Page 8 of Triplets for the Pucking Playboys (Forbidden Fantasies #18)
SAGE
M y toes are numb by midnight, and the fleece blanket I stole from the rec room might as well be a wet napkin.
The luxury heating system at the lodge has been gasping for breath since dinner, and my single-window room collects cold like it’s auditioning for an Antarctic biopic.
The storm outside has gone from scenic to vindictive, wind bullying the pine trees against the siding in a steady, arrhythmic thud that I’m pretty sure is designed to drive me insane.
I roll over and check my phone for the fifth time since two a.m.—no signal, just a spinning death spiral where the bars should be.
Not that anyone’s texting at this hour, but it’s the principle that matters.
My fingers are too stiff to type anyway.
I could put on more layers. I could suck it up, wait for the morning, maybe even call maintenance if my tongue doesn’t freeze off first. Instead, I cocoon myself in every sweatshirt and towel I own, yank on the thickest socks in my suitcase, and fumble for the headlamp they gave us at check-in “in case of emergency.” I snap it on, and a weak white cone hits the ceiling.
It’s the least flattering light on earth, but at least I won’t trip over my own feet in the hall.
The corridor is dead silent, except for the moan of wind around the eaves.
The floors creak and protest, each footfall amplified like I’m in the third act of a horror movie.
By the time I reach the main floor, the temperature has somehow dropped another five degrees.
Every instinct says to double back and attempt the hypothermia sleep challenge, but I’m too wired, too hungry, and too pissed off to quit.
My fingers are already itching for the kitchen’s Keurig or even better, the forbidden electric kettle I spotted behind the staff sink.
The kitchen itself is a cathedral of overkill, a ten-burner stovetop and a double fridge, but someone left the lights on low, so every surface throws a shadow twice its actual size.
I almost miss Finn, sitting on the battered bar stool with his back to the room, staring into a chipped mug like he’s waiting for an oracle to speak from the dregs.
He’s shirtless, which would be weird on anyone else, but with him it just reads as hockey player homeostasis .
His broad shoulders are hunched, head bowed, and I catch the edge of a fading bruise under his clavicle.
His hair’s a rumpled mess, the color of dryer lint left too long, but on him it works. Of course it does.
He doesn’t turn around, just grunts, “Could hear you coming all the way down the stairs.”
I ignore the greeting, head for the nearest cabinet, and rifle until I find a box of peppermint tea. “Aren’t you cold?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
He finally looks up, and his eyes in this light are more wolf than man. “You get used to it. Cold is just a trick. You tell yourself it hurts, so it does.”
I fill the kettle, glancing at the sprawl of Finn’s arms on the countertop. They’re covered in fine blond hair and old tape residue, forearms corded and tan even in December. “You must be a riot at the team-building workshops,” I mutter.
He shrugs, a lopsided motion that suggests he’s been doing it since birth. “You here for a drink or just to steal the last blanket from the rec room?”
I gesture with the mug. “Both. But mostly I’m here because it’s arctic in my room and the heating is a joke.” I realize I sound more whiny than intended, so I tack on, “At least they sprang for blackout curtains. You can’t see the storm unless you’re stupid enough to go outside.”
He lifts his cup in salute. “I was thinking about it. At least in a blizzard, you have a reason for feeling like shit.”
I take the stool next to him, careful to leave an inch or two of air between us. Close, but not a threat. “You always like this in the middle of the night, or is it a special occasion?”
He looks at me, really looks, and for the first time, I get why women used to write poetry about Nordic death gods. His face is all angles, every feature sharpened by shadow. “You mean awake or sober?” he says, deadpan.
I snort. “Either. Both.”
“I can’t sleep when the air is heavy. Storms make me restless.” He says it like a confession, but with zero shame.
The kettle rattles and hisses. I pour the water and watch the bag bloom, hands wrapped tight around the mug for warmth.
Finn watches too, tracking the tiny movements.
He’s not ogling, but it’s like he’s building a database of everything I do.
“You ever notice how it’s quieter in a storm?
” he asks. “Like the noise outside cancels out the noise in your head.”
“I hadn’t,” I say, sipping the scalding liquid. “But now that you mention it, it’s nice. Less room for all the bullshit.”
He nods, then lifts his own mug, inhaling. “You want?” He holds it out. The aroma is so sweet and sharp it stings my sinuses. “Mulled cider,” he explains. “Made it on the stove. Last of the season.”
