Page 25 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Delilah

If this is what leaving feels like, no one warns you how much it aches in places you didn’t even know could feel.

The rearview mirror is too damn small to hold everything I’m driving away from.

Too narrow to reflect the things I saw back in that cabin—the way Malerick looked at Cassian like he was seconds from coming undone, the way Cassian touched me like he was still surprised I didn’t walk away after everything that was said.

The near-touches. The glances. The tension vibrated through the room with every second we pretended we weren’t on the edge of something that could rewrite all of us.

We didn’t fall apart.

We didn’t fall into bed either.

We chose something harder.

To try.

To be honest.

To give whatever this is space to breathe before we crush it under years of silence and bruised history.

It should feel noble. Mature.

But it fucking hurts.

Because I’m not walking away from something casual.

I’m walking away from a table where we laughed, where we told the truth with our mouths full of pasta and our hearts cracked wide open.

I’m walking away from a kiss that didn’t ask for anything except more, and two men who, for the first time, didn’t hide behind it.

And I’m doing it on purpose.

Because this isn’t about instant gratification. It’s not about how badly I want to climb back into that cabin and press my body between theirs and say fuck it to caution.

It’s about doing this right.

This involves allowing them to confront one another, truly see one another—without my presence in the middle acting as glue, gravity, or distraction.

It’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

And yet, it still feels like loss.

Like slipping out of something soft and warm, only to step barefoot into the cold.

I grip the steering wheel tighter like I’m trying to wring sense out of the leather.

The important thing is that they need space.

That’s the story I’m sticking to. It’s what I told myself when I stood up and said my polite goodbyes.

Well, that and Mom is waiting for me. This whole ‘I’m going to meet with Simone since she’s back in town’ sounded like a perfect excuse.

I just hope Mom and Simone don’t have the chance to chat anytime soon.

Yes, I threw my old friend under the bus. That’s what she gets for coming back to town and not letting me know she was here. I had to go to the doctor to have a physical to learn she’s here—the bitch. I’m happy that I have more friends in town, but I’ll make her regret not telling me anything.

You know what I’m not so happy about? Leaving Malerick’s house with just one kiss goodbye from him and another from Cass. I understand though, they need time.

Time to fix whatever cracked between them before I even showed up—more like before they walked into my life with their infuriating emotional whiplash.

It’s the mature thing to do, right?

Not wedge myself between two men with unresolved history and enough trauma to fuel a television show with lots of drama and hopefully full-frontal nudes. I’m not some romantic referee with a clipboard and a whistle screaming, “Kiss and make up, boys.”

. . . except I kind of am. Just with better shoes and significantly more anxiety.

And if I’m being honest?

Maybe I left because I was scared.

Because having sex with one man is already complicated enough when feelings are involved. But two? Two men who’ve already shared things I haven’t touched yet? Who’ve seen each other in ways I’m still trying to understand?

Sounds incredible in theory.

In real life?

I have no fucking clue how any of this is will work. Not only the sex, but everything else.

Do I sleep between them? Do I not sleep at all? What if they start kissing each other and I’m just lying there like a confused extra in someone else’s fantasy? Do I just . . . pat their heads? Make popcorn?

And if I ask them to slow down—will that kill the momentum? Are we always a trio in bed, in public, in the goddamn produce aisle? Like—hi, we’re here for arugula and each other.

Perhaps I should start asking actual questions.

Because I’m a grown-ass woman trying to navigate feelings, intimacy, and sex with two emotionally constipated men who kiss like they mean it—but still seem terrified that they’ll ruin it all if they breathe too hard.

I exhale and press a little harder on the gas. Like outrunning my own questions might make them vanish.

This is new. Terrifying. Not only because it’s unconventional—but because it matters.

I don’t think I’ve ever mattered this much to anyone before.

Not all at once.

Not like this.

And that? That’s the part that scares me the most.

Not the logistics.

Not the sex.

Not even the strangeness of forming a relationship without a roadmap and filled with too many minefields.

It’s how fast I want them—both of them.

Together. Separately. Maybe even always.

And sure, that’s insane. But what’s even more insane?

It doesn’t feel impossible.

It feels like something is starting.

If we can get it off the ground without the entire town’s eyes watching us—and without my mother finding out about it.

Because if there’s one thing Rosalinda Mora does better than rearranging the furniture in people’s love lives, it’s sniffing out secrets. She could outsmart a bloodhound in a perfume factory, blindfolded, with one arm behind her back.

The clock on the dash blinks 9:12, and I curse under my breath. Two minutes. That’s all it’ll take for Mom to switch from a warm, well-meaning meddler to a CIA-grade interrogator: Where were you? Why do you smell like testosterone and regret?

I should’ve played it cool. I should’ve said something casual and confident like, Don’t wait up, or Try not to emotionally decimate each other before breakfast. I’ll have coffee ready if you swing by the shop—without bruises.

Instead, I kissed them goodbye.

Like an idiot.

What am I even doing?

A woman with half a spine would’ve stayed. Would’ve dragged them both to the fireplace, poured three more drinks, looked them dead in the eye and said, Let’s air it all out. Right now. No more hiding. Let’s get fucking honest.

But me?

I bolted.

Not because I didn’t want to be there.

But because I did.

Because the moment Malerick looked at me like he was half-starved and scared to want more—and Cassian brushed his fingers against mine like he was asking permission to stay—I knew I was in trouble.

The sort of trouble where the future stops feeling hypothetical and starts pressing against your ribs, begging to be held with hands that have only ever known how to let go.

I turn onto the road that leads back into town, the cabin behind me slipping away into the dark.

Like it was never real to begin with. Just some whispered fairy tale carved into the woods—with whiskey breath and a warm stove and two men who used to be broken in different ways and now look like they might be brave enough to put each other back together.

I want to be part of that.

I want to be brave enough to want it all.

Them.

Us.

But bravery has a price.

Mine ran out the second I realized this wasn’t just some fling. This isn’t an Oops, I accidentally slept with the broody town sheriff and the ex-FBI heartthrob who owns the bar kind of story. This is deeper. Something that feels like . . . maybe even home. Forever.

And I’ve never been good at forever.