Page 207 of They Are Mine

(Obviously deli ham, sliced thin, and I had to send it back twice because if you don’t supervise those workers, they will absolutely try to give you ham slabs thick enough to build a house with.)

We set up on my new pink blanket with the ribbon trim, because I refuse to sit on just anything.

Noah sprawls out like a contented cat.

Orion pops the cap off a protein shake.

Callum lights a cigarette, because he’s allergic to peace.

Elliot watches us all, eyes full of regret, like a single father wondering how the fuck he got here.

And me?

I smile.

Because this is my life.

And I wouldn’t change a single thing.

I have everything I need.

The perfect men.

A pink picnic blanket.

The dumbest police department in the country keeping their noses out of my business.

I stretch out, utterly content, leaning back against Orion’s solid chest, my feet resting right in Callum’s lap.

Noah feeds me, because he’s precious like that.

Elliot reads Keats, because he’s an insufferable intellectual.

And then I hear it.

The single most panty-dropping sound of my life.

A voice.

Deep. Rough. A little sharp around the edges.

My God.

I sit up so fast I almost whip my own neck.

My plate clatters to the blanket.

I slap my hand over Elliot’s book, shushing him.

His glare could kill a small animal.

I don’t care.

I have a crisis.

“What the fuck kind of voice is that?” I whisper, barely breathing.

“I think that’s a Russian accent, sweetheart,” Orion says.

---