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She leans closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper that only the two of us can hear. “You’ll thank me. Think about it.”
“I can’t because it makes no sense,” I declare, walking away from Tatum before she can drag me any deeper into the rabbit hole of this conversation.
Matthew Hayes lounges against the back of the booth, his piercing blue eyes lingering on me with an intensity that speaks volumes. Even before I reach his booth, I sense he’s holding something back. My fingers tremble as I set his cup, cream, and sugar on the table.
He seizes my wrist, his touch gentle but electric as he draws little patterns on the sensitive flesh. The sensation sends a shiver coursing through my entire body, and I find myself locked in his smoldering gaze. His voice drops to a sultry whisper that dances across my skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
“There are a few ways you can make triple penetration work,” he murmurs, his words laden with an undeniable heat. “A cock in your mouth, your pussy, and your ass, or two in your pussy, one in your mouth, and yeah, sometimes, if you adjust just right, three in your pussy.”
My jaw drops in astonishment as Matty reclines casually, taking a sip from his coffee cup.
“I have an announcement!” I suddenly declare, my voice carrying through the diner. “No!” I point an accusatory finger at a smirking Hayes, then at Desmond. “No!” My gaze then lands on Tatum, who appears equally floored. “No!” Placing my hands on my hips, I put an end to the conversation. “No more. I’m done! I’m done with all three of you.”
Thankfully, no one dares to argue with me. With any luck, they’ll allow me to get through my shift without subjecting me to one more innuendo. At least I avoided Hayes’ question…again. For now.
Nineteen
“But, Lottie.”Milo crosses his arms, peering up at me with his big, expressive eyes. Despite his shorter stature, he gives me a look that feels like he’s towering over me. “You don’tdate.” He stresses the word, drawing it out slowly like he’s unearthing an uncomfortable truth.
I sink to his level, crouching before him at the kitchen table. “Do you have homework?”
He rolls his eyes so dramatically, I fear they might pop out of his head. “I’m in third grade,” he retorts with a hint of annoyance.
“That doesn’t mean you don’t have homework.” I playfully tap his nose, making his eyes cross momentarily before he swats my hand away.
“No homework tonight. My teacher has the flu.” Milo’s curiosity is unmistakable. His concern lingers painfully on his furrowed brow. “Can we talk about you having a date?” His eyes widen like saucers, and he grips me tightly to keep from jumping out of his chair. His fingertips dig into my shoulders.
“I know.”
“What about the other guy?” The furrows on his forehead are smooth as he speaks, but lines trace his mouth as they deepen with worry. “Does he know?”
Milo’s innocent question pulls at my heart, and I am left searching for the right words. “What guy?” I feign ignorance, but I feel my heart pounding wildly as I strain to keep my eyes on Milo’s face. My thighs ache from holding this awkward crouched position, yet it was a struggle to tear my gaze away.
“The agent,” he hisses, leaning in as if he’s sharing a secret. “You hung out. That must mean you’re a thing now.”
“No,” I deny, my voice coming out as a trembling whisper, though I’m unsure of the truth.
“And the other guy,” he says with a sinister sneer, shaking me again with a firm grip on my collar, “what does he have to say about that?”
The sound of my heart pounding in my chest is deafening as I struggle to answer him truthfully. “Who?” A sense of unease creeps over me as he brings up Lyric. “There’s no other guy,” I insist, genuinely surprised that Milo knows about him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I woke up the other night, and you were talking to someone,” he whispers conspiratorially, leaning closer. “And I don’t know who it was.”
Lyric. I wince inwardly but keep my composure. “Milo.” I grip his hands and hold them in mine, feeling the warmth of his tiny palms. “If my dating is going to be an issue for you, then I won’t.”
Before he even says a word, I see the intelligence and maturity that often belie his young age in his eyes. His gaze holds a hint of sadness, and my heart aches. “You deserve to feel happy.”
“I am happy.” My voice quivers slightly, and I feel the burn of tears threatening at the back of my eyes. “Milo, I love you so much. Why would you think I’m not happy?” The inner conflict stirs within me as I grapple with the desire for companionship and my responsibility to him.
“I didn’t say you weren’t happy. I said youdeserveto feel happy. There is a difference,” he chastises me gently, his voice filled with empathy. “I know you love me, but, Lottie, you’re an adult, and adults need their person.”
My throat constricts, and I can’t find the right words. Milo’s comments linger in the atmosphere, a clear indication of the obligations I have had for so long. My chest aches when I think of his naïve insightfulness and how it relates to our parents, a somber reminder of the family we lost.
“You know, like Mom and Dad,” he adds, and my heart shatters into a million pieces. “I don’t remember much, but I remember that Dad told Mom he loved her every day when he got home from work.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m not done,” he continues, his little hands gripping my face gently. “Lottie, I know you’ve made sacrifices for us, but don’t you think it’s time to start living?”
