Page 3
STACY
A tickle brushes my skin, soft as a whisper, coaxing me from the heavy fog of sleep. I float in that strange, heavy space between dreaming and waking—where nothing feels real. Then the scent hits me.
Coffee. Rich, warm, just a touch sweet—exactly the way I like it. Comfort in a cup. My mouth waters before I even open my eyes.
When I blink them open, blurry light spills through the windows, and the shape in front of me slowly sharpens.
Erica sits on the edge of the bed, one perfectly manicured eyebrow arched, a deep purple mug in her hand. She holds it near my face like an offering, though her arched brow says it's more of a warning.
“Rise and shine,” she says, voice flat and tinged with disappointment.
I grunt, rubbing my eyes as I push myself upright.
“Good morning,” I mumble, throat dry, voice thick with sleep.
“For me, maybe.” Her lips curve, but there’s no humor in it. “You? Not so much. Mon’s waiting out on the patio. Feel free to join us.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Just sets the mug on the nightstand and glides out of the room like the drama queen she is.
I sit there blinking at the empty doorway, still half-lost in sleep and dread.
Dreading whatever comes next. I crawl out from under the comforter and grab the coffee, blow, then sip.
The rich, full-bodied flavor floods my mouth—liquid electricity.
Monica never skimps on the good stuff. I appreciate that.
What is the drama this morning? And Monica too? What fresh disaster brewed while I was out cold? Then the pieces click into place.
Shit. Ray.
He must’ve said something. Or worse—he said nothing and left them to speculate. Either way, I’m the morning gossip special. My antics were probably the hot topic of conversation over pastries and decaf.
Fucking perfect.
I groan and flop back onto the bed—then immediately regret it.
My body aches like I’ve been tossed in a blender and poured out wrong.
I kick off the covers with a frustrated sigh.
This is not how I imagined starting the day, in my fantasy, there was a kiss involved—maybe more than one.
Definitely not judgment or side-eyes over coffee.
I shouldn’t have expected anything else after last night.
Right now, all my fantasies feel like they belong to another lifetime —one in which I’m not a total screwup who can’t get it right.
There’s no avoiding this, so I might as well get it over with.
I drain more coffee, pull on the first clothes I find, and pad out to the patio—barefoot, still rumpled from yesterday.
The morning air is cool in the shade. Jasmine floats on the breeze, mingling with the scent of fresh coffee.
Monica sits cross-legged, radiant in that serene glow she always seems to carry now.
Erica, halfway through her second cup, perches with sunglasses like armor.
There’s a third mug waiting. Mine. At least they didn’t forget me entirely.
I settle into the seat across from them, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic.
“So… I’m guessing Ray told you what happened at Tiffany’s?”
Monica lifts an eyebrow, surprised. “Ray?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking a sip. It’s just the way I like it—bless whoever made this. “You didn’t see him?”
“No, sweetheart,” Erica answers, shaking her head. “Ray was still passed out cold when we left Dawson. Why? Did you two run into each other?”
“Something like that.” I nod slowly, the memory of last night crawling back like fog. “He’s why I woke up alone. And not in jail. Or worse.”
Erica straightens, leans in. “Okay, now you have to explain.”
I exhale, glance between them, and own it.
“I was waiting for this guy I met the night before. Ronnie. Turns out he’s a lying prick.
Ray was there telling me when his wife shows up.
Full-blown fury mode. I mean, she was ready to throw hands.
Literally. She raised her arm to hit me when Ray stepped in.
Grabbed her wrist mid-swing like some kind of action hero. ”
They’re both leaning in now, eyes wide. It’s clear that he didn’t tell them. I let the story carry me, its momentum easing the sting of embarrassment.
“He told her he was my boyfriend,” I continue. “Played it off like we were there together the whole time. Tiffany backed him up. It was over in minutes. Ray saved me from public humiliation and at least a black eye.”
