As the last of the groceries are put away, Trace gets a call and strolls toward the rear of the house, arguing with whomever is on the other line about regulations on new gaming machines. With the phone at his ear, he steps outside, leaving me alone in the kitchen with Cole.
“How was fishing this morning?” I dig around in the fridge, avoiding Cole’s eyes.
“Peaceful.”
I keep my back to him, as if the row of fruit-flavored yogurt requires my attention when all I’m really thinking about is Trace’s growled-out promise in the car.
If he showed restraint in the Walmart bathroom… Sweet lord. My skin tingles with his possessive marks, from the imprint of his teeth on my neck to his come rubbed into my back. He took me thoroughly and aggressively, and we didn’t even have sex. The memory alone makes my muscles clench low in my body. I ache to put my mouth on him, to hold the weight of his cock—”
“How far did he go?” Cole glares at me from his perch on the stool at the kitchen island.
“Excuse me?” My neck goes stiff, and my tongue feels thick in my mouth.
“I won’t repeat myself.” His hands rest on the counter, cupped around a beer bottle.
There’s no tension in his posture or expression, but something dark and restless churns in his brown eyes.
I close the fridge and stand on the opposite side of the island, facing him with lead in my stomach. The urge to glance at Trace’s silhouette beyond the windows claws at me, but I keep my gaze on Cole. “What are you talking about?”
He jerks forward, his eyes thrashing. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“How far did Trace go?” My hackles rise defensively. “Are we talking in terms of first base, second base…? Maybe we should put on pajamas and braid each other’s hair while I tell you all about it.”
“Do not fuck with me!” he roars, crashing a fist onto the counter. “Understood?”
“Do not yell at me,” I say in a low harsh voice and lift my chin. “Am I under-fucking-stood?”
He flattens his mouth in a line, staring at me blankly. Then he blinks, and a surprised sound heaves past his lips, an almost laugh thick with frustration.
Outside, Trace moves in my periphery. I meet his icy eyes through the windowed door. He’s still on the phone, his mouth moving rapidly as he reaches for the door handle. I give him a sharp shake of my head, and he lowers his arm.
“You got your backbone back, baby.” Cole rubs his hand over his face and drops his elbows on the counter, smirking to himself. “It’s hot as fuck when you stand up to me.”
The tightness in my neck loosens. If Cole were a dance, he’d be the Tango. It’s moody, volatile, and thrums with passion. It gets angry, goes ballistic, and the choreography makes a dramatic display of feelings, severe expressions, and snapping arm gestures. Then it reconciles, composes itself, and dims the lights. Cue the romance, the seduction, and the slide of a hand over fishnet stockings. Hearts beating, bodies in a close embrace, it burns and consumes and never lets go. That’s Cole in a complex nutshell.
I glance at the tall, refined figure on the back terrace and smile inwardly. There’s no dance more stately, elegant, or alluring than the iconic Waltz. The footwork is timeless and controlled, augmented by proud posturing as it travels deliberately, gracefully, to the ends of the world. It’s a legendary fairy tale, a well-dressed prince, and a palace glittering with promises. Trace is a beautiful Waltz.
Turning my attention back to Cole, I find his head lowered and sedate eyes fixed on his beer bottle, with a grim twist to his mouth.
My insides clamp with realization. He loses his temper when he’s hurting. And he’s hurting because of me.
I approach him hesitantly, noting the subtle twitch in his whiskered cheek. I search for something to say, and all thoughts lead to Trace and our stolen moment in the bathroom. That’s what this is about.
When I step close enough, he reaches for me, pulling me between his legs with my back to the island.
“If you don’t tell me what happened with him,” he says quietly, staring at his hand on my waist, “he will tell me. That’s the deal.”
“What deal? Are you talking about the rules?”
“Yes.” He rests his brow against my breastbone.
“You won’t tell me the rules, because you don’t want me dwelling on them. But you know what? I’m dwelling on them because you’re keeping them from me.”
He releases a defeated breath. “It’s really quite simple. My actions set the limits for his and vice-versa. If I kiss you, he can kiss you. If he touches you here…” He cups me in between the legs and lowers his hand. “I can touch you there.”
A chill ripples through me. That’s why they were arguing about kissing me yesterday.
My knee-jerk reaction is to scream, Have you lost your ever-loving mind? But if I compartmentalize my emotions and look at it from their perspectives, it’s not a bad approach. If Trace would’ve fucked me in the bathroom, it would’ve given Cole the green light to do the same. Trace doesn’t want that, so he jerked off instead.
By controlling themselves, they’re controlling each other. That’s a whole lot more effective than my sad attempt at setting rules. But there’s something I don’t understand.
“What about the six-month time line?” I ask.
“We agreed to no sex while you’re in limbo.” His brow furrows, expression pensive. “It was my idea. I want you out of his bed until you make a decision.” He gives me a pointed look. “Until you choose me, at which point you’ll never fuck him again.”
A swallow sticks in my throat. I don’t blame him. Whoever I choose will carry the memory of seeing me with his best friend. How can either of them live with that?
“The problem is,” Cole says, “I don’t think I’ll last six months.”
No shit. I run my hands through his tousled hair, untangling the thick strands on top. “I need to just make a decision and end—”
“No.” He tightens his grip on my waist. “You’re not going to rush this.”
“Why not? Dragging it out doesn’t help…”
Then it dawns on me. They’re not ready for this to end. They put off these confident vibes, speaking in terms of when, not if, but deep down, neither one is certain he’ll be chosen.
