Epilogue Paradise Found
Stella
Tahitian sunlight is a brand of gold they don’t have back in the Twin Cities.
Here, every photon is perfumed with salt and the electric green of palm fronds, and it sinks through skin so deep you feel it all the way to the root of your spine.
We have been on this beach—our beach—for a week, and I am, for the first time in my adult life, totally at peace.
We’re three months into the endless honeymoon.
Six since the commitment ceremony, which was written up in at least two local lifestyle rags as “a bold, possibly illegal, reimagining of the modern triad partnership.” I have no idea how these magazines even heard of our wedding, or why they decided to cover it, but I clipped them both, and I kept the second one for posterity because the photo editor selected a shot where you can see me beaming at both of my handsome grooms, radiating happiness.
Hunter framed it in the upstairs hallway, and I love that it occupies a place of honor in our home.
But now we’re on vacation, and it’s utter heaven.
The cabana itself is barely a structure—just four whitewashed beams, a roof of woven fronds, and a tangle of navy linen cushions pillowed across two sunken loungers and a low, sand-dusted table.
The ocean starts maybe thirty feet away, the tide line an always-moving zipper, slow and unrushed.
The sound is constant, like God’s own white noise machine, only more expensive.
It’s hot, but not Minnesota hot, which is always a flavor of punishment.
Here, the air strokes your skin, makes you want to stretch and sleep and then stretch again.
Hunter is in full animal mode, which means linen shorts and nothing else.
His hair is a little too long now, curling damp at the neck, and there’s a stripe of pink on his chest where he missed a spot with the spray-on sunscreen.
His tan is unfair because the man is a bronzed god, complete with broad shoulders and rippling muscle.
He sits beside me on the lounger, left ankle slung across his right knee, a hand on my bare thigh.
Not just touching—owning. The bottle of champagne between us sweats in the heat, and every now and then he drags a single, cold drop from the glass and lets it fall on my skin, just to watch me shiver.
Lachlan, across from us, is the mirror of every sun god myth ever written.
I don’t know how a body can be so solid and yet look like it’s never done a single thing in anger.
His torso is gold, his trunks a faded blue, and his hair sun-bleached and almost white-gold at this point.
He holds his glass with his thumb and two fingers, turning it slow, like he’s remembering how it got there.
When he looks at me, which is often, it’s with this combination of hunger and awe that still, after all these months, has the power to make me blush.
I’m sprawled across the lounger in what amounts to an afterthought of a bikini: black, with silver rings at each hip and between the breasts, nothing but enough fabric to make the argument that I bothered.
My skin has gone from winter-pale to something much more daring, all thanks to a layer of oil that both men reapply, hourly, with the sort of care normally reserved for delicate flowers.
My hair is wild and a little crunchy at the ends, the color brighter than ever, and the only jewelry I’m wearing are the rings gifted me by my men—Hunter’s on the right, Lachlan’s on the left, and the third, in its usual secret place.
My thighs clench with pleasure because I love having my secret ring where it belongs.
It’s a special bit of pleasure that I carry with me whenever I can.
We’ve been reading, mostly. Or I’ve been reading, and the men have been pretending to read while actually watching me. Every now and then Hunter makes a remark about the plot, just to prove he’s not as distracted as he looks, but he always gets the characters’ names wrong.
Right now, though, the books are face down and the conversation is one of those lazy, circling things, like a cat in a patch of sun.
“I’m not saying I miss work,” I start, “but I have this weird, low-level urge to do something. Like, I might start volunteering for a local animal shelter, just so I have something to do.” I swirl the champagne in my glass, watching the bubbles climb.
“Or maybe I’ll go back to school. Just for fun. ”
Lachlan sets his glass down, folding his hands across his stomach. “In what subject?” His accent has softened, these days, but sometimes the vowels get rounder when he’s not thinking.
“Probably something totally useless,” I say. “Philosophy. Or quantum physics. Or...I don’t know, underwater basket-weaving. Just so I can tell people I did.”
Hunter grins, his thumb tracing a lazy circle on my inner thigh. “You hate academia, star girl. You’d get yourself kicked out in a week for sleeping with your advisor.”
Lachlan laughs, soft, and shakes his head. “That’s assuming she doesn’t seduce the entire department first.”
I sigh, mock-dramatic. “You’re both such anarchists, and besides, you know I’m married to you!”
