Page 20 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)

For a few seconds, I stand there in the alley behind the museum, shivering, hands wrapped tight around my own ribs.

I count backward from one hundred, a trick I learned from Sage Moretti, age seven, when the world was always too big and too loud and the only way to survive was to make it smaller, piece by piece.

When I go back inside, the event is still in full swing, but I’ve learned how to slip through the crowd without being noticed. I find my seat, finish my wine, and keep my eyes on the table until the speeches are over.

Someone from the catering team hands me another glass of wine and points me back toward the main hall.

I see Talia hovering by the donor wall, now deep in conversation with an old man who keeps touching her wrist. I breathe easy, thinking I’ve dodged the next round, but as soon as I pass the buffet, Beau slides up beside me, his jacket open, tie gone, hair falling into his eyes in carefully staged disarray.

“You look like you just saw the ghost of Christmas future,” he says, voice low enough to make it a private joke.

He’s not looking at me; he’s loading a plate with three types of cheese and a stack of figs.

“I think she’s trying to kill me with kindness,” I say, aiming my glare at the back of Talia’s head. “Or maybe just by suffocation.”

He snorts, stacks an extra cracker, and scans the room with the lazy confidence of someone who’s never been forced to hustle. “I caught some of that. If it helps, she’s been running the same play on everyone. You just got the VIP package.”

I force a smile. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He shrugs, then does a quick double take at my plate, or more accurately, the lack of one. “Haven’t eaten yet? Rookie move.”

“Not hungry.”

“Always hungry,” he corrects, and pushes a cracker into my palm. It’s an order, not a suggestion. I take a bite. It tastes like cardboard.

We hover at the edge of the crowd, not talking, just scanning the event for threats or exits.

After a few minutes, Talia finishes her round and heads straight for us, her heels sharp enough to mark the marble.

I brace for impact, but before she can get a word out, Beau turns to her and beams. “Prescott! Tell me something—do you think the canapés are better this year, or is that just my imagination?”

She gives him a look, a subtle tilt of the head that says she’s not fooled, but plays along. “Definitely better. Maybe they finally realized you can’t build a franchise on kale alone.”

He laughs, and in the space of that laugh, he pulls me a half step closer, arm pressing against mine, a shield against the next volley.

Talia’s eyes flick between us, quick as a camera shutter. “I’m just glad to see everyone getting along,” she says. “Teamwork off the ice is just as important, right Sage?”

She says it with the kind of syrupy emphasis that makes my skin crawl. “Right,” I say, and Beau jumps in before I can get steamrolled.

“Actually, I was hoping to steal Moretti for a second. I need her professional opinion on the, uh, nutrition display. One of the donors is asking about our off-season plan, and my knowledge tops out at ‘protein good, vodka bad.’”

Talia lifts a brow, but doesn’t challenge him. “By all means. We wouldn’t want to deprive anyone of the full Storm experience.” She lets us go with a faint, loaded smile, then pivots away, already lining up her next target.

Beau doesn’t let go. He guides me through the crowd, hand hovering at my back, until we’re out of the blast radius.

When we reach the foot of the grand staircase, he lets his hand fall, but the phantom pressure remains.

We stand there for a moment, side by side, both pretending to admire the architecture. Neither of us says anything.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. “You owe me,” he says, eyes on the banister, not on me.

“I know,” I say, and I do.

He glances at me, mouth twitching. “What do you think she wanted? The parting shot, I mean.”

“She wants to see if I’ll flinch.” I pick at a thread on my sleeve, realizing too late that it’s part of the lining. “I probably already did.”

He leans against the marble, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a way that’s impossible for anyone who’s not an elite athlete or a sociopath.

“Nobody cares about her, you know. They’re just here for the booze and the stories.

You could burn down the building and they’d still offer you a contract extension. ”

I look at him, try to find the part of that sentence that isn’t a lie. “You really believe that?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

We’re quiet again. The noise of the event is a distant ocean—roaring, but far away. I wonder if Beau ever gets tired of pretending everything is a joke, if the act ever slips. I want to ask, but I don’t.

Instead, I say, “Thanks. For the extraction.”

He grins, the real kind, just a flash. “Anytime. That’s what teammates are for, right?”

There’s a second where I think he might touch my arm again, but he just flexes his hand, then lets it drop. “You know, if you ever need a wingman for these things, just ask.”

