Page 42 of Better When Shared (Kristin Lance Anthologies #2)

Marco

By the next day, my body still carried the perfect ache of too much sex. My muscles were loose and satisfied, my skin still hypersensitive from hours of exploration that had redefined everything I thought I knew about pleasure.

And I absolutely hated this fancy hotel.

"This is much worse than the Bancroft Inn,"

I grumped.

Juniper laughed and patted my shoulder.

"Poor baby, being forced to stay in a four-star hotel instead of a rundown inn that was running low on food."

"The food was a problem, I can admit that,"

I said, grinning at her.

"But I miss him already."

"Tristan has to work," she said.

"And you told me you were going to be answering emails."

She was working too, technically. Her sketchbook lay open across her lap, fingers moving with quick confidence as she captured ideas that had been percolating since we'd first walked through the inn's forgotten rooms.

I watched her sketch, mesmerized by the way her hand moved across the paper like she was conducting an orchestra only she could hear. Her sketches weren't technically beautiful, just a mishmash of ideas and notes and thoughts, but I saw beauty in them.

This was Juniper in her element—creative energy focused into something tangible, practical dreams taking shape through graphite and vision. Her tongue darted out to touch her lower lip in concentration, a gesture that sent heat curling through my already sensitized body.

"What about the guest room configurations?"

I asked, reaching out to trace patterns on her bare thigh that made her shiver without breaking her artistic focus.

"Tristan was interested in preserving the original proportions."

"Mmm."

She added shading to what looked like a four-poster bed, her pencil capturing the way morning light would filter through mullioned windows.

"I think we'd work on one wing at a time. Twelve rooms initially, like we discussed. Mix of standard queens and premium suites, but each one completely unique, just as they are new. But… less musty."

The way she said 'we' made something warm bloom behind my ribs. She was talking about this project like it was already decided, like Tristan's participation was a foregone conclusion rather than a possibility we were still hoping to explore. I loved her optimism, her ability to see potential and dive in headfirst, but I couldn't quite shake the worry that he might decide the affair at the inn was just that… a fleeting, temporary affair.

My laptop sat on the nightstand, closed but calling to me with the gentle insistence of responsibility. Despite our amazing staff, the Bindery Hotel Group didn't run itself, even when we were distracted by beautiful Englishmen. Our managers were fantastic, but we'd built the company on personal attention and care that couldn't always be delegated to others.

I sighed, reaching for the MacBook.

"Just want to make sure nothing's burning down while we're exploring... our next project."

Juniper's grin was pure mischief.

"I have to say, watching you be responsible while half-naked is incredibly sexy."

The laptop opened to reveal exactly what I'd hoped—a manageable number of messages, mostly routine updates rather than crisis management. Our profit-sharing program had transformed staff motivation in ways that still amazed me, turning employees into partners who took ownership of problems instead of just reporting them upward.

Sarah, from the Portland flagship, had sent photos of the new art installation in the lobby. Revenue was up twelve percent from last quarter, occupancy holding steady at ninety-two percent despite increased competition from chain hotels moving into the Pearl District.

The Seattle property reported similar success, their rooftop garden producing herbs that the kitchen was transforming into cocktail ingredients that had food bloggers posting rave reviews. Even our newest acquisition in Vancouver was exceeding projections, the former textile factory proving perfect for our blend of industrial character and boutique comfort.

"Everything good?"

Juniper asked without looking up from her sketching.

"Better than good."

I scrolled through quarterly reports that read like love letters to our business model.

"Turns out hiring good people and paying them well was a brilliant strategy. Who could have predicted that?"

She laughed, the sound warm and familiar in ways that made my chest tight with affection.

"Revolutionary thinking."

I composed quick responses to the few items that required my input—approval for a staff retreat in Portland, authorization for new kitchen equipment in Seattle, congratulations to the Vancouver and Palm Springs teams for exceeding their three-month targets. The work felt manageable rather than overwhelming, proof that we'd built something sustainable. Something that wouldn't be as all-consuming as it had been when we'd first started this venture.

With Caleb's tips in mind, I swiped open my phone and started composing a social media post, teasing a new project.

"Tristan didn't mention anything to you about timing, did he?" I asked.

"He had work to catch up on, but…"

I closed my phone.

"Better wait until we talk it over with him."

Juniper's pencil paused in its movement, dark eyes lifting to meet mine with gentle amusement.

"Marco Torres, are you worried that Tristan is having second thoughts about the best days of his life?"

"Maybe a little,"

I admitted.

"And we don't know for sure that it was the best…"

"He said it was,"

Juniper interrupted.

