Page 67 of The Last Call Home
...except I kind of am.Just with better shoes and significantly more anxiety.
And if I’m being honest?
Maybe I left because I was scared.
Because having sex with one man is already complicated enough when feelings are involved.But two?Two men who’ve already shared things I haven’t touched yet?Who’ve seen each other in ways I’m still trying to understand?
Sounds incredible in theory.
In real life?
I have no fucking clue how any of this is will work.Not only the sex, but everything else.
Do I sleep between them?Do I not sleep at all?What if they start kissing each other and I’m just lying there like a confused extra in someone else’s fantasy?Do I just ...pat their heads?Make popcorn?
And if I ask them to slow down—will that kill the momentum?Are we always a trio in bed, in public, in the goddamn produce aisle?Like—hi, we’re here for arugula and each other.
Perhaps I should start asking actual questions.
Because I’m a grown-ass woman trying to navigate feelings, intimacy, and sex with two emotionally constipated men who kiss like they mean it—but still seem terrified that they’ll ruin it all if they breathe too hard.
I exhale and press a little harder on the gas.Like outrunning my own questions might make them vanish.
This is new.Terrifying.Not only because it’s unconventional—but because it matters.
I don’t think I’ve ever mattered this much to anyone before.
Not all at once.
Not like this.
And that?That’s the part that scares me the most.
Not the logistics.
Not the sex.
Not even the strangeness of forming a relationship without a roadmap and filled with too many minefields.
It’s how fast I want them—both of them.
Together.Separately.Maybe even always.
And sure, that’s insane.But what’s even more insane?
It doesn’t feel impossible.
It feels like something is starting.
If we can get it off the ground without the entire town’s eyes watching us—and without my mother finding out about it.
Because if there’s one thing Rosalinda Mora does better than rearranging the furniture in people’s love lives, it’s sniffing out secrets.She could outsmart a bloodhound in a perfume factory, blindfolded, with one arm behind her back.
The clock on the dash blinks 9:12, and I curse under my breath.Two minutes.That’s all it’ll take for Mom to switch from a warm, well-meaning meddler to a CIA-grade interrogator:Where were you?Why do you smell like testosterone and regret?
I should’ve played it cool.I should’ve said something casual and confident like,Don’t wait up,orTry not to emotionally decimate each other before breakfast.I’ll have coffee ready if you swing by the shop—without bruises.
Instead, I kissed them goodbye.