I nod, unsure if it’s an offer or a warning.

A flash from a nearby phone catches my eye. Someone is taking a picture, maybe of us, maybe just the room. Either way, the spell is broken. Beau straightens, checks his watch, and looks back up the stairs.

“You want to get out of here?” he says, and for a second, I think he means right now, tonight, skip the rest of the dinner and never look back. But then he adds, “There’s a terrace on the roof. Quiet, no cameras. Plus, I hear they have the good whiskey up there.”

I smile, can’t help it. “Tempting.”

He pushes off the banister and starts up the steps. I follow, and for the first time all night, the dress doesn’t feel quite so tight, the shoes not quite so cruel.

At the landing, we pause. The city is a sheet of light beyond the windows, and the wind through the old stone makes everything feel less staged, more real. He stands close, but not too close. Just enough to remind me that this isn’t the same as before.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I will be,” I say.

He nods, and there’s nothing left to say.

We stay there, just breathing, until someone calls us back to the main hall. He lets me go first, his hand brushing my elbow as I pass, a touch so light it could have been accidental.

But I know it wasn’t.

Back in the glare of the party, I’m corralled into a photo with the nutrition sponsors, and the next thing I know, I’m back at my seat, a neat little orb of white-gloved servers encircling the next course.

The amuse-bouche is a thumb-sized wedge of caviar, wrapped in something crisp and layered, topped with a micro-sprig of edible flower.

It looks like it belongs in a jewelry box, not on a plate.

A woman with a clipboard hovers nearby, eyes tracking every reaction.

She wants to see joy, or at least gratitude.

Beau nudges my foot under the table, like we’re both in on the same joke. He eats his in one bite, winks, then moves on to the wine, leaving me the last holdout. I can’t not eat it. I force a smile, lift the tiny spoon, and swallow it whole.

It tastes like seawater and butter and something sharp underneath, a punch of acid that flashes through my sinuses. I chase it with water, try to play it cool, but there’s an immediate, electric twist in my stomach. “Everything okay?” Finn asks, eyes already narrowed.

I nod, maybe too hard, and try to breathe through it.

I know the stages—first the sweat, then the wave of heat, then the realization that you have exactly thirty seconds to escape before disaster.

I count backward, push my chair back, and make for the nearest exit.

The crowd is a blur, my own feet unsteady.

Someone tries to hand me a napkin; I dodge, barely keeping it together.

I find the stairs, take them two at a time, and burst into the nearest bathroom. The fixtures are gold, the mirror so clean it stings the eyes, the marble countertop stretching for yards in either direction. I make it to the sink with three seconds to spare.

The retch is violent, all muscle and memory.

I grip the edge of the basin, every tendon in my arms screaming, and empty my stomach in a hot, sour rush.

The sound echoes in the cavernous room, so loud I wonder if it carries into the galleries.

I wait, try to steady my breath, then rinse my mouth and splash water on my face, hoping the shock will bring me back.

The smell of truffle oil clings to the inside of my nose, making me gag again.

I hate myself for this—weakness, in front of the team, in front of people who will remember.

I stare at the sink, watch the water swirl the evidence away, then lean into the mirror, searching for signs of illness or guilt.

All I see is my own face, pale and sweating, eyes gone flat with the effort of pretending to be fine.

Maybe it’s food poisoning, I tell myself. Maybe it’s a bug. Maybe it’s the universe telling me to stop trying so hard to be someone I’m not.

I brace my hands on the counter and try to stand up straight, but the world tilts sideways, a dizzy snap that leaves me clutching the faucet for balance.

There’s a jab of fear, a memory.

I take a breath, count to five, then stumble into the nearest stall and sit with my head in my hands. The sweat dries on my skin, but my heart won’t slow. In the silence of the bathroom, the only thing louder than my pulse is the question I refuse to ask.

I wait until the nausea passes, then splash my face, rearrange my hair, and walk out like nothing happened.

No one will know, not even Talia who corners me immediately, faking concern.

I look her straight in the eye and tell her I feel sick enough to throw up on her dress.

The pause in her face is brief but satisfying, the way her nostrils flare just before she takes a step back like I’ve gone contagious.

“Food poisoning,” I add, flat and cool, and that’s all it takes.

She vanishes faster than a mouse in light.

I square my shoulders, walk into the crowd, and let the noise swallow me whole.