Page 41

REMI

“You can’t leave us hanging,” Jazmyn states, watching, no doubt, Knox, Tripp, and Boone’s asses as they walk away from us.

I don’t blame her. They do have some spectacular asses. Taut, muscular, and Tripp’s ass felt so delicious under my nails when he was …

I clear my throat. “There’s nothing to say. Well, nothing much.”

“Start at the beginning.” Dayla settles in with a bit of shimmy, getting comfortable. I smile, shy at first, but then, it all flows from me like water.

I take a deep breath, gathering the tangled threads of memory.

“Okay, so, it started with that ridiculous account—remember? Apparently, Boone created the account, and the other two were unaware of it. Knox had that brooding, mysterious air, and Tripp was, well, as cuddly as they come. They messaged me, and it was terrific.” I laugh, a little uncertain, as Dayla and Jazmyn lean in, hungry for every morsel.

“Until the night we met for the first time. That night was the first terrible thing they did to me.”

“What happened?” Jazmyn leans forward.

I sigh, resigned. “Knox told me I wasn’t what they were looking for. That I didn’t match the image he needed for his campaign.”

Dayla gasps in horror. “No, he did not.”

I nod. “Yes, he did.”

“Tell them what happened next,” Windy says, gesturing with her hand.

For a heartbeat, the group turns as one toward Windy.

Jazmyn’s brows knit together, lips parted in pure bewilderment, as if Windy had spoken in an entirely new language.

Dayla’s jaw clenches, her eyes narrowing with indignation—righteous anger flickering just beneath the surface, ready to leap to my defense.

But then, in the shifting glow of the sun, there’s a softening in her gaze, the flare of anger melting into something gentle as she weighs

Windy’s words. Each woman’s face tells its own story: confusion mingling with outrage, and then, slowly, a dawning understanding, as if Windy’s prompting has filled in a piece of the puzzle they didn’t know was missing.

The air between us feels charged and intimate, woven with a current of shared experience and anticipation.

“You know?” Dayla asks in understanding.

Windy nods. “I know you all will probably be upset, but stop and consider what Remi and I have been through. We’ve been together since grade school, and she didn’t want anyone to know. The only reason I do is because I know her so well.”

They all are silent for a moment before Jazmyn says, “Understandable. Forgiven. Now, tell us more.”

I bark out a laugh. “Sure. So, I called them a bunch of merry assholes, to which they changed their tune for the remainder of the dinner date. Yet, at the end of the date, Knox spoke up and asked me if I would get in touch with Select-A-Mate and asked to be re-matched in their system.”

Jazmyn’s mouth rounds comically.

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. So, I told them no, that I could try to make it work basically. It wasn’t my finest moment, and I dare say I was close to begging. However, after that, they messaged me again, asking me to go on a date to the coffee shop here. I showed up. They didn’t.”

“What do you mean they didn’t show up? They left you stranded?”

I nod, feeling the soul-sucking hole widen in my chest at the feeling of inadequacy I had that night.

“They just … didn’t show up. Then, when it was an hour or so past time, they messaged me, not thinking they were coming, did I. It was awful.”

Just then, as the echo of my humiliation lingers over the table, Charlene appears, almost as if she’s been waiting for the dramatic pause.

With practiced grace, she slides between our tense silences.

She sets down the coffees I’d ordered before the girls arrived, her timing so impeccable it feels both intrusive and merciful—a gentle interruption that lets me catch my breath.

The aroma of espresso and steamed milk fills the air, momentarily soothing the sting of my story.

“I really don’t like them now,” Brigitte says, frowning as she takes a sip of her coffee, which Charlene just dropped off.

“Yeah. I get that no one really likes them. I don’t like them much right now, either.” I stir my coffee, watching the swirl of cream chase away the bitter darkness for a moment, wishing the same could be done for my mood.

Jazmyn leans in, her voice softer now. “You know, you deserve better than someone who can’t even show up.”

Brigitte grunts her agreement, tapping her cup. “Exactly. Ghosting is a coward’s move.”

Windy offers a gentle smile. “I know it hurts, but you’re not alone. You have us.”

I look around the table, grateful for these faces—their indignation on my behalf, the warmth radiating even as the story of my rejection cools in the air. The ache in my chest eases slightly, replaced by the quiet comfort of solidarity and the rich, grounding scent of coffee shared.

“There’s a but …” Brigitte states, staring at me closely.

“Tripp and I … The one with the reddish hair and tattoos?” They all nod. “Well, he and I kind of … Well, we …”

“You had sex!” Jazmyn gasps.

I nod, my cheeks blushing feverishly. “He came to me because he knew nothing about the failed date. It seems Knox was playing in the background and not telling the other two what was going on.”

“Did he knot you?” Windy asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

My eyes close, and I bow my head. It’s answer enough as all the girls around the table giggle amongst themselves.

