Page 36 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Instead, heat crawls up my spine, my pulse hammering in places that have no business waking up this early. Hunger spreads, sharp and steady. All I can think about is how much I want to run my hands over that ink, trace every curve of muscle, feel the weight of him under me, over me, inside me.

Nate might’ve been the guy who made girls weak in high school, but Theo… Theo could make a girl forget how to fucking breathe.

He grabs a mug and turns, setting it on the counter before nudging it toward one of the stools.

“I didn’t put sugar in,” he says, his eyes flicking up to mine. “Wasn’t sure how you take it.”

And after that, he smirks. That smug, all-seeing, cocky bastard smirk. The kind that says: Yeah, I saw you staring and I’m fully aware of what you were thinking.

I stand frozen. Motionless. Useless. Brain fried. Eyes wide. Probably drooling.

Jesus Christ. Was I drooling?

I blink and try to act normal.

Apparently, that means continuing to stare at him like he’s the main course and I’ve skipped breakfast, lunch, and every moral boundary I’ve ever had.

Did I have my tongue out?

Fuck. I might have. I might have even made a sound. Some needy little moan or something equally tragic.

My whole body is radiating “thirsty girl at a frat party” energy, while he stands there shirtless, glistening under kitchen lights, handing me caffeine like a goddamn lingerie ad come to life.

I can’t even blame him for that stare. The one that says, are you good? Do you need a cold shower… maybe a priest?

Because he fucking knows exactly where my mind went.

Now I’m not sure what’s worse. The fact that I got caught full-on eye-fucking him, or that part of me that wants him aware of it.

He turns back, reaching for another cup from the cupboard, and fuck, that alone should be my cue to move. Do something. Stop standing here, useless and overheating with my dignity circling the drain while he exists in nothing but boxers and cockiness.

I shove air into my lungs and will my feet to cooperate.

One step.

Followed by another.

By the time I slide onto the stool, Theo’s already moving. Unbothered. Smooth. Acting as though he hadn’t caught me practically drooling over him.

He strolls over and drops a few sugar packets on the counter. He doesn’t say a word, only stands close enough that the heat from his skin seeps into mine.

I keep my gaze down, because I can’t risk looking at him. Not when the image of him half-naked is still burned into the backs of my eyelids.

My fingers shake as I tear the packet open.

Sugar scatters in a clumsy little trail across the counter, and I don’t bother brushing it away. My hands keep moving, desperate for something to do. Stir, stir, stir. Sip. Repeat.

We’ve never had anything between us this heavy. Now the weight of it is deafening.

This is Theo, for fuck’s sake.

The same guy who used to steal fries off my plate with a shit-eating grin and zero shame. The same guy who once confessed, drunk off his ass, that he taught himself guitar because the sound kept the dark out.

Now he’s standing close enough to kiss, and I can’t tell who we are anymore.

But he isn’t just Theo now.

He’s Theo fucking Kade. Rockstar. Bass slung low, head down, fingers sliding over strings, lost in the rhythm while thousands of fans scream his name.

Magazines plaster him across glossy covers.

Giant posters hang in record stores and bedroom walls.

Fans lose their minds when he so much as glances at a camera, and every move he makes ends up replayed in slow motion on TikTok.

And I should know.

I watched them.

Bought the magazines and hid them away like stupid little treasures.

They were the only pieces of Nate and Theo I could still touch, some fragile thread tying me back to the boys I used to know.

Every time I saw their faces in print, I thought about the nights we stayed up talking shit and raiding snacks from Nate’s kitchen.

About the way they smiled when they played, before the rest of the world realized how fucking good they were.

It was never about wanting a piece of their fame. It was about our friendship. About not wanting to lose what we had, while clinging to any small fragment of the past I could hold on to.

But sitting here now, the distance between who we were and who we are feels impossible to ignore.

When Theo’s coffee is ready, he turns back toward me, lifting the cup to his mouth. He takes a slow sip, dragging it out as though he’s got nowhere to be and nothing better to do than watch me squirm.

He doesn’t speak. He only stands there on the other side of the counter, his eyes locked on mine.

