Love and Neckties - Lacey Black Page 0,72

least I can do is hear them out.

“What do you mean what do you do?” Jensen asks, leaning his hip against the counter.

“Well, I mean, we live together, technically, we’re married—”

“What?” three men all bellow at the exact same time, and it’s right then and there I realize my mistake.

“Shit,” I mutter, closing my eyes and wishing the clock would turn back ten seconds. When it doesn’t and I know they’re still standing there, waiting on me to elaborate, I open my eyes and say, “Freedom and I, we, uh, got married in Las Vegas.”

“No shit? How? When?” Latham asks. There’s no judgment on his face or in his question, just curiosity.

“That night after the magic show. We left the club and drank. A lot. Apparently, we continued to drink and wound up at some little chapel on the strip.”

After a beat of silence, Jensen says, “I never would have thought you’d be the one to elope with someone you’re not even dating.”

“No kidding, but, somehow, we’ve been spending all this time together, and even though she painted my living room pink and the oak furniture some seafoam green color, I think I fell in love with her.”

They continue to smile at me for several long seconds, and I start to feel a little hot under the collar.

“Congratulations, man,” Rhenn says, coming over and patting me on the back.

“What?”

He shrugs. “Love is pretty great. Take it from a man who ran from it and avoided it his entire adult life. It wasn’t until I spent those few weeks here, with your sister, that I actually realized what a gift it really was.”

“Before you know it, you’ll be an old married man like me,” Latham adds.

“Actually, I think technically, he beat you to it,” Jensen says with a pointed look.

“Shit, you’re right. Who here actually thought Samuel would be the first to marry?” Latham teases.

“Not me,” Jensen argues.

“Actually, I’m not sure we’re going to stay married,” I tell them, suddenly feeling a tad nervous.

“What do you mean?” This from Rhenn.

“I’ve filed.”

I’m met with three shocked expressions. “Why?” Latham asks.

“Because we’ve gotten it all wrong. From the start, you don’t get married before you date, guys. That’s not how this works.”

“Not all stories are the same, Samuel,” Rhenn says.

“Besides, it’s the shit in the middle that makes the story good,” Latham adds.

“So you did things a little backwards. How bad could it be?” Jensen asks before turning around and finishing up the dishes.

How bad could it be?

My heart is telling me it’s not the end of the world, but I can’t seem to let it go. My brain just isn’t wired like that. It’s black and white, with no room for gray. And right now, I feel like my whole life is a whole lot of gray.

***

“Do you want some peach cobbler?” Freedom asks from the back door.

“Uh, no, thank you.”

I’ve been sitting outside, enjoying the cooler night, and thinking. Talking with the guys tonight planted the seed that I don’t actually have to get a divorce. Yet, here I am, trying to convince myself it’s the only way. Start over. Fresh slate. It’s all there in black ink, just waiting for me to sign on the line.

The door opens and Freedom blows onto the deck like a light wind. She’s wearing one of her signature skirts and has paired it with an ivory sweater that hangs loosely off one shoulder. There’s no strap, which tells me she’s not wearing a bra beneath the knitted top. My cock starts to thicken at the thought.

“So, I was thinking,” she starts, coming over to where I’m seated. Shockingly, she doesn’t take one of the other available seats, but instead, climbs up on my lap.

My entire body stills, even though my hands itch to touch. “What were you thinking about?” I ask, clearing my throat. I reach for my necktie but realize it’s not there. When we came home from dinner, I took it off and hung it in the closet beside the dozens of other ties. It’s weird to not wear one right now.

“I was thinking we should add a little something to the kitchen,” she says, curling her legs up on my lap and essentially making herself comfortable.

I have no other option than to wrap my arms around her and hang on. “Define a little something.” My heart starts to pound in my chest.

“A theme.”

“A theme?”

“You know like farmhouse chickens or vibrant sunflowers,” she says, as she leans her head back on my