Oscar's question hangs in the air. Three pairs of eyes wait for an answer I have no intention of giving.
"Spontaneous vacation," I say, lifting my tea. "I needed a break from the noise."
Oscar leans back, unconvinced. "The noise. That's delightfully vague."
"I'm a delightfully vague person." I pivot before he can dig deeper. "But enough about me. What about you three? Wives at home? Girlfriends wondering why you're holed up in a cabin? Husbands?"
The words land like a grenade rolled casually across the table.
Oscar laughs, rich and unbothered. "Husbands. I like you, Kelly Bird. No, I'm happily unmarried and plan to stay that way for the foreseeable future."
Jake's expression flickers with a shadow that passes too quickly to name. He takes a long pull of his beer and says nothing.
Konnor meets my gaze with those unsettling dark eyes. "None of the above."
Three single men. Three very attractive single men.
I take a slow sip of tea to hide the flush creeping up my neck, the ceramic warm against my palms, steam curling between us like a flimsy barrier.
This complicates things considerably.
Because here's the thing about running away to hide from your catastrophic life choices: you're supposed to be invisible.
You're not supposed to be trapped in a cabin with three men who look like they walked out of a casting call for "Rugged Outdoorsmen Who Will Ruin Your Life," while your body—flooded with hormones and starved for touch—decides now is the perfect time to remember what attraction feels like.
The silence stretches, conversation stalling. I recognize the awkwardness for what it is—four strangers who've exhausted polite small talk.
"Let's play a game," I announce. "Never Have I Ever. You drink if you've done it. I'll stick with tea since I'm the concussion patient."
Jake studies me with that unreadable expression. "This feels like an interrogation disguised as entertainment."
"All the best games are." I smile sweetly. "Unless you're afraid of a little honesty?"
"I'm in," Oscar declares. "I'll start. Never have I ever cooked a meal that made someone cry."
He drinks immediately, grinning. "A woman literally wept over my risotto last year. Tears of joy, obviously."
"Your ego is exhausting," Konnor mutters.
Through the rounds, I piece together their histories.
Oscar is a chef who talks about food the way evangelists talk about salvation—with fervor, conviction, and the absolute certainty that his path is the righteous one.
He dreams of a Michelin star like he's tasted the edge of greatness and refuses to stop until he swallows it whole.
Konnor is a cardiothoracic surgeon who describes hearts with clinical detachment—all valves and chambers and things that can be repaired if you know what you're doing.
He speaks about cracking open chests the way most people discuss changing a tire.
Jake is a fire captain, divorced with a teenage daughter. Her name is Lily, and the way his voice softens around those two syllables tells me everything about the kind of father he is and the kind of husband he probably tried to be.
When Oscar jokes about burning buildings, something shutters behind Jake's eyes. He's seen things he carries silently, and I recognize that weight because I carry my own.
They've known each other since childhood—Jake and Konnor from Seattle, Oscar from summers with his grandmother nearby. These trips are their annual tradition, and it's sacred.
My turn comes, and I reveal small truths through what I don't drink to. Never been fired. Never cheated. Never had a one-night stand.
Each admission makes Oscar's grin widen, makes Konnor's gaze sharpen, makes Jake's jaw tighten in a way that sends heat pooling low in my stomach.
Then Konnor sets down his beer with a loud thud. "Never have I ever shared a woman with someone else."
His dark eyes cut to Jake, then Oscar. The challenge is unmistakable.
Jake drinks. Oscar drinks. Then, slowly, with a private smile, Konnor raises his own beer and drinks.
For a moment, the three of them exchange glances loaded with something I can't fully decode—Oscar's eyebrows climbing toward his hairline as he looks at Konnor, Jake's jaw going slack before he schools his expression back to neutral.
There's history in those looks. The kind of silent conversation that only happens between people who've seen each other at their most unguarded.
My breath catches. The heat flooding through me has nothing to do with the tea cooling in my hands.
"Wait." I hold up a palm, brain short-circuiting. "All three of you? At the same time? With the same woman?"
Oscar's grin turns wolfish. "Why, Kelly Bird. Is that judgment or curiosity?"
"Neither. You three don't seem like you'd agree on pizza toppings, let alone..." I wave my hand vaguely, unable to finish.
"We have complementary skill sets," Oscar says, and Jake actually chokes on his beer.
"That's one way to put it." Konnor's voice is dry as bone. "Another way is that Oscar has no impulse control and peer pressures everyone around him into questionable decisions."
"They weren't questionable. Nicole certainly didn't think so." Oscar stretches his arms along the back of the couch. "Her name was Nicole. We met her a few years back. We were young and experimental, and she was… adventurous."
"Adventurous," I repeat flatly. "That's the word we're using."
"Would you prefer 'enthusiastic'? 'Flexible'? Both literally and—"
"Oscar." Jake's voice carries a warning, but his steel-gray eyes are fixed on me, watching my reaction.
Change the subject. Be a normal person who doesn't interrogate strangers about their sexual history.
"How does that even work?" I hear myself ask instead.
What is wrong with me?
"How does it work, she asks." Oscar's delight is palpable. "Jake, you want to field this one?"
"No."
"Konnor?"
"Absolutely not."
"Useless, both of you." Oscar turns back to me. "It works beautifully, since you asked. When everyone's on the same page, when there's trust, when you're all focused on the same goal..." He pauses. "There's nothing like giving someone that much attention. That much pleasure. Watching her fall apart because there's nowhere to turn that isn't more."
"It only happened once," Konnor adds, his obsidian gaze fixed on me. "In case you're wondering."
"I wasn't," I lie.
His slight eyebrow raise says he doesn't believe me.
"The point is," Oscar continues, "it requires the right chemistry. The right woman. Someone who can handle being the center of that much focus."
The word focus lands low in my stomach and detonates.
I take a long sip of tea that doesn't help. My face burns. My pulse hammers against my throat. All three of them watch me now with varying degrees of amusement.
"It's late." I stand too quickly. "I should get some rest. Doctor's orders."
Konnor's dark eyes track my retreat with unsettling precision.
"Sweet dreams, Kelly Bird," Oscar calls.
Jake says nothing, but I feel his gaze on my back until I disappear into his bedroom.
I close the door and lean against it, heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
This is pregnancy hormones. Perfectly normal. Completely biological. It has nothing to do with three attractive strangers and the image of them—
I cut the thought off, but the damage is done. The heat between my thighs is undeniable, insistent, maddening.
I press a hand to my stomach—still flat, still hiding its secret—and remind myself who I am. Kelly Goodwin doesn't fantasize about strangers. Kelly Goodwin maintains control.
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