“You’re prolonging this.” My gaze drifts to Trace on the terrace. “Because you’re afraid.”
“Yeah, I’m afraid.” Cole straightens, eyes flinty. “I’m afraid you’re going to flip a fucking coin and let luck decide. Right now, you don’t have a clue who you want, and until you know, this is how it’s going to be.”
A ragged inhale shudders my chest. “I hate this.”
“I love you.” He trails his fingers across my cheek and tucks my hair behind my ear.
“Love you, too.”
He grips my legs between the spread of his and looks me in the eye. “How far did he go?”
I cringe, curling in on myself.
“Danni.” He touches my chin, lifting it. “As long as you’re honest with me, I’ll never resent you for being with him.”
Honesty is good. I nod to myself, gathering courage and searching for the right words.
“We—” My voice creaks, and I try again. “We didn’t go any farther than you and I went yesterday.”
I can tell he’s trying to keep a composed expression, but the skin around his eyes is so tight he looks like he’s seconds from exploding.
“Did you come?” He works his jaw and stills it.
I turn my face away as tears sneak up.
“That was answer enough.” There’s no judgment in his tone as he circles his arms around me, pulling my chest to this. “Did it happen in the Range Rover?”
“The bathroom at Walmart,” I whisper.
He growls deep in his chest. “Classy.”
“You’d rather I fool around in your car and disrespect you?”
“No.” His hand absently strokes my back. “Did he come?”
My shoulders fall forward, and my heart hammers in my chest. “I know you prefer to hear these details from me instead of him, and I’m trying to be open about it. But it makes me feel cheap, Cole. Like the intimacy I share with him doesn’t mean anything.”
“If it didn’t mean anything, we wouldn’t be here.” His caresses my back, affectionately, compassionately. “Trace can tell me the rest.”
“No, I can do this. I just need—”
The back door opens, and Trace steps in, pocketing his phone. His gaze homes in on me, then Cole. Lips resting in a scowl, he strides toward us.
“You told her the rules.” He glares at Cole, lowering onto the stool beside us.
“She wouldn’t leave it alone.” Cole pulls me closer in the V of his legs and says under his breath, “Pain in the ass.”
“I don’t like to be kept in the dark.” I pinch his bicep, where it bulges in the short-sleeve of his shirt.
“Did he make you tell him what we did together?” Trace watches me closely.
“Yeah.” My face heats. “We were just discussing it.”
“I haven’t heard everything.” Cole rubs his thumb against my hipbone. “It makes her uncomfortable.”
“I’ll finish the conversation.” Trace lifts his eyes to me. “You can go—”
“Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass.” I cross my arms.
“You didn’t sign up for this.” Trace slants toward me, expression grave. “We put you in a terrible position. You didn’t choose to love both of us. But you stuck it out, tried to make it right. You didn’t ask to be lied to, deceived, drugged, kidnapped, and wrenched back and forth. But you’re still here, stronger and feistier than ever.” He shifts back and rests a finger beneath his chin. “We know you’re not made of glass.”
“There’s titanium in your veins,” Cole murmurs, staring at my lips.
Says the man with arms of steel. I let my hand fall down the curve of his bicep and rest back against the island.
“My point is,” Trace says, “Cole and I created this mess, and I refuse to distress you any more than we already have.” He thrusts his chin in the direction of the hallway. “Go dance, Danni. It’s been too damn long.”
He’s right. Five weeks ago, I thought I lost the most important dance of my life. My first dance. The music died inside me, because a broken heart has no rhythm. But it’s beating again. I have them back for however long it lasts, and I want to dance for that. I want to dance the way I used to dance for them.
I move to leave then feel compelled to linger a moment longer. Sliding a hand against the back of Cole’s head, I reach for Trace and clasp his nape. With a physical connection to both of them, I touch my lips to Cole’s forehead and repeat the kiss with Trace.
I’m reluctant to let go. I just want to hold them, keep them close, for always. But that’s not how this ends, and I need to get that through my thick head.
Dropping my hands, I step back, warming beneath the heat of Cole’s brown eyes and shivering in the depths of Trace’s arctic blues. The skip of my pulse propels my feet, and I make my way through the living room and up the sloping stairs. When I turn the corner in the hall, I stop and hold my breath.
A long silence. Then Trace’s wooden voice. “I came on her, not in her. No part of her touched my cock…”
I tiptoe away, hating how clinical and unfeeling his words sound. But I get it. He isn’t trying to evoke arousal. He wants to make sure Cole doesn’t cross any of the boundaries he’s very clearly spelling out.
In the dance studio, I slip into the dressing room and change into spandex shorts and a halter top. After a thorough stretch routine, I move to the stereo and spend an eternity scrolling through the endless list of songs. Too happy. Too slow. Not enough attitude. Wrong mood. Then a song I’ve never danced to rolls by, and I pause on it.
Back to Black by Amy Winehouse. Beyoncé covered this song, but that’s not why it resonates with me. It’s about a twisted love triangle, somewhat downtrodden, but full of grit and spirit. I push play and pace to the center of the room.
The piano riff kicks off with an arrangement of drums, tambourine, and loads of reverb. As the nasally vocals echo in the room, the melody sifts through my ears and finds its way directly to the heart of me.
My spine elongates. My core tightens. My blood hums.
And I begin to dance.