“Son of a bitch,” Erica mutters, looking away.
Monica shakes her head slowly, lips pressing into a tight line.
“This Ronnie didn’t tell you he was married? He just let you walk into that mess?”
“Exactly.” I sigh, bitterness creeping into my chest. “And I thought he was sweet. Attentive. Guess my loser radar is still working just fine.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Erica says, but her voice catches on something sharp. Guilt, maybe. Or fury. “We’ll leave it at that. What matters is Ray was there. He pulled you out of a dumpster fire.”
“That’s true,” I say softly. “To thank him, I invited him over for a drink. And listen…” I lean forward, tucking a leg beneath me. “This is where it gets weird.” “You know how he usually is—teasing his brothers, cracking jokes?”
They nod, perfectly in sync.
“Well, last night… he was different. Quieter. Focused. He actually said things that made me think.”
“Are you sure it was Ray?” Erica asks, half-laughing.
“Oh yeah.” I smirk. “Six-foot-one, blond hair, dark green eyes, lean enough to make a girl sin.”
Monica chuckles behind her mug.
“Maybe he doesn’t feel like joking around you,” she offers. “Maybe he’s trying to be… I don’t know. Serious.”
“So he’s the class clown with everyone else, and suddenly he’s brooding Mr. Darcy with you?” Erica scoffs.
“I asked him about it,” I say, leaning my head back against the chair. Clouds shift above, casting shadows across the patio tiles. “He told me he likes me, but thinks we want different things.”
“Okay, so what? He likes you but won’t do anything about it? That’s not romantic. That’s cowardly,” Erica snorts.
“You know how it is, Erica, how it’s different for them. Physical attraction means nothing if he’s not willing to take the chance,” Monica shrugs.
“I just…” My voice dips lower. “Different things. The words loop in my head, over and over. What does that mean? What could it mean? Should I ask him? Would there be a point?”
“What do you have to lose?” Erica shrugs. “Ask. Don’t forget—we’re having lunch with the Crawfords today.”
“Wait for it…” Monica drops her voice to a dramatic whisper.
“I’m looking forward to dessert,” Erica grins, teeth flashing like a wolf’s. “Maybe some light touching, heavy kissing… tongue definitely on the table.”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Monica groans, flailing her arms like she’s chasing off flies. “How many times do I have to ask you not to bring up sex in front of me? I can’t even touch Raul until after the first trimester. Please, have some mercy.”
“You’re a real bitch sometimes, hun,” I say through a laugh, shaking my head at Erica.
“She’s right,” Monica huffs, rubbing her temples.
“Fine, fine.” Erica lifts her hands in mock surrender. “No more sex talk. But let me ask you this—if Red here gets lucky with Ray, are you going to let her go on about it? Or will you ask her to zip it and pretend it never happened?”
“That’s an interesting question,” Monica says, half-smiling. “If it happens, that’ll make three out of three Crawfords.”
“Three out of three.” Erica winks at me. “Girl, I’m getting all kinds of ideas. I mean, for starters?—”
“Has anyone ever poured hot coffee on you?” Monica cuts in, eyes narrowing. “Do you want to know what it feels like?”
Erica lifts both hands again. “No, ma’am.”
“Then I suggest you shut up,” Monica says, all sugar and menace. “Pregnant. Sleep-deprived. Raging with hormones. You really don’t want to test me.”
I’m still laughing, but the sound softens as Erica’s words echo in my head. Three out of three. It sounds ridiculous. Like a silly competition. And yet… it has a certain ring to it.
Not because I want to complete the set. Not because I want a trophy. I just want a chance. A night. A moment. Just me and him. No interference. No jokes. No brothers barging in. No Erica turning everything into a sex joke.
Just quiet. Just Ray. Just… maybe.
If I’m lucky, he’ll let me see whatever it is he hides behind that teasing grin.
Maybe I’ll even get to touch it. Or maybe I’ll burn trying.