Windy leans in, whispering, “You know, Re. You could end up pregnant from that, even without a heat.”

“I know, and I’m scared to death of that.”

The laughter fades, dissolving into a hush that settles over us like a protective blanket.

Mugs are cupped, gazes shift, and the familiar clatter of the coffee shop recedes as everyone senses the trembling vulnerability in the air.

The silence is not awkward—it’s understanding, a space where my thoughts can unfurl without interruption.

In that gentle quiet, my mind drifts back to Tripp. The way his arms closed around me, the careful reverence in his touch, the earnest spark in his eyes as if I were the only thing in the world worth holding. For a moment, the memory of him eclipses my worries.

I recall the warmth of his hands, the tenderness in every motion, and how, in those hours, I felt not merely wanted but cherished—seen in ways I’d longed for and never thought possible.

My heart aches with hope and fear, tangled together, as I sit surrounded by friends, the echo of his affection radiating softly within me.

Could they be telling the truth? Are they going to prove to me that they want me? Or is it just wishful thinking?

My mind spins in quiet loops, replaying every word, every glance, every hesitation that might betray a hidden motive or an unspoken truth.

Are their reassurances genuine, or are they laced with pity, with the kind of affection that only survives on the surface?

I search their faces in memory, sifting for subtle signs—did their eyes flicker with sincerity, or was there a shadow of doubt, a reluctance too faint to catch in the moment?

The uncertainty weaves itself through my thoughts like a thin, persistent thread.

I want to believe them desperately. I want to think that I matter, that their want comes from a place as deep as my own longing.

But doubts gnaw at me. What if I’m just a story they’ll retell, a momentary curiosity destined to fade?

What if hopes bloom only to wilt in the harsh light of reality?

I question if I’m reading too much into kindness—if my yearning is blurring the line between what’s real and what I need to see.

Yet, beneath all the second-guessing, a kernel of hope endures.

Maybe, just maybe, this is real. Maybe they do care, and all the fears I cradle are only echoes of old wounds, not prophecies of what’s to come.

In this swirl of hope and skepticism, I hold tight to the memory of Knox’s sincerity—the way he looked at me as if every word he spoke mattered.

I wonder if I dare to trust, to let myself believe in the possibility that I am wanted and that this—whatever it is—could be the truth I’ve been searching for.

After the girls and I part ways, I make my way toward my car to head home. My mind is a whirl of thoughts and feelings. It isn’t until I pull up to the house that my brows furrow in confusion at seeing a stranger standing on my front stoop.

I get out of the car. “Can I help you?”

He’s holding a giant vase of flowers and a tiny blue box that looks very familiar.

“I have a delivery for Miss. Remi Chesterfield,” he says exuberantly.

“Um, that’s me.”

“Terrific!” He comes toward me, laughing softly. “These were getting heavy.”

He hands over the tablet for me to sign. I do and hand it back to him. He unloads the flowers on me and hands me the blue box that I’m absolutely terrified of.

For a moment, I just stand there, arms full, the weight of anticipation mingling with the fragrance of fresh blooms. The delivery guy flashes me a wide grin, tips an imaginary hat, and strides back down the path with an easy, unhurried air.

I watch as he disappears down the walk, sunlight glancing off his shoulders, his whistle trailing behind—light, carefree, as if the world is simple and nothing weighs too heavily.

My gaze lingers until he rounds the corner and vanishes from sight, leaving only the fading echo of his cheer and the bewildering promise contained in my trembling hands.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, shake my head, and let a small, disbelieving laugh slip free. Maybe it’s nothing—just another odd detail in a week that’s already rewriting the rules. Balancing the vase against my hip, I nudge the door open with my shoulder and step inside.

The familiar hush of the hallway wraps around me, grounding me in the here and now even as possibilities jostle for space in my mind. I set the flowers on the entry table, determined not to let my nerves spin out. Whatever this is, I’ll deal with it—after a glass of water and a moment to breathe.

I head straight for the kitchen, set the blue box gingerly on the counter, and fill a glass at the sink.

The cold water soothes my parched throat and slows the pace of my thoughts, each swallow washing away another layer of tension.

I let the glass linger in my hands, cool and grounding, then set it aside and make my way back to the entry.

The flowers are waiting, extravagant and impossibly bright, their unexpected beauty at odds with my unsettled nerves.

Cradling the vase, I search among the blooms until my fingers close around the edge of a small, envelope-tucked card.

With a hesitant breath, I slide it free, heart thudding, and prepare to unfold the next secret of the day.

Remi,

I know you have no right to trust me. Would you please join us for dinner at our home tonight at 7PM? I will send a car for you if you agree. My phone number is on the back of the card for your use at your convenience.

Yours,

Knox.

“Oh, so now he gives me his phone number? Fucker.”

I flip the card over, spying his name and number on the back. A smile drifts across my face when I see the number of the florist as well.

Then, I make the call.