Page 166 of Rising Heat

“They dick you down and show you where to buy the best heirloom tomatoes. Fascinating.”

I say nothing, which is its own answer and we both know it.

“Thought so.”

Coffee still in hand, Bex wanders toward the bedroom before I can stop her.

“Bex—”

“Relax. I’m sightseeing.”

She disappears around the corner, and a second later I hear a soft, thoughtful hum.

“Wow.”

I find her standing just inside the doorway, slowly looking around.

“This…feels like you.”

“That’s alarmingly sincere.”

“I know. Hate that for both of us.”

Her eyes drift across the room again.

“But seriously, Darce. You feel settled.”

I look around after she says it, taking it all in—Gerald reaching toward the window. The half-finished book on my nightstand with the bookmark sticking out crooked because I’d actually planned on coming back to it.

None of it feels temporary anymore.

She lets me sit with that for exactly one second before clapping her hands together.

“Okay.” She settles into the couch. “Now tell me everything about the firefighters.”

I groan softly and drop onto the opposite end of the couch, pulling one leg underneath me while Bex watches like she already knows I’m about to incriminate myself.

“I hate that you know me this well.”

“You love it.”

For a second I just stare at the condensation sliding down the side of my water glass, trying to figure out where to even start, because the problem with Tyler and Mack is that there isn’t actually one story. It’s a hundred small moments layered on top of each other until suddenly I’m here, sitting on my couch trying to explain how two men somehow worked their way under my skin before I noticed it happening.

Or before I admitted it.

And because it’s Bex—and because I’ve been carrying all of this around in my own head long enough that it’s started swelling against my chest—I tell her anyway.

She starts piecing it together almost immediately. The timeline, the overlap, the places where my voice betrays me slightly when I talk about them. When I finally stop talking, she’s looking at me like none of this is news.

“So,” she says eventually. “Let me make sure I understand.”

“That sentence has literally never improved my life.”

“You moved to Boston, met two hot firefighters who are also your landlords, and accidentally developed feelings for both of them.”

“We’re not calling it that.”

“Fine.” She shifts further into the couch. “We’ll revisit terminology later.”