My phone buzzed, and I grabbed it now that the online hate train coast was clear. Or clearer.
Wren: I’m so sorry. So so sorry. I fell asleep. I think one of the adorable germ factories brought me a virus as a belated Christmas gift.
Me: Are you okay? Do you need anything?
Wren: For you to tell me that you forgive me for being a shit friend.
Me: Nothing to forgive because you aren’t a shit friend. Are you sure you’re okay?
A picture came through a moment later of her in bed. Sure enough, she looked lovely in a sickly kind of way. She was giving the camera a thumbs up. Or showing me her white French tipped nail. I wasn’t sure.
Wow, she must be out of it.
She never does nails so basic.
Me: Get some rest. We’ll catch up when you feel better. Text if you need anything at all.
Wren: Will do. Goodnight for at least another fifteen hours.
“That’s a relief,” Mads said, unabashedly reading over my shoulder.
“What would you have done if we were secretly talking crap about you?”
“What’s there to say? I’m a delight.”
Josh was dealt with.
The websites with the most reach had erased all signs of the targeted attack on Tripp.
Wren was okay, just a bit under the weather.
And my boyfriend was on his way to me.
A boyfriend who was also my boss.
And my Dom.
And the man I loved who loved me right back.
I finally understood how Maddie and Wren could spend so much time with their men. When you were in love, being with them didn’t feel like a chore or effort. Sitting in silence together was enough.
It wasn’t much longer—though Maddie kept insisting it was a century and a half—before Tripp entered the front door like he owned the place, followed by Easton.
I had no clue what kind of greeting the latter shared with Maddie when she leapt from the couch. The entirety of my focus was locked on the former.
Tripp stalked toward me before taking me down to the couch with his muscular body covering mine. We barely got in a kiss before a pillow was tossed at his head.
“Not on our new couch,” Easton bit out.
Tripp ducked down for another kiss.
“I’ll get the spray bottle. Take that to your house.”
“Happily.” Tripp stood and lifted me over his shoulder. He spun one way. Then the other.
“If you keep that up,” I said, my disoriented head hanging upside-down, “the only thing you’ll be taking to your house is a nauseated girlfriend.”
He put me on my feet, holding my upper arms carefully as I got my bearings. Grinning wide, he looked two seconds away from inviting Easton’s wrath by taking me right back down to the couch before seeming to remember what he’d been looking for.
