Page 67 of Rising Heat

I’ve spent the last four days with a low-grade restlessness I can’t seem to outrun—a special kind of agitation that comes from your body quietly switching allegiances without consulting its owner.

Tyler’s laugh keeps showing up in the corner of my mind. The warmth of his hand on my knee. The way he’d looked at me across my couch like I was saying something worth listening to.

And then there’s Mason. Mack. Whatever name he’s currently decided to grace me with.

Thoughts of him have become dangerous in a way I didn’t see coming. Not because of the staring—which should honestly qualify as a controlled substance at this point—but because every time I think about him in my bathroom doorway looking all too satisfied while I argued circles around both of us, my chest does something I don’t entirely trust.

Which raises several deeply concerning questions, including whether I have unresolved daddy issues.

I groan into my pillow.

I’m twenty-six. I have a career, a lease, a ficus, and a fully developed frontal lobe. I shouldn’t be waking up like this because of a snowstorm and two irritatingly hot men downstairs.

And yet…

My phone vibrates on the nightstand. Bex, of course.

Bex

How bad is it?

I squint toward the white blur swallowing the street.

Darcy

Boston lied. Fake spring was a scam.

Bex

Knew it. That city survives purely on attitude and Dunkin’.

Darcy

And mutual delusion.

Bex

Honestly, that’s just East Coast branding.

I laugh softly and pad into the kitchen, my fuzzy socks whispering over the hardwood.

Darcy

It is kind of pretty, though.

Bex

Of course it is. You’re in your exposed-brick apartment watching snow fall like the lead in an A24 movie.

Bex

Pilates update?

Darcy

Good.

Bex