standing beside a table in a nearby corner. My stomach dips at the vaguely familiar outline of broad biceps and broad shoulders that strain against his blue sweater.
He makes a quarter turn, and the first thing my eyes catch on is the CD case in his hand.
The second thing is his face. Straight nose, square, clean-shaven jaw, full lips. Close-cropped hair that’s a shade lighter than Samuel’s.
Holy shit, it’s Hank.
Hank is here. In a blue sweater. Holding a CD.
Holy shit, Hank is Blue. What the fuck are the chances?
A yawning roar fills my body, gathering in my ears.
Oh God, oh God, oh God. This is bad.
Or is it? My mind races to figure out what the hell this actually means as the saliva thickens in my mouth.
It means I’ve been having cybersex with Samuel’s brother. It means I’ve been sharing intimate truths—and even more intimate body parts—with not one, but two Beauregard brothers. It means I’m in love with Samuel because while Hank is wonderful, we definitely don’t have the same chemistry that Samuel and I do. It means I may have to crush Hank, who could in turn crush my career.
It means I’m fucked.
We are all so, so fucked. Someone’s going to get hurt. Badly. If not all three of us.
Grabbing the nearby hostess stand to steady myself, I try to breathe through the panic whirling through my center.
What if Hank is cool about all this? His feelings for V could very well be casual. Maybe he’ll see me and laugh, and then I’ll laugh, and we can agree over drinks that the universe has a very twisted sense of humor.
But I’ll have to tell him about Samuel. Or will I? What will he say? What will he say to his family? The staff?
I nearly jump at the thunk by my feet. Looking down, I realize I dropped the apple. I look back up to see Hank staring at me.
My pulse seizes. He’s got this look in his eyes—it’s hurt and adoration and anger, and I know that what’s about to go down will hurt. Because he’s hurting.
He’s also looking at me the way Samuel did last night. His eyes sweep down my body and back up again, and when they meet mine, they burn.
My mind starts scrambling again. Hank’s been so kind to me. Helpful. The way he kept looking at me during my tasting with Samuel, and the way he looked at me during my tasting with him. How he always seems to be at The Barn Door when I am. I like you, Emma.
Maybe that like has turned into something more.
Did he know I was V? Was he lying to me this whole time? But why?
“Emma,” he says, turning fully to face me.
Yup, that’s definitely Van Halen’s 1984 CD in his hand.
“Hank,” I reply, because I have no idea what else to say.
“It’s you.” He scoffs. “I knew it.”
I don’t feel my legs as I approach him. “You knew I was V? How? And why didn’t you ever say anything?”
Hank’s brow furrow. “Who’s V?”
Okay, now I’m really confused. I’m also on the verge of puking. “I’m V. Which means you’re Blue.” I nod at the CD in his hand.
I notice there’s two empty glasses on the table behind Hank.
The hurt in his gaze tightens. “Guess you could say that, yeah.”
“No. I mean you’re MyBoyBlue4.”
His furrow deepens. “MyBoyBlue4? I don’t know who that is, but it’s definitely not me. Samuel’s number was 4 in the pros. Mine was 22.”
Bile surges up my throat. I start to shake as a sense of foreboding grips my windpipe. What is going on here?
“How long?” Hank asks. A muscle in his jaw tics. Same one as Samuel’s.
“Hank, I’m really sorry, but I’m not following you. What are you doing here, and why are you holding that CD?”
“Better question: why are you meeting Samuel here for what is clearly a date”—his gaze does that sweep down my body again—“when he swore up and down y’all were just friends?”
I blink. “Samuel is here?”
“Answer the question.”
“But I-I’m not meeting Samuel,” I stammer, heat flooding my face.
Hank scoffs again, mouth twisting in a disbelieving smirk. “Look at the three of us, lying to each other’s faces.”
My cheeks burn hotter. “I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for here, Hank. But if I’ve hurt you in any way, I’m sorry.”
“I am too.” He meets my eyes and lets out a breath, his shoulders falling, then runs a hand over his hair. “Fuck it. Someone has to start