Page 21 of Kitty Season (Green Line Ice #2)

I wake on the morning of my twenty-first birthday with a smile on my face and Lotte sitting cross-legged on the end of my bed like a cute little goblin. “Happy Birthday, Quinny. Come see what I got you.”

There’s no time for a reply, because she takes my hand and drags me from bed, out of my room and down the stairs, promising me a surprise like no other. Thank the lord I didn’t sleep naked last night, or Noah would be receiving a nice surprise, too.

Since Troye is no longer a Bulldog, I’ve been wearing my half and half cropped jersey to sleep in.

It’s soft, cozy and barely covers my ass, so I struggle to pull it down with the one free hand I have.

“I told you not to get me anything, Lot. Being my bestie and letting me stay with you even after moving in with Noah is the best gift I’ve ever had. ”

Lotte’s big blue eyes fill with tears that she blinks away with a smile. “That may be the case, but you as a person are a gift to me. Besides, I haven’t had anyone to spoil for a long time. I love it!”

Lotte lived alone for several years after the death of her mom and gran, so she does have a point. Then again, I’m pretty sure I heard her spoil Noah several times last night.

I’m about to express that, when we enter the kitchen and the thought evaporates on my tongue.

Every speck of ceiling is obscured by balloons in various shades of blue, my favorite color.

There’s a cake on the island bench, and a pile of perfectly wrapped gifts sitting atop the kitchen table, and alongside them, Noah, Brady, and Troye.

Brady and Troye.

Troye and Brady.

Me and my ‘look at my lacy blue panties’ jersey.

A discarded apron lays over a dining table chair, so I grab that, and slip it over my head as they all chant, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY QUINN!”

The full obligatory song is sung in full, then Brady calls, “Hip-hip hooray. Hip-hip hooray!” to absolute, deafening silence. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

“What the actual fuck was that?” I question when everyone else is too busy laughing. “Hip-hip-what?”

““You know, hip-hip hooray. Hip-hip hooray. Hip-hip hooray!” he sings again with even more enthusiasm, because of course, it sounds much more normal the second time.

“You call it out at the end of happy birthday, right? Right?” he repeats when he gets nothing more than continuing laughter.

“Are you guys fucking with me or do you legit not do that here?”

“No one is fucking, Big D,” Noah manages to gasp between giggles. “We do not do that here.”

“Look he’s right,” Lotte holds up her phone to show a clip she’s found on YouTube.

“It’s a celebratory add-on to the standard happy birthday song.

Though, Australia seems to be the epicenter, it’s apparently a custom in New Zealand, South Africa, and to a lesser extent the United Kingdom.

It is believed to have originated in the 19th century. ”

“God, little D. You’re so hot when you research stuff.” Noah pulls Lotte into a kiss that quickly becomes embarrassing to witness. “Let’s get the rest of the presents from our room Lot.”

“There is no more, whooo?—”

Brady watches them disappear to do God knows what, then turns to me, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

It fades as he approaches, switching to a scowl when Troye falls into step beside him.

“Well, I feel like a dick … as per usual. Happy Birthday, Quinny.” Warm, soft lips press a chaste kiss to my cheek.

“I have a prezzie, but … can I give it to you later? When it’s just us, please? ”

“Of course, Brady.”

Troye clears his throat, slides his hand between us, and kisses the same cheek, in the same spot, amplifying the gentle hum of tension to a deafening roar.

“If Skip will change his mind and lend a hand, perhaps, tonight, we could be alone, altogether, and I can give you my gift too.”

Brady stills, his whole demeanor shifting. “I told you to drop it, Becker, and I think you should listen.”

“And I think we should ask the birthday girl what she thinks.” Before Brady can move away, Troye grabs a fistful of his BC tee and pulls him closer. “Can you guess what it is, Kitty? What I want us to give you?”

“Becker, don’t,” Brady’s voice is sterner, deeper, sexier than I’ve ever heard.

“It’s okay, Brady. I want to know.”

“That’s my girl.” Seizing my jaw between his thumb and index fingers, Troye ghosts his mouth over mine, and whispers, “Ménage à trois.”

On a pathetic, broken whine, I place a palm on both their chests, take what feels like it may be my last breath. It’s dizzying, how much I want this. What havoc the mere notion of being shared between them can cause in my body.

No matter how wrong it might be, picturing how good it could be, how right it might feel, has my world twisting into a kaleidoscope of colors that settle at the apex of my thighs as a throbbing, bone deep ache. “Yes.”

Brady rears back, tanned skin paling. “Yes? Quinn. You’d … you’d want that?”

“Who wants what?”

Reemerging with her BC tee on backwards and inside out, a giddy looking Lotte clings to the side of an equally smug Noah.

