With Zach. Preferably. Horizontally. On a bed.
Damn you, brain, for conjuring such images so early in the morning. A girl needs her coffee before she can start filing said images into categories.
Zach.
Ryder.
Atticus.
Boys on boys.
Boys on girls.
Girls on boys.
All boys together.
The boys and I.
It’s also too early for vibrator action. I may wake up the neighbors. I like my neighbors. Also, I don’t want them to hear me screaming specific names.
Embarrassing.
Yawning hugely, grabbing onto the sofa, I stand up and make my precarious way to my tiny kitchen. I grab my trusty Cheerios and banana milk and let them sit together while I make coffee.
Doesn’t everyone love mushy Cheerios in banana milk? No? Too bad. It’s my recipe and I will patent it one day. Right after I finish my comic and turn it into a bestseller, along with finding an amazing pack…
I slurp my mushy Cheerios while pouring myself a towering mug of coffee. Coffee with milk, cream and sugar, because that dark, bitter brew needs some sunshine.
Which makes me think of Ryder, who seems dark and bitter, and Zach, who is the sunshine, and Atticus because he feels like an embrace holding us together.
Ah, early morning nonsense. Atticus doesn’t even know the other two. They don’t know each other, not really.
And I don’t know them, either.
Morose once more, I shuffle in my pink bunny slippers to the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Damn, I look like crap, pale and tired with Bags under my eyes. I touch my wrinkled face, a random pattern pressed into my skin from being plastered to my little throw pillow all night.
Lovely.
Plus, the fear and anxiety from the dream linger, making me feel sick to my stomach. I want a hug. A bear hug, crushing and comforting, and not from my parents, either.
An alpha hug.
Just then, my phone pings and wouldn’t you know? It’s the golden alpha himself.
Zach.
‘Are we set for tonight?’
I frown down at the text. ‘Are we?’ I reply and my fingers hover over the phone keys. You ran away, I want to write. Without an explanation. But I hesitate. ‘Sure.’
‘Great. What time?’
I ponder this. If Atticus wants me to have his dinner ready when he arrives, like last night… ‘Is ten okay?’
‘So late?’