Then his gaze dips lower and stays there. It drags over my chest, lingering, settling on my tits like they’ve got something to say. Heat sparks in places I don’t need igniting. And fuck, he’s not even trying to hide it.

How the hell did he change?

Back then, Theo barely made eye contact. Always in a hoodie, hands shoved in his pockets, carrying that damn stress ball he squeezed the life out of whenever someone talked too fast or stood too close.

Now he stands tall. Skin, ink, and enough tension to make my breath stutter in my throat.

I cross my arms, shifting my weight as I raise a brow. “Hey, buddy, eyes up here.”

He smirks into his cup, not the least bit sorry. “I’m just multitasking. Admiring while I’m having my morning coffee. It’s called efficiency.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling perving now?”

He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine. “Can’t help it. They were practically waving good morning.”

I scoff. “Jesus. You’ve been awake five minutes and you’re already a walking HR violation.”

He shrugs. “What can I say? If there’s a view, I’m gonna look. That’s basic hospitality.”

“Well, let me know when you start asking for reviews. I’ll be sure to leave a complaint.”

He leans against the counter, that lazy smile spreading across his face. “I’d like to see where you’d stick that complaint.”

I launch a sugar packet at his head. “You’re disgusting.”

He laughs, full and unbothered. “You’ve missed me.”

“Missed insulting you, maybe.”

He taps his chest. “That’s still love in my book.”

I take a slow sip of my coffee, stalling. Letting the bitterness coat my tongue so I don’t say something I’ll regret. Or let myself stare too long. Or both.

“You want something to eat?” Theo asks, stepping toward the fridge. He pulls it open, cold air spilling out and sweeping across his chest and abs. And fuck, my eyes dip again before I can stop them.

Behind me, the soft slap of bare feet against marble steals my attention. I turn toward the sound, heart already racing.

Nate.

Bare-chested.

Jeans slung low, clinging just above that sharp V.

His arms stretch overhead in a lazy yawn, muscles flexing, back arching, and I swear if I were standing, my knees would give out.

Sunlight pours through the glass doors behind him, threading through his hair, kissing the hard lines of his body, turning him into something close to holy.

My mouth goes dry. My pulse kicks.

Coffee stalls halfway to my lips, and I freeze, staring at him like I’ve never seen a man before.

And then I see it.

The tattoo on the right side of his chest.

Bianca.

Her name inked over his heart in delicate script.

My breath snags. Guilt slams into me, a cold punch to the ribs that hollows me out from the inside.

Because this isn’t just lust. It’s betrayal. Twisted. Wrong. A sickness I can’t shake.

They were Bianca’s. Both of them.

She loved them in that impossible, all consuming way only she could. And they loved her right back.

And here I am, heartbeat skittering in my chest, wanting something that was never meant to be mine.

The ink on Nate’s chest burns itself into my mind, branded into his skin like a promise he’ll never stop carrying.

I used to watch them with her—how their hands lingered, how their eyes softened with love. I wanted to be loved like that so badly it made my chest ache. I still do.

God, what’s wrong with me?

She was my best friend.

My other half.

The one person who knew every ugly part of me and never turned away. And now here I am, wanting the two people who still belong to her.

I tear my gaze away, forcing my eyes back to my coffee, fingers gripping the cup as if it’s the only thing keeping me grounded. What the fuck am I even thinking? They were Bianca’s. Not mine.

“Hey, Quinn,” Nate says.

I lift my head, heart stuttering as I meet his gaze. That fucking smile. He has no idea what it does to me.

“Hey, Nate,” I manage, forcing my voice steady even though everything inside me is shaking.

He moves past me toward Theo, who’s still standing in front of the open fridge, rummaging like he’s forgotten what food even looks like.

Nate steps in behind him, arm slipping around, hand brushing across bare skin. He leans in, chest pressed to Theo’s back, face tucked close. A small hug.

“Morning,” Nate says.

Theo leans back into the touch for a second before muttering something about eggs.

I tear my gaze away, staring down at the coffee gone cold in my hands.

Theo shuts the fridge and crosses the kitchen with a carton of eggs in one hand.

Nate heads for the coffee machine, pouring himself a mug like this is any ordinary morning and not a goddamn test of my willpower.