“Breakfast,” I yell, pushing both boys away like they have rabies. “I’m starving.”

“Yeah, she’s ravenous for something.”

If my glare to Troye, whose body is shaking with silent laughter, or the flush burning every inch of my body betrays how shook I am, Lotte doesn’t let on. Instead, news of my appetite has her snapping from her sex haze, and skipping into the kitchen.

“Perfect. I’ve got everything here for pancakes, birthday girl French toast, and for those avoiding carbs, Brady I’m looking at you, my famous three egg omelet.”

Troye’s eyes dart to Brady who is still as white as a ghost, and backing towards the hallway. “Sounds great, Lotte. Personally, I love French things, and three is my favorite number. Right guys?”

“Right,” Brady, says to the wall. “You know what? I’m not hungry. I gotta go to … um … not here.”

“Don’t leave, Skip.” Troye makes a mad dash to block him, but Brady easily nudges him out of the way. “Wait! What about Quinn’s present?”

“Yeah,” Lotte whines. “I want to see you give it to her. Come on Big, D. Give it to her. Right here in front of all of us so I can film it.”

Now almost translucent, Brady backs into Lotte’s freshly painted mural wall, dislodging her God-awful Hula girl lamp from the credenza before he turns and runs.

Noah zips to the window, needlessly pulling aside the sheer curtains to watch his best friend tear down the stoop and front path. “What the fuck? First that Hip hop hoo-ha thingy, then this. I swear, just when I think he can’t get any weirder, he does.”

“He’s not weird,” I argue. “He’s a goalie.”

My goalie.

The second we’re done eating, Troye leaves for a physiotherapy appointment, promising he’ll meet up with me at my parents tonight, then whispering, “wear that jersey,” in my ear.

Suddenly, I’m pumped for a dinner that’s graduated from pot roast with the folks to a hundred person pool luau.

I shouldn’t get my hopes up, though. With the situation with Dad being what it is, I’m not convinced Troye will make an appearance.

Then again, if Lotte had asked me yesterday if he’d join us for breakfast, I would have laughed in her cute little face.

Something I can’t laugh at—or tell Lotte about—is the gift Troye teased me with.

Disbelief over what happened heavies my every breath, but unlike the scarf, the skincare pack, and the team signed B’s jersey Lotte and Noah gave me, that particular present was not spoken of again.

Not directly anyway. All the eyebrow wiggling and double-entedres like, “ Look at you taking two at once.” When I picked two pieces of toast from Lotte’s overflowing pile made up for it though.

I erupt into random laughter at the thought and draw an inquisitive glance from my bestie. “What’s so funny.”

“Nothing really. Just something Brady did.”

“Speaking of Brady.” Noah throws the last of the breakfast plates into the dishwasher, then stands aside for Lotte to re-do it correctly. “What’s going on there?”

Shit, they heard.

“Nothing,” I snap. “Nothing’s going on. Nothing at all. Why? Did you hear something? Because you really shouldn’t eavesdrop Noah. Bad form. Bad, bad … form.” Am I backing away in a similar manner to Brady earlier? Yes. Yes I am.

“Actually I was talking about Big D’s form last night, but I’m much more interested in what you think I was asking about.”

“Me too.” Lotte squeals. “Dish Quinny.” Two peas in a nosy pod, they sit themselves at the island bench, elbows resting on the marble, chins propped on their clenched fists.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That’s me.

“Yes you do.” That’s Noah.

“No I don’t.” Me again.

“We think you do.” And that’s Lotte.

“Look, just because you’re sex-crazed and bonking like bunnies every chance you get, doesn’t mean we all are.”

“Who’s we, and who said anything about sex? I didn’t. Did you, Little D?”

“No, I don’t believe I did, Noah.”

“Well. I—” My brain searches for some lame-ass excuse but only succeeds in conjuring flashbacks to a hockey game where I awkwardly waffled on about dim sum to Claire for twenty minutes.

Lying is not my forte. Acting like a brat is.

So I stomp my feet, huff, and slap my hands across my chest. “I just presumed because … because, just because I’m a strong, intelligent, independent and sexually confident young woman with a penchant for hockey boys, everyone assumes I can’t be friends with one.

It’s classic bunny slut-shaming, and I won’t stand for it. ”

There’s not a snowflake’s chance in hell either of them are buying it, but I’m faking it till I make it the hell out of here. “Thank you for breakfast and your gifts, but if you’ll excuse me, I think I might treat myself to a birthday mani-pedi.”

Escape and the staircase is in sight when Lotte overzealously clears her throat and hollers, “I presume you mean after midday, because I’m certain such a strong, intelligent, independent and sexually confident young woman with a penchant for hockey boys, like you, wouldn’t need reminding of her shift at Bookz and Beanz in forty-five minutes. ”

Shit.