All of this is so much more complicated than I know how to deal with.
I roll over, gazing at the framed photograph on one of the nightstands. It's an image of Harley and Hunter in their early teens. There's still a boyishness about their smiles and a roundness to their faces that has disappeared now. My dad is there, standing behind them with his arms around their shoulders. He looks happy and so do the boys. I wonder how long they'd been living here when the photo was taken, and what their lives were like before.
Where have all these men come from, and what did my father rescue them from?
There are so many stories in this house, and I'm intrigued about them all. My dad might be dead, but as I lie here, I wonder if there's a chance that I can get to know him through these men. They've known him for all the years that I haven't. This has been their home. Maybe I'll find things by sorting through my dad's possessions too.
These men just voted about something that could change my life if I let it, but I can't think about that. As hard as it's going to be, I know I have to focus on dealing with the here and now. If nothing else, spending some time here might just help me draw a line under all the questions that I have about my father and give me a way of moving on into the future with a clearer path.
But in the back of my mind, the temptation is there. The temptation to fill the hole in my heart and mop up the loneliness I feel deep inside.
Will I be strong enough to resist it?
9
I'm woken by the rumble of footsteps in the hallway and down the wooden staircase. Whoever is moving around the house is considerate enough to wait to talk downstairs, but even then, the deep reverberation of voices can be heard all over the house. I'm not used to living with men. My mom moves around our small home as quiet as a mouse. There's no booming laughs or feet that sound like a stampede of elephants.
I glance around, trying to familiarize myself with my new surroundings. I rub the sleep from my eyes and try to swallow down the ripple of nausea I feel just above my stomach. In my bag, I have some ginger tea and biscuits. It's supposed to help with morning sickness. Before I head to the kitchen for my strange new breakfast, I take a look in the mirror. My hair is mussed from sleep, so I smooth it with my hands, straightening my clothes too.
Worrying about looking presentable first thing in the morning isn't something I'm used to either.
I take my empty glass from the nightstand and cautiously make my way from the room. The stairs creak a little as I tiptoe down, half expecting to stumble across someone in the hallway. There are so many people in this house that it is doubtful that anyone ever gets any privacy.
John is in the kitchen with Reggie, Harley, and Hunter. Reggie is at the stove wearing only black joggers that hug the muscles of his ass and thighs in a way that is almost eyewatering. His chest is like an image you’d find on the cover of a romance novel, rippled with muscle and strength. He's holding a kitchen implement and is flipping something over in the skillet. The air is filled with the delicious scent of cooking sausage and bacon that unfortunately makes my stomach turn. This baby might be the size of a raisin, but it is really affecting my mojo.
"Just in time, Maggie," John says, looking up from his phone. "Reggie is cooking up a storm."
"Burning the hell out of good food, more like," Hunter says, sipping from a mug. There's a half-filled pot of coffee on the counter, which I could murder right now, but I'm supposed to be avoiding caffeine. I don't know much about babies, but I've read a little about pregnancy. My ginger tea seems completely unappealing.
"I just need some hot water," I say.
"Kettle's here," Reggie says, lifting an old-fashioned stainless steel one from the stove.
Harley leaves his chair and reaches up into a high cupboard to find me a cup. His t-shirt rides up, revealing two inches of his back and side that my eyes seem to be glued to. Damn these men for being so sexy in the morning. "Did you sleep well?" His eyes meet mine as he hands me the black mug. I'm not keen on drinking out of mugs this dark. It's impossible to see if they’re actually clean, but I don't want to be rude. "Yeah. The bed was so comfortable."
He smiles broadly. "My bed is the best in the house."