Page 45 of Playboy’s Purgatory

Vanessa keeps moving me through the open space and toward the kitchen. When she taps the counter, I can’t help but chuckle as I put the bags down.

With a sheepish look, I let her know, “I couldn’t bring the milkshakes because I was on my bike. These fit in my saddlebags, but a milkshake?”

“That would be a disaster,” Vanessa says knowingly.

“Probably,” I agree.

She points to a cabinet and lets me know, “Glasses are in there. We have juice, soda, and water. You can grab what you like. I’m having strawberry lemonade.”

Vanessa talks to me like it’s completely normal for me to be in her home. I’m very aware that it’s not.

She’s the only reason I even got this far. I’m sure Lara would have shut me down immediately if Vanessa hadn’t been there.

Just because I know I’m pushing my luck doesn’t mean I’m going to stop any time soon. I’m not even sorry about it. I don’t think I ever will be.

As I grab enough cups for all of us, I watch as Vanessa unpacks the containers and carries them to the small dining table. “How was school today?”

“You know, adults always ask about school,” she says it as an admonishment.

She does have a point. It was an easy thing to reach for.

“It’s something that’s universal,” I point out. “I was in school; your mom was in school, and you’re in school.” I shrug while pouring two glasses of strawberry lemonade, making a mental note of the brands in the fridge and the things it’s stocked with because every second inside the inner sanctum is a reconnaissance opportunity. “It’s something everyone understands and a way to find common ground.”

“You know,” she whines slightly, “I don’t really need you using logic on me.”

I bark out a laugh just as the door opens again. Vanessa lets out a sound and races over to the oven to get it pre-heated. She does it so easily and readily that I’m a little surprised at first. I was more than willing to make myself a sandwich, something in the microwave, or get cereal when I was her age, but I wasn’t using the oven.

With a shake of my head, I remember that Lara is a baker. Of course they’ve done that together. Weren’t they just making brownie batter downstairs?

Lara breezes into the kitchen and puts the pan down on the counter.

Before she can think too much about me being in her space or the fact that I barged in on their lives, once again, I ask, “What do you want to drink, Cupcake?”

Lara falters for a moment, but then her cheeks turn pink. I know the last time I called her that, there was derision in my voice.

Not this time.

This time there’s only a sweet reverence.

“Water, please,” she murmurs and I treat getting her a glass of water like it’s my new life’s mission.

We move around each other with the kind of ease I’ve only ever felt around my brothers. It’s nice. I know I shouldn’t get too used to it.

It could be taken away from me at any moment. Lara could decide that she won’t give me even an inch of rope, let alone enough to tie me to them.

I’m starting to realize that being connected to Lara and Vanessa is exactly what I want. It’s what I need.

Fucking hell; it’s a scary as fuck thought.

I clear my throat as we sit down around the table. “Thanks for letting me crash your night, again,” my voice is light, but every word is threaded with sincerity.

Lara shoots me a look that says I didn’t give her much of a choice. She’s right; I didn’t.

“You brought food. It would be wrong of us to send you off with your dinner alone,” Vanessa says it like her sweetness isn’t dangerous to a man like me.

“Still,” I breathe out, “thank you.”

The conversation is mostly held together with twine and Vanessa’s upbeat nature. It’s more than okay. Lara doesn’t ignore me, she’s simply cautious.