They grin. “You know it,” growls Lachlan. “You’re ours, Stella.”
After a second, I look up, then take a big breath. “Actually, I was meaning to talk to you guys about something.” I set the glass down and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Something more serious.”
Both men straighten. The hand on my thigh stops moving, but the heat of it gets more intense.
Hunter’s tone is mock-formal. “You have the floor, darling.”
Lachlan just leans forward, elbows to knees, his blue eyes steady.
I take a breath. “Okay, so, um. The two of you have been great about always—” I drop my voice and mouth the word “pulling out,” then grin, “—but I was thinking maybe I’m ready. Or I want to be ready.”
Lachlan’s eyes widen, then soften. He takes my hand, his thumb pressing into the little hollow between my thumb and forefinger. “Ready for what?” he asks, though I think he knows.
Hunter’s jaw tics. He looks at me, really looks, and then says, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
I nod. My heart is beating so loud I can hear it in my ears. “I want to try. For real. I think it would be amazing to have a baby. Your baby, Hunter. Or Lachlan’s child. Either would be incredible.”
The words sit in the air for a second, as if no one is brave enough to pick them up. The ocean is loud all of a sudden, and the wind shakes the palm leaves in a rush that almost drowns out the next words.
Lachlan lifts my hand to his mouth, kisses the knuckle, and says, “I’d love that, too, baby girl. Nothing could be more sacred and special.”
Hunter’s face goes slack with surprise, then he lets out a short, soft laugh, like he’s just lost a bet with himself. “You want to have our baby, Stella? Are you sure?” His voice is so low I feel it in my stomach.
I nod again, slower this time. “Yes. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’m ready.”
He shakes his head, still half-smiling, and then: “You know, it’s possible to have twins with two different fathers. Superfecundation, I think it’s called.”
I stare at him. “Wait, that’s real?”
He nods. “You ovulate two eggs. Both get fertilized by different sperm. Result is twins, same mom, two dads. Happens more often than you’d think, though you need to be having a lot of sex in a very short window.”
Lachlan snorts, and there’s a sharpness to it, like a spike of tequila. “Well, that won’t be a problem.”
I laugh, high and bright, and I realize I’m a little drunk, a little dizzy from the champagne and the sun and the thought of what I just said out loud. My rings catch the light and for a second I can’t see anything else.
There’s a silence, and then Hunter takes my chin between his thumb and finger and turns my head to look at him. “Are you sure? Because once you do, you can’t put that genie back in the bottle.”
I roll my eyes. “Hunter, we’re married people now. The real deal. I’m not worried about genies or bottles.”
He laughs, then leans in and kisses me. Not a soft kiss. It’s all salt and need, and I bite his lip just to remind him that I can.
Lachlan watches, his own eyes darker than usual, and says, “I would die for you, Stella. You know that, right?”
I smile, suddenly soft. “You don’t have to die. Just help me make a baby.”
He leans over, and now both men are close enough that I can smell them, a mix of sweat and sunscreen and something that’s only us.
For a while, none of us talk. We just breathe, the way you do when something huge is about to happen.
I finally break the silence. “So, we’re agreed? We’ll give it a try, starting next month?”
Hunter grins, his hand now traveling higher, his fingers slipping under the edge of my bikini. “Why wait?” He says it low, meant just for me, but I know Lachlan hears.
And then we’re laughing, all three, because what else do you do when paradise is even better than expected?
Later, the sun has burned low enough that the shadows are longer than the cabana itself, and we’re stretched in a lazy triangle across the cushions, sticky with sweat and just a little bit of spilled champagne. The air tastes like candied fruit, and I feel so happy I could eat the sky.
I twist onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow, and watch as Lachlan dozes, head tipped back, mouth just slightly open. He sleeps like the dead, or the very innocent. Hunter watches me watch him, blue eyes half-lidded, and for a moment there’s nothing else in the world.
I decide to break the spell with a story. “I heard from Chloe last night,” I say.
Hunter groans. “Which one of your friends is Chloe? The one who posts too many cat photos, or the one who’s hooking up with some totally inappropriate dude?”
“Both,” I say, grinning. “But to be specific, I’m talking about Chloe whom I used to work with at Nicolette. She’s in a bit of a pickle.”
Hunter raises a brow. “Of course she is.”
Lachlan cracks an eye open, instantly alert. “What happened?”