I reach for it, and our fingers touch. Not long, not dramatic, but enough to send a jolt through my arm.
The mug is warm from his hands. I drink, and it tastes like clove, cinnamon, and something else—ginger maybe, or the secret ingredient of every Scandinavian grandmother.
I hand it back, licking the spice off my lips.
“That’s intense,” I say. “You make this often?”
He shrugs again, but I see the faintest smile. “Tradition at home. Keeps your core warm. And keeps your brain occupied.”
I lean in, elbows on the bar. “So what else do you do to keep your brain occupied, Finn? When you’re not terrorizing rookies or watching storms?”
He’s quiet for a beat, then says, “I like puzzles. Chess, mostly. Sometimes math games. I’ll do anything if it keeps me busy.”
It’s honest and kind of raw, and I’m caught off guard by how much I want to know more. “So you’re a secret nerd. I should have guessed.”
He looks at me from under his lashes, almost shy. “Most of the team thinks I don’t have a sense of humor. That I’m just muscle.”
I think about the last few days, about the times I’ve caught him watching, but never joining, the times he’s cleaned up the mess behind the scenes, the way he always lets others step into the spotlight first. “They’re idiots,” I say.
This time, the smile is real. Not huge, not full teeth, but there. “You’re different,” he says. “You see people. Not just what’s on the surface.”
The words hit a little too close, and I default to sarcasm. “Is this a side effect of the cider, or are you always this chatty after midnight?”
He’s unfazed. “I don’t like small talk, but I like talking to you.”
We sit there, and it feels surprisingly warm. For a minute I forget I’m freezing, forget the storm, forget the mess of my own brain.
He sets the mug down, nudges it toward me. “You ever get tired of pretending you don’t care about any of this?”
It takes a second to process. “Any of what?”
He gestures, not at the room, but at the world. “All of it. The team. The job. The way you try so hard not to be disappointed when people screw you over.”
I look down, blinking hard. I don’t owe him this, and it feels far too soon for him to have guessed any of this, but I want to answer.
It’s been a tough few days, made worse by Ryland coming at me this morning with the full coach-on-a-power-trip energy and calling my warm-ups “fluff.” If that weren’t enough, he mocked my protocols like I hadn’t spent years getting certified just to earn a seat at the table.
He said it in front of the rookies, and a few of them laughed.
And I’d stood there, clipboard in hand, spine straight, pretending it didn’t sting. Pretending I hadn’t heard that same tone before—from bosses, from exes, from people who liked me better when I wasn’t trying so hard.
That was always the pattern. They liked the version of me that was helpful, driven, tireless. Until I became inconvenient. Until I knew more than them, anticipated what they didn’t see coming. Until I made them feel like they couldn’t keep up.
Then I became too much.
The last one told me I made him feel like a guest in his own life. Said he never knew how to show up for me because I already had everything handled.
He didn’t say it cruelly. That was almost worse. Just like he was checking out of a hotel he couldn’t afford. I’d nodded. Packed up. Left like I always do. So yeah. When people leave, I try not to look surprised. I pretend I didn’t hope for more. I convince myself I didn’t care that much.
But I always do. “I’m not disappointed,” I say, voice rough. “I just wish people would do what they say for once.”
He nods, like he already knows. “My father used to say expectations are a sickness. The only cure is to expect nothing.”
That pulls a laugh from me. “Your father sounds like a real motivator.”
“He wasn’t.” His eyes darken, but he doesn’t elaborate. “But he wasn’t wrong.”
We sit in the echo of that for a while, neither of us in a rush to change the subject. The tea in my mug is almost cold, but the heat in the room has crept up.
I watch Finn’s hands, fingers steepled around the mug. They’re bigger than mine, rough and solid, veins visible beneath the skin. The kind of hands that leave marks—on the ice, on your body, in your memory.
“You ever play chess with the rookies?” I ask, desperate for a safer topic.
He shakes his head. “No point. They just want to win, not to learn. I prefer an equal match.”
I lift my chin, letting him see the dare. “You think you could beat me?”
He considers it. “Yes. But you’d make it interesting.”
The way he says it, I know he’s not talking about chess anymore.
I could lean in, could close the distance, but I don’t. The anticipation is almost better than the act.
Finn’s eyes flick to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You should get some sleep,” he says, but it’s more wish than advice.
“Not tired,” I whisper.