Page 32 of Tinsel in Telluride

“Okay then,” I say, clasping my hands in front of me on the island. My gaze darts between Holt and Bash like I’m conducting an interview. Or maybe it’s more of an interrogation. “So who picks where you guys go for Bucket List Christmas?”

“We take turns picking from a list.” Holt glances over at Bash as he answers, and I get the feeling there’s more to the story.

“And who made the list?”

The two of them look at each other again, as if they are afraid to say too much.

“Jack.” Holt’s eyes track toward the window, a hollow sadness taking over them.

I look at Bash, still trying to figure out what I’m missing, but he’s already glanced away, too, his flirtatious demeanor long gone.

“Who’s Jack?” I ask softly.

Holt gives Bash a small but encouraging nod.

“He’s the fifth in our little group.”

I’m hesitant to ask where he is, given the avoidance from these two usually forthcoming guys. So I play it safe and smirk. “Don’t tell me he owns a soccer team.”

“Actually, Jack was a golfer,” Holt mutters, a weak smile splitting his lips to hide the hurt in his eyes.

I know that look. It’s the look of someone who has loved and lost. It’s pain and joy as you mourn and remember them at the same time. It’s two sides of a coin you wish you never picked up.

Still, my morbid curiosity gets the best of me. “Was?”

Bash’s lips press into a thin line. “We all lived together in college. Jack passed away our senior year.”

“I’m so sorry.” The words tumble from my mouth out of habit, even though I know damn well they don’t make a lick of a difference.

Bash grimaces at the same time as Holt thanks me and takes over. “This trip is how we honor him. We found the list when we were cleaning out his room at the house. It was all the places he’d hoped to visit.”

I’m fairly certain my heart melts. “That’s unexpectedly sweet.”

“We might be a bunch of jock assholes,” Bash defends playfully, grasping the space over his heart like I wounded him, “but we’re not all bad.”

No. They’re not. Though, I get the feeling that was more so directed at me and my view of Luca and not him and Holt.

I hate that he’s right. I hate even more that I’m slowly becoming convinced of what everyone but me knows to be true.

Luca might not be as bad as I remember him. And I’m not entirely sure how that makes me feel.

I open my mouth to reassure Bash I don’t think they’re assholes, but before I utter a single syllable, Luca’s voice booms through the kitchen.

“Where the hell is Zach?”

Then again, maybe it’s better if I hold off on any rash judgment where Luca is concerned.

All three of us turn to see Luca standing in the mudroom doorway with his twin. It’s amazing how two men with the same genetics can look so similar and yet so different at the same time.

Where Luca has a commanding, posh air about him in his designer jeans, white Henley and fitted navy peacoat, Enzo is more understated and relaxed in washed denim and a hoodie. Luca stands confident with his shoulders back whereas Enzo lingers back, looking past his brother like he’d rather be in the shadows.

They might wear the same face. But what does it say about me that my eyes linger far too long on the confident asshole with a desire to tame him instead of the safe, quiet brother?

“Whoa. Settle down, Dad of the Year.” Holt snickers. “Leigh’s got him pulled up on the nanny cam. He’s exhausted, so she let him sleep and we’ve been watching to see when he wakes up.”

Luca glances down at my phone, locking in on the image of my son sleeping. Seconds pass as he continues to watch and I can’t help but wonder if, like me, he’s waiting to catch the steady rise and fall of Zach’s chest.

Once he’s satisfied, Luca leans against the island with both hands and drags his stony glare back to me. “What are you even doing in here?”

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