"Try to be optimistic for once."

"It's just that he's been living in a pretty rigid box for a long time. Sometimes when people get a taste of freedom, they panic and retreat to what feels safe."

"He'll be here,"

she said with the kind of confidence that made her irresistible.

"As soon as the workday officially ends and he can justify abandoning responsibility for pleasure. Trust me—he's still got the same work ethic that he's always had, but he's not going anywhere."

"But he didn't come to us last night."

She kissed my cheek.

"Sweetheart, we can't expect him to spend every night with us. He had to work late and called us to let us know he'd be crashing at his place to make sure he got some sleep. Perfectly reasonable."

I wanted to believe her certainty, wanted to trust that the connection we'd forged was strong enough to overcome whatever professional obligations were competing for his attention. But I'd seen too many people choose security over possibility, had watched fear win out over desire more times than I cared to count.

"If he decides against the Bancroft Inn—"

"He won't."

"But if he does, do you still want to pursue the mill project?"

I asked, testing her commitment to possibilities that might or might not materialize.

Juniper looked at me like I'd asked about buying a property on Mars.

"What mill?"

The response was so perfectly her—so focused on new possibilities that she'd already forgotten the original reason for our trip—that I burst into laughter that echoed off marble surfaces. This was why I'd fallen for her in the first place. This ability to dive so completely into the present that everything else became background noise.

"The mill we visited three days ago? The one we considered buying? Never mind,"

I said, reaching for the remote control with movements that felt lazy and satisfied.

"Want to see what passes for entertainment in fancy English hotels while we finish answering these emails?"

The television mounted to the wall wasn't the cheap motel variety, but top-of-the-line. It had a crystal-clear resolution that made every channel look like a movie. I scrolled through options with idle curiosity, trying to find something that'd be pleasant background noise while we did some work. There was a BBC documentary about architectural preservation, a cooking show featuring ingredients I didn't recognize, and a rerun of an American sitcom that felt foreign in this setting of understated elegance.

That's when I saw it.

Tristan's face filled the screen, sharp features unmistakable, green eyes bright even through the television. My thumb froze on the remote as my brain struggled to process what I was seeing, then realizing it was a photo. A blurry photo of Tristan and us as we'd arrived back at the hotel. He was facing the camera as he helped Juniper out of the car, and my back was to the camera, my hand on his shoulder.

The scrolling headline at the bottom of the screen made my blood turn to ice.

"HOTEL HEIR'S PHOTO GOES VIRAL: Bancroft CEO spotted with a mysterious couple. Sparks social media frenzy. Interview at 9."

"Juniper,"

I said, my voice coming out strangled.

"Look at this."

I looked frantically at the clock, realizing that it was 8:55.

She glanced up from her sketchbook, pencil still moving automatically until her brain caught up with what her eyes were seeing.

"Fuck. He must be freaking out."

"He agreed to an interview?"

She groaned.

"That seems bad. Is that bad?"

Her eyes widened.

"His panic attacks. Why didn't he call us?"

"What happened to your goddamn optimism? Only one of us can panic at once."

Juniper burst out laughing, rubbing my back as she shook her head.

"Well. I suppose there's not much to do but wait. And plan a stern lecture for Tristan about not managing crises on his own."

"Do you think that's all it is? He's used to managing on his own?"

She shrugged.

"Hopefully."

I groaned, burying my face in a pillow as the possibility of a life without Tristan sprawled out before me. Had I really become that attached?

"Babe, look,"

Juniper said after a moment, and I lifted my head as she pointed at the screen, which transitioned from the anchors to the sort of split screen they used with remote interviews.

"How is our relationship even news?"

"I have no idea. Maybe the royal family hasn't done anything interesting this week."

She chuckled, turning up the volume as the perfectly coiffed female reporter on the left half of the screen started to speak. On the right, Tristan appeared to be sitting at his office desk in this hotel, looking bashful but determined. Or maybe that was just me reading too much into his expression.

"Mr. Bancroft,"

the reporter was saying, her voice carrying the false intimacy of someone who specialized in extracting personal information for public consumption.

"Thank you for agreeing to address these rumors directly."

Tristan's jaw worked for a moment before he found his voice, that crisp accent carrying clearly through the hotel suite's premium speakers.

"I don't consider my personal life to be anyone's business,"

he said, each word carefully chosen but carrying underlying steel.

"However, given the wild speculation and rather creative interpretations circulating on social media, I decided that I'd rather provide accurate information than allow people to construct their own narratives."

"The photograph that's been circulating,"

the reporter said.

