Page 59 of Bad Men's Good Girl

BALEIGH

The drive back to Lerici lacks the usual frantic hum of the engine. The car snakes along the coastal cliffside, the Tyrrhenian Sea a shimmering sheet of sapphire and diamond below, but the knot that’s been tightening in my chest for weeks has finally unraveled. Every other time we climbed these winding roads, I was tallying the hours. I was looking at the pastel facades of the harbor and mourning them before I’d even left.

Atticus slides the key into the heavy front door. The lock clicks, echoing through the entryway. I step over the threshold and wait for the familiar sting of nostalgia, the "one last time" sensation that has colored every move I’ve made. It doesn't come. I drop my bag by the stairs, and it isn't a suitcase waiting to be zipped; it’s just a bag. This isn't a rental. It isn't a dormitory. It’s just... home.

"Who’s hungry?" Amos calls out, already tossing his jacket onto a chair and rolling up his sleeves. "I’m tired of heavy restaurant food. I want something we have to labor over."

The kitchen transforms into a theater of beautiful, coordinated chaos. Max takes command of the stovetop, hiswire-rim glasses sliding down his nose as he scrutinizes a handwritten recipe for authentic carbonara. He measures the peppercorns with a control that borders on the surgical.

"Max, it’s pasta, not a chemistry lab," Amos says, bumping into him to reach for the olive oil. Amos is a whirlwind, chopping garlic with reckless abandon and narrating his technique with a terrible Italian accent that makes me double over. He accidentally knocks a spoon onto the floor, his laughter filling the space between the tiles.

Atticus doesn't cook so much as he haunts the edges of the room. I see the flash of his camera—a quick shutter click as Max frowns at a boiling pot, another as I catch a stray piece of Pecorino Amos tosses at me. He’s documenting us, turning our messy, domestic reality into something permanent. My cheeks ache from the constant, easy grin I can't seem to shake.

Outside on the terrace, the air turns cool and salty as the sun dips. We sit around the wooden table, the conversation shifting from the taste of the wine to the shape of the months ahead.

"I’ve cleared it with the department," Max says, his voice calm but certain. "Base of operations remains here. I’ll fly to London for the intensive seminars once a month. The rest is research and writing from the terrace."

"I told the regional office I need a dedicated workspace," Amos adds, gesturing toward the back of the house. "No more living out of hotels. If they want me to fix the Mediterranean programs, I do it from a desk that doesn't move."

Atticus swirls the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes landing on me. "I suppose I should stop treating the guest rooms like storage units. We’re going to need more than one comfortable chair in the living room."

Max reaches for my hand under the table, but Amos is already leaning in to top off my wine, his eyes dancing with a challenge. Atticus just watches, a slow, possessive smile tuggingat his lips. The problems aren't gone, but they aren't mountains anymore. They’re just miles we’re going to walk together.

We rise and move into the kitchen. The plates clatter into the sink, but no one moves to turn on the water. The air between us hums, thick with something unspoken. I twist the hem of my shirt between my fingers, pulse fluttering in my throat.

"So…how do we do…this?" The words stumble out before I can stop them.

Max leans back against the counter, arms crossed, but his gaze is anything but casual. "However you want." His voice is steady, but his fingers tap a restless rhythm against his bicep.

Amos grins, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder. "Yeah, Leigh. You call the shots. We’re just here to…follow directions." His smirk is wicked, but his ears are pink.

Atticus stays quiet, watching me from the doorway, his camera abandoned on the table. his eyes are dark, unreadable—until he licks his lower lip, just once.

Heat floods my cheeks. "Okay, but—rules. Right? Like…" I gesture vaguely between them. "You’re not?—"

"Not interested in each other," Amos cuts in, laughing. "Just you. Very,veryinterested in you."

Max exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath. "We’ve talked. Extensively." His voice drops. "We know what we’re agreeing to."

Atticus finally pushes off the doorframe, closing the distance between us in two strides. His fingers brush my wrist, feather-light. "Tell us what you want."

I swallow hard. "I want…to try. I love all of you, in different ways. I want to see where it all goes, but I feel selfish."

Amos’s grin turns dangerous. He grabs my hand, tugging me toward the living room. "Don't worry, Leigh, we don't view you that way. So…wanna test anything out right now and see if it works?"

We move to the living room, our feet silent on the stone floor. The couch dips under our combined weight. Max sits rigid beside me, his thigh pressed against mine. Amos sprawls on my other side, all loose-limbed confidence, but his breath hitches when I lean into him. Atticus kneels in front of me, hands braced on my knees.

No one moves. No one breathes.

Then Amos’s fingers skim my waist, and Max’s palm lands on my thigh, and Atticus murmurs, "Still good?"

I nod, dizzy.

"Then," Atticus says, leaning in, "let’s find out."

Atticus’s knuckles graze my collarbone as he works the first button of my blouse free. His hands are steady—more confident than I feel with my pulse thundering in my ears. The second button slips loose, then the third, until cool air skims my flushed skin. His fingertips trace the lace edge of my bra before pushing the blouse down my arms, his touch leaving trails of fire in its wake.

Max’s breath warms the side of my throat, his lips grazing my neck. "You're so beautiful," he murmurs, low and rough, while Amos’s thumb swipes the sensitive spot just under my ribs in teasing circles. Atticus leans in, teeth catching at my lower lip before he drags his tongue against mine—slow, deliberate, like he’d be content to do this for hours.