrects, and the quiet way he says it makes my chest tighten in the best possible way.
Outside the window, Chicago slides past in a blur of late afternoon light. Inside the limo, three impossibly attractive men watch me with expressions of such obvious affection it makes me want to laugh all over again.
Instead, I reach for Adam's hand and let myself sink back into the leather seat. "Next time I'm asking for sushi. See what you do with that."
"Harry knows a place in Tokyo," Chris says without missing a beat.
The laughter starts again, bright and helpless, and follows us all the way to the airport.