"appears to show you with both a man and a woman in what many observers are describing as an intimate arrangement. Can you confirm the nature of these relationships?"

Heat flooded my face as I thought about the way social media gossip lit up like wildfire. Fooling around in the car had been a mistake. That was what he was about to say. It was all a terrible mistake.

Juniper reached over and grabbed my hand.

"Stop overthinking this until you hear what he has to say."

Tristan leaned forward slightly, his green eyes steady despite what must have been enormous pressure.

"I'm not at liberty to disclose their identities without their consent,"

he said, and something warm bloomed in my chest at his protective instincts.

"What I will say is that I care for both of them very much. The dynamic we're exploring is... new for me, but incredibly meaningful."

"What?"

I whispered, glancing at Juniper.

She beamed.

"He's super into us. Just like I said."

On the screen, the reporter spoke, looking positively giddy.

"So you're confirming that you're involved with both individuals simultaneously? What are they calling that these days? Polyamory?"

A slight flush crept up Tristan's neck, color betraying the emotion he was working to control.

"Relationships can take many forms,"

he said carefully.

"What matters is that all parties involved are consenting adults who treat each other with respect and genuine affection. What we decide to call it isn't the point. Only that we care for each other and wish to be treated with respect."

Juniper's hand found mine, fingers intertwining with a grip that was tight enough to anchor us both.

"And where do you see this relationship going?"

the reporter pressed, leaning forward with the intensity of someone who'd found her story.

"I hear throuples are all the rage with your generation."

The question hung in the air like a challenge, and I held my breath as Tristan considered his response. This was the moment that mattered. Not the confirmation of our connection, but his vision of its future. Not that I expected him to say everything publicly.

But when he smiled, really smiled with a genuine warmth that reached his eyes, my heart clenched with an emotion that felt too large for my chest.

"It's all new, but I truly hope they'll be open to exploring more,"

he said simply.

"I've never experienced something like what we've shared, and I'd be honored if they'd consider a deeper, more lasting relationship with me."

The words hit like a physical blow, warmth flooding through my system as the full meaning sank in. He wasn't retreating, wasn't treating this as a momentary lapse in judgment.

"Shit, is this bad for his hotel?"

Juniper whispered, eyes wide, as the reporter asked him another question, this time about his sexuality.

"Should you really be asking LGBTQ+ people to come out to their families and the world in this format? Not everyone feels safe to admit their sexuality on a public forum."

Tristan asked, and the reporter blushed and backed down.

"So sorry. Of course you're right," she said.

"But, since you've brought it up, I don't want to cast my sexuality in a shameful light, or to make anyone think that I'm afraid to admit it. I am bisexual. And polyamorous."

"Ah,"

the reporter looked flustered now, like she didn't quite know what to say.

"And while we're making announcements, I wanted to let the world know that I've decided to take a leave of absence. My cousin, Gemma Bancroft, will be taking my place as the CEO of Bancroft Hotel Group, effective this week, while I explore these… personal matters and work on the renovation of our most beloved historic property."

"Are you worried about how this might impact your stock values?"

Tristan snorted.

"Bancroft Hotel Group is a family-owned company. We are not publicly traded."

The reporter, who had clearly not done her research, looked flustered for a moment, then recovered.

"What about guests?"

"I'm sure we'll recover from the loss of a few homophobes. Perhaps we'll even host some Pride events next summer and embrace what makes us different from all of the other upscale hotels."

"Holy shit,"

Juniper breathed, echoing my own thoughts perfectly.

"Is our perfect boy making impulsive bad choices?"

"Kind of,"

I muttered, laughing.

"But I love it."

The interview continued for a few more minutes—questions about his family's reaction, about how this might affect his business interests. Tristan handled each inquiry with the same brutal honesty, refusing to apologize for choices that hurt no one.

When the broadcast finally cut back to the studio, when Tristan's face disappeared to be replaced by analysis from relationship experts who knew nothing about our actual situation, I realized I'd been holding my breath for the entire segment.

"We need to go to him,"

Juniper said, already moving toward the closet where we'd hung fresh clothes.

"Right now. He just went on television and basically declared his intentions to the entire country. The least we can do is show up and tell him how we feel."

I was already reaching for jeans and a clean shirt, adrenaline replacing the lazy satisfaction that had carried me through the afternoon. Everything had changed in the space of a ten-minute interview—what had been private exploration was now public knowledge, what had been a tentative possibility was now declared intention.

"His office,"

I said, pulling clothes on with efficiency born of sudden urgency.

"We find his office and we tell him that whatever this is, whatever it becomes, we're in it together."