Page 86 of Blackwood

She immediately dials Cade. “What the hell, bro? Why didn’t you tell me?”

A pause.

“Lex just told me your plans… with Bella!”

I cover my face. Haley looks like she’s watching live theater.

Ellie gasps. “She’s my best friend, Cade.”

Haley and I exchange the most alarmed glance in history.

More silence.

“Ew, no! I do not want the details!” she screeches. “Yeah, she’s on her way.”

Then she hangs up and turns toward us like she’s about to announce a royal wedding.

Haley leans forward. “What the hell was that?”

Ellie’s ocean-blue eyes lock on me. “Bella…”

“Oh no,” I mutter under my breath.

She leans in. “What is your opinion on a threesome?”

Haley chokes on her drink and grabs her phone. “I gotta call Knox.”

I bury my face in a pillow. “I officially hate everyone in this room.”

♥♥♥

The Black and Burgundy - Wexley University

I should probably call Dr. Monroe.

Because walking into The Black and Burgundy, Wexley’scoffee shop on the quad for a not-date with my best friend’s brother while replaying ‘What is your opinion on a threesome?’on a loop in my brain definitely has to count as a psychotic break.

I’m nervous. Like,about to fake my own death and flee the country,nervous. This isn’t me. I don’t do coffee dates. I don’t do any dates. I fuck and leave. In and out. And I sure as hell don’t do sweet, artsy guys who come with family attachments and actual emotional availability.

It’s just coffee. Normal people do this all the time. Caffeine. Conversation. Casual friendliness. Not the end of the world. Or is it?

What am I doing?

This is Cade. The same guy who once asked if I was lost when I wandered into his art studio at fifteen. Who used to call me Ellie’s stray and swore Van Gogh would’ve hated my glitter eyeliner. He was just Ellie’s hot, judgmental brother. Quiet, broody, always halfway covered in charcoal and pretending I didn’t exist.

Nashville was the one time he saw me, I think. And even that felt like a glitch in the matrix. Since then? Nothing. I’ve barely spoken to the guy in years.

But then I see him. Already at the corner table by the window, back lit by soft morning light like the universe decided to stage the moment. Same messy light chestnut brown hair, but somehow it works now. Like he’s grown into it. Worn leather jacket over a maroon hoodie, fingers ink-stained around a mug. He’s still the artist, but sharper.

His hazel eyes sweep the room and then land on me. But, it’s not just recognition. It’s something softer. Warmer. Like maybe he remembers everything I thought he forgot. And that smile he gives me? Yeah. That’s definitely new. I inhale once. Steady. Controlled.

You can do this.

He stands the second he sees me. Not out of obligation or for show. It’s like it’s instinct, like some black-and-white movie gentleman who never forgot how to treat a girl.

He doesn’t say a word as he pulls out my chair, waits until I’m seated, then slides it. His cedar and ink scent fills the space between us. It’s soft, familiar, and dangerous. It smells like late nights and sketchbooks, like the boy I used to watch draw when he thought no one was looking.

Then he sits across from me and holds out a bouquet of daisies. My favorite. Bright, simple, and perfect.