“You want some eggs?” Theo asks, cracking one single-handed like it’s nothing.

“No, I’m not really hungry.”

A lie.

My appetite’s shifted somewhere else entirely.

The testosterone in this room is suffocating. It’s thick in the air, clinging to the walls, curling in my lungs. It should be a crime to look that good before seven in the morning.

And the worst part?

There are two of them. Double the sin. Double the distraction. Double the fucking problem.

How the hell is anyone supposed to stay sane around that?

I tip back the rest of my coffee. I need to get out of here before I do something stupid. Before I forget what the hell I’m here for and start acting out every filthy fantasy still echoing in my head.

I drag the back of my hand across my mouth, as if that’ll erase the drool I’m half afraid is actually there. Then I push back from the stool, legs too shaky, pulse still racing.

“I might jump in the shower,” I say, trying for casual as I circle the counter, pretending I don’t feel both of their eyes on me.

I make a quick stop at the dishwasher, drop in my cup, and shut it harder than I mean to.

If I don’t put some distance between me and those two, I’m going to combust.

Bad fucking idea.

Because the second I move closer, the heat pouring off them slams into me like a wave. The scent wrecks me. Lust claws beneath my skin as if it owns me. My body aches to be touched. To be handled. To be fucked until I forget why this is wrong.

I need to keep my focus. Prove to Kit that I’m not some starry-eyed idiot who can’t handle herself around a couple of rockstars. I’m here to work. To be professional. Not to drool over abs and tattoos. I have to prove I can do this, because girls like me don’t get second chances.

I’ve seen the women who usually surround them.

Tall. Confident. The kind who glide into a room like they own it. Women who wear sex like perfume and don’t flinch under the weight of attention. The kind who belong in the spotlight.

Me… I’m none of that.

I blend in. Fade out.

Overthink every damn word before I say it. I’m the girl in the shadows. The one who keeps her head down and her guard up, hoping no one notices how badly she wants to be wanted.

“Towels are in the bathroom cupboard,” Nate calls after me, voice smooth, relaxed, completely unaware that I’m two seconds from falling apart. “Grab whichever you want, Quinn.”

Theo says my name next.

Not loud. Enough to claim it.

I freeze. My lungs forget how to work.

Slowly, I turn.

And there they are.

Side by side at the counter. Watching me.

They’re nothing alike.

Opposites in every way. Night and day. Smoke and sunlight. But together, they’re lethal.

Nate, the angel on my shoulder—heat and comfort, tempting me to play it safe.

Theo, the devil on the other, staring through me as if he already knows the exact way I’ll break.

Every glance they throw me drips with a challenge I’m not sure I can survive.

Be my good girl, Q.

No. Be my bad girl, Quinn.

And I’m stuck in the middle, wanting both. Caught between heaven and hell, already half in love with the burn.

I swallow hard, forcing down the lump in my throat, trying to ignore the pulse hammering between my legs. Every inch of me is buzzing, desperate, out of control. I need to get the fuck out of here.

“Yeah,” I say, and it comes out weak, pathetic. I hear it. I know they do too. But I stand my ground, pretending I haven’t noticed a thing, praying they’ll play along.

Theo offers me a small smile. “It’s good having you here, Quinn. You’ll be fine today. No need to stress.”

Perfect. They think I’m nervous about the job. Thank fuck for that. They don’t have a clue I’m spiraling in real time just by looking at them.

“Okay,” I manage, forcing a smile before turning on shaky legs and walking fast.

I make it back to my room and shut the door behind me, my pulse a wild, erratic thing under my skin.

Two weeks in this house—that’s all I have to survive this temptation.

Two weeks of pretending I don’t want to drop to my knees.

It’s not hell. It’s fire.

I’m living in the blaze, skin scorching, thoughts unraveling. And my pussy? Already begging. Aching.

And when it’s over, they won’t need a headstone. Just carve it into the floorboards and leave me here.

Here lies Quinn Thomas. Died of excessive eye-fucking. Pussy never stood a chance. Cause of death: two sinfully hot bastards with too many abs and not enough fucking shirts.