Like at the same time?
No. That would be weird.
Yeah, because that’s the part
of that statement that sounds off.
Whatever.
Use condoms, big brother.
Lots of them.
Too drunk to drive, little sister.
Nobody said anything about condoms.
Have you seen your wife?
I don’t swing that way, and I’d
probably do her, given the chance.
Hence—condoms!
Whatever. Monica isn’t supposed
to be there to pick up Maggie for
her first visit until two o’clock.
We’ll be home before breakfast.
Way to kill the mood.
I feel bad for your wife.
She’s got no complaints.
—Text from Logan to Waverly
Ifollow Olivia up the stairs of her house, the one I didn’t step foot inside the last time I was here, and stop once we do step inside. “Uhh... Liv?”
She spins around to face me and takes both my hands in hers, smiling from ear to beautiful ear. “Not what you expected?”
“It’s . . . uh . . . I guess I wasn’t expecting so much . . . pink.”
“Why?” She stops and presses her lips to mine, still smiling, and goddamn, I like this side of her. The one that seems carefree instead of crushed under the weight of her world. “Serena and I like calming colors. Cool tones.” She shrugs one delicateshoulder, and the strap of her dress falls, exposing even more tempting skin. “Pinks, whites, some icy greens and blues mixed with the occasional blacks.” Another shrug. “We have a definite aesthetic we were going for. Now come on.”
My wife kisses me again, like she can’t help herself, and tugs me behind her up the open stairway. She points to her left. “Guest room.” She motions farther down. “Guest bath.” Then to the room after that. “Serena’s room.” This beautiful woman beams and points to the other side. “Our shared office. Another bath.” And the smile that lights her face as she pulls me behind her to the end of the hall stops my fucking breath. “And this is my room.”
We step inside, and it’s like I’ve pulled back the curtain revealing the real Wizard of Oz. A white and gray wooden bed sits in the middle of the room beneath a large crystal chandelier. A white duvet covering it with a pale-blue coverlet folded at the foot. A matching blue chair sits next to double-glass doors framed by sheer white drapes, and an antique vanity sits opposite them on the far wall. Everything seems to be perfectly organized and in its place. Shiny silver-framed pictures sit atop the single dresser in the room. Serena and her, I’m guessing about fourteen years old, hugging, on the middle of the Philadelphia Kings football field. Her with her brother and sister at her college graduation. A small silver box with a crown engraved on it —a jewelry box, maybe—is the only other thing taking up any space.
“You done snooping yet, Adler?”
“You don’t leave much out to snoop through, St. James.” I prowl across the room, stopping just short of grabbing her by the waist and throwing her onto the bed. “Worried I might find something?”
Her hair falls in front of her face as she shakes her head and drops both straps of her dress. “I’ll take my chances.”
