Page 60 of Knocked Up By the Silver Foxes

All three of them.

Killian in the chair he always takes, scotch in hand, watching me like he's been watching that door for the last ten minutes. Asher on the couch with his elbows on his knees and something in his expression I can't read. Maddox against the bookcase with his arms crossed, which is the stance he uses when he's already made up his mind about something and is waiting for the room to catch up.

I look at all three of them.

I look at the door behind me.

I look back at them.

“Is there a meeting I didn't get the calendar invite for or⁠—”

“Close the door, Harper.” Killian's voice. Even. Like he's asking me to sit in a conference room.

I close the door. I don't sit down.

“What's this about?”

Nobody answers immediately, which is its own answer, and the two weeks of performing like everything is fine while everything is very much not fine compresses itself into the back of my throat and I make a decision.

“Actually,” I say, “do you know what? I'll tell you what this is about. Since nobody else seems to be starting.”

Killian raises an eyebrow. I take that as permission.

“Two weeks,” I say. “Two weeks since the opening event and in that time you” — I look at Killian — “have spoken to me exclusively about midsummer event logistics. Vendor confirmations. Run-of-show updates. The east terrace drainage issue which, for the record, I flagged to Mallory three days before you brought it up to me. That's it. That's the full extent of our communication since the night you carried me through a hall..”

Killian says nothing. His jaw does a thing.

I turn to Asher. “And you. You've texted me asking if I've eaten every single day. Every day. Which would be very sweet if it weren't clearly the maximum amount of contact you'd decided to allow yourself. I got three room service deliveries this week with blank cards, Asher. Blank. Like you were sending me meals from the ghost of someone who used to be interested in me.”

Asher opens his mouth.

“I'm not done.” I look at Maddox. “And you. At the wine tasting on Tuesday I watched you spend twenty minutes talking to a woman in a yellow dress who laughed at literally everything you said and you did not look over here once. Not once. I was eight feet away.”

Maddox has the grace to look at the floor for approximately one second. Then he looks back up.

“We were giving you space,” Killian says.

I look at him.

“How did that work out for you three?”

Silence.

“Because from where I've been standing,” I continue, “it worked out to me eating lunch with Raph every day this week because he's the only one on this property who talks to me like I'm a person he actually wants to be around, so.”

“Harper—” Asher starts.

“No, I know. I know you meant well. Space, absolutely, very thoughtful, really. But maybe next time any of you wants to give me space you could ask me first if I want it, because I was doing fine. I'm always doing fine. Doing fine is my entire personality and it's exhausting and for approximately five minutes after the opening event I thought that I didn't have to do fine completely alone for once and then I woke up and apparently I did.”

There it is. I didn't mean to say that last part. That came out of somewhere I wasn't opening on purpose.

The room is very quiet.

Killian sets his scotch down.

“Alone,” he says. “What do you mean alone.”

I look at the window. I look at my hands. I look at three men who are all watching me with the careful attention of people who have just realized the conversation has changed shape.