Page 155 of Better When Shared
"Right," I said, my voice becoming sharper, more decisive as I quickly formulated a plan. I spent the next twenty minutes walking Andrew through detailed action items, my voice growing more commanding with each decision. It was intoxicating in a way, the familiar rush of solving complex problems and asserting control over chaotic situations. This was who I was—not just the woman who'd discovered her capacity for pleasure in the arms of two incredible men, but the CEO who had a meaningful impact in her industry.
When I finally ended the call, I realized I'd walked nearly two blocks away from the market, my feet carrying me through narrow streets without conscious direction. The crisis was contained, at least for now, but I felt the familiar aftermath of high-stakes decision-making—the slight tremor in my hands, the residual adrenaline making my heart race.
I made my way back through the labyrinthine streets, following the sound of merchants calling their wares and the distant murmur of tourists. When I finally spotted Brian and Enzo, they were sitting at a small café tucked into an alcove between two shops, mint tea steaming in glasses before them. They looked perfectly relaxed, Brian reading something on his phone while Enzo people-watched with characteristic interest.
The sight of them waiting patiently for me, not frustrated or abandoned but simply present, made something twist in my chest. How many times had Jake rolled his eyes when work callsinterrupted our plans? How many dinners had been ruined by his sulking when I needed to handle business emergencies?
"I'm so sorry," I said as I approached their table, sliding into the empty chair they'd saved for me. "That took much longer than expected. There was an emergency with our London property."
"It’s fine. We understand. Mint tea?" Brian said gently, pushing a glass toward me. "The server recommended it. Said it was good for stress."
I stared at him, momentarily speechless. No reproach, no passive-aggressive comments about my priorities. Just mint tea and genuine concern in his blue eyes.
"Thank you," I managed, wrapping my hands around the warm glass. "You didn't have to wait for me."
"Of course we did," Enzo said, leaning back in his chair with that easy smile that made my heart skip. "We're not going anywhere without you."
The simple statement shouldn't have meant as much as it did, but I felt tears prick at my eyes. "I really am sorry. I know this is a vacation, and I shouldn't be distracted by work stuff."
"Gemma," Brian said. "You don't need to apologize for being good at your job. We think you’re a badass. And we know you love it and it’s important to you. That’s okay. We wouldn’t change that part of you for the world."
I looked between them, searching for signs of the irritation I'd grown accustomed to from Jake. Instead, I found genuine interest and something that looked remarkably like pride.
"What was the emergency?" Enzo asked, leaning forward with curiosity. "If you don't mind talking about it."
I hesitated, old habits making me want to deflect or minimize. Jake had always made it clear that my work problems were exactly that—my problems, not suitable for discussion during personal time. But looking at these two men, I felt something shift inside me.
"Contractors walked off a renovation job at our London property," I said carefully. "They're claiming we owe them additional money for work that was never approved. It's likely an extortion attempt, but it could delay our opening by weeks if we don't handle it properly."
“I bet you handled it perfectly." Brian kept his tone matter-of-fact rather than patronizing.
"I've never been good at separating work from my personal life," I admitted, the words coming out more vulnerable than I'd intended. "Jake used to hate that about me. He said I cared more about the hotels than I did about him."
Brian's hand found mine across the table, his fingers warm and steady. “It’s okay to be passionate about your job. About your company. It’s something to be proud of.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. These weren't men who would see my professional success as competition or view my passion for my work as a personal failing. They were offering something I'd never dared to hope for—acceptance of who I was, all of me, including the parts that were driven and ambitious and sometimes difficult.
"Yeah," Enzo added, his grin turning positively sinful. "It's hot watching you be all boss lady. The way you handled that call—fuck, Gem, you were incredible. All controlled and confident. I want to spend the rest of the afternoon on my knees, worshiping you."
I felt heat flood my cheeks, not from embarrassment but from the realization that they weren't just tolerating my professional side—they were turned on by it. The idea that my strength could be seen as attractive rather than threatening was so foreign it took my breath away.
"Really?" I asked, my voice smaller than I'd intended.
"Really," Brian said, bringing my hand to his lips for a soft kiss. "You do amazing work. You employ hundreds of people, create experiences that make people happy. Why would we want you to apologize for that?"
The tears I'd been fighting finally spilled over. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like to come home late from a difficult day at work and find my partners there—not resentful or frustrated, but understanding. Maybe even proud.
I reached for his hand with my free one, connecting the three of us across the small table. The mint tea was growing cold, the Moroccan sun was climbing higher, and somewhere in London, contractors were probably plotting their next move. But for the first time in my adult life, I felt like I could handle anything as long as these two men were beside me.
"So," I said, my voice steadier now, "what did I miss while I was saving the London property?"
Brian's smile was warm and proud. "Enzo got us a twenty percent discount on some leather bags and managed to charm the vendor into throwing in a set of traditional tea glasses."
"And Brian gave me a complete historical overview of Moroccan architecture," Enzo added with fond exasperation. "I now know more about Islamic geometric patterns than I ever thought possible."
I laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "Perfect. My brilliant strategist and my charming negotiator. I couldn't ask for better partners."
The word hung in the air between us, loaded with promise and possibility. Partners. They weren’t just temporary lovers, and this wasn’t a fleeting vacation romance, but something real and lasting and complex enough to weather the storms of real life.
