Just Right!

by DawnMarie Richards

  What had his brother said his name was?

  “Tate!” Asher provided helpfully. “I’m sure Christa just wants to know she was safe.” He turned to her. “I drove.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t drinking. You were. Safe, that is.”

  She blinked at his earnest assurance.

  “How can I not remember?” she wondered.

  “Well, Goldie. You were pretty spectacularly plastered.”

  “Ease off, Tate. Can’t you see she’s scared?”

  “Of course I can,” he snapped back. “But, shit, she’s a grown woman! You think she doesn’t know she was drunk last night?”

  Christa looked from one man to the other, wondering what in heaven’s name she’d gotten herself into and, more importantly, how in the hell was she going to find a way out.

  “Enough.” The quiet, but firm, interjection brought her focus to the one man who’d been silent until then. He shifted his gaze from his bickering brothers to her. “We’ll explain everything, Christa. I promise.” He’d said the two words slowly, making them sound like a solemn vow. “But first, you need to sit.”

  His voice was infinitely gentle, but with an edge of authority she found impossible to ignore. Nodding numbly, Christa managed several hesitant steps despite being acutely aware of the three sets of eyes pinned on her. But when the warm wood flooring gave way to chilly tile, she paused, teetering on tiptoes as she searched for the shortest route around the mass of virility blocking her way.

  “Step back.”

  Eyes on her goal, she had no idea who had spoken, but it was all the prodding necessary for the men to clear a path to the nearest stool. Christa tripped forward, clambering onto the seat and then lowering her head into her hands. She heard the men settling around her, but hadn’t the strength to face them.

  Her drunken alter ego had enticed a trio of brothers to take her home with them. An impressive feat, to be sure, if not for the fact her sober-self had to deal with the consequences. And Christa had no idea where to start.

  “Aw, come on, Goldie. Are we so scary you can’t even look at us?”

  Goaded by the challenge she heard in his lightly mocking tone, Christa lifted her chin. Tate gazed back at her, his lips twitching with smug satisfaction. She forced herself to go slowly, traveling her gaze over him before turning to his brothers.

  Up close, she realized they were seriously good-looking men. Like, wouldn’t-be-the-least-bit-surprised-to-learn-they-were-actors good-looking. Asher returned her gaze, his expression full of empathy. With his carefully disheveled hair and a five o’clock shadow at ten o’clock in the morning, he’d be perfect as the earnestly sexy leading man featured in every romantic comedy she’d ever watched. The clean shaven and close-cropped Felix, on the other hand, had a much more serious vibe. She could see him playing the tough, but fair, commanding officer in a war movie. And then there was the beard. Between the wild hair and wicked grin, she suspected the role wouldn’t much matter, as long as the target audience was female.

  “No,” she said slowly. “You don’t seem so scary.”

  “Good.” He leaned forward. “Maybe now you can relax.”

  “Of course.” She gave him a little smirk of her own. “Relax. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  His laugh turned her hesitant grin into a genuine smile.

  “Okay, Goldie.” He held his hands up in a brief gesture of surrender. “Point taken. So, what can we tell you to put your mind at ease?”

  “Well,” she ventured, “I suppose you could start by telling me why you’re calling me that.”

  “What? Goldie?” She nodded. “That’s easy enough. When you heard our last name, you couldn’t stop giggling.”

  “Your last name?”

  Yet another thing she couldn’t remember.

  “It’s spelled B-a-e-r,” he deadpanned.

  “Baer?” She turned to Asher and Felix in question before getting the joke. “The three Baers,” she whispered.

  “You got it, Goldilocks.”

  “Oh, no.” She groaned. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for. You’ve got a very sexy giggle.”

  As he spoke, his pupils expanded. Black stained amber until only a thin coppery ring remained. The effect was tantalizingly dramatic, the air leaving Christa’s lungs in an audible rush. A tingling began at the top of her head and cascaded over her. Her skin was left flushed and thrumming.

  “I-I-I…” she stammered.

  “For fuck’s sake, Tate! Shut that shit down!”

  “Fuck you, Felix.” Despite the heated retort, Tate angled back in his seat. He shrugged and then crossed his arms over his chest. “I apologize, Goldie, if I made you feel uncomfortable.”

  Uncomfortable didn’t begin to describe it. Hot and bothered, maybe. Provoked. Electrified. All with a look. One. Single. Look. It occurred to Christa that her memory lapse might be the least of her troubles.

  “You … you didn’t.”

  His lazy grin let her know he didn’t believe her in the least.

  “Can we get you something?” Glad for the distraction, Christa turned toward Asher, his head tilted like an ingratiating cocker spaniel’s. “A drink?” She doubted he meant alcohol, but grimaced just the same. “Coffee? Tea? Orange juice?” he clarified hurriedly.

  She shook her head at each suggestion. More than anything, what she needed was an explanation for how she’d ended up in a cabin in the woods with three strangers. And for what purpose, though she had her suspicions.

  “Water?” Felix offered.

  “Oh.” She curled her fingers around her throat as she brought her gaze to his. “Yes, please. That would be great.”

  The triumph in his smile made her dizzy.

  “Ice?”

  She nodded.

  A man of few words, Christa mused as she watched him rise and head toward the refrigerator.

  The other two remained quiet, apparently content to wait for their brother’s return before continuing the conversation. Propping her elbows on the edge of the counter, Christa checked out the items spread over the island. Four place settings circled a large, glass bowl of cut fruit. In the wings, an assortment of condiments waited, along with a coffee carafe and pitcher of orange juice, pulp clinging to its rim. Confusion crinkled her brow. They’d made her breakfast? Not exactly the act of a trio of depraved predators. The tension eased a bit more from her muscles.

  “Christa?”

  Lifting her head, she found Felix standing next to her, ice water in hand. Straightening, she offered him a conciliatory smile before reaching for the glass. For a fraction of a second, their fingers met and mingled.

  It was like touching a livewire. Energy burst from the point of contact, drawing her gaze, making her achingly aware of every square inch of her body—both inside and out—as it surged through her. Feverishly, she searched Felix’s face for some sign he’d felt it, too, but found no more than courteous interest.

  Murmuring, “Thank you,” she lifted the glass to her mouth, gulping down half the contents before lowering her hand.

  “More?”

  She lifted her puzzled gaze to Felix, standing at the ready beside her, wondering exactly what it was he offered. Only to deflate when her befuddled brain finally grasped he’d been talking about water. How much damned tequila still flowed through her veins, anyway?

  “No. I’m fine. Thank you.”

  She managed a weak smile in answer to his brilliant grin. Only then did he retake his seat across from her.

  “Okay then.” Tate clapped, snaring her attention. She watched as he shifted his gaze from one brother to the other. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starving.” He looked at Christa. “We’ve been waiting for you to wake up, Goldie. Any chance we could fill in the rest of the blanks while we eat?”

  Chapter Three

  The last thing on her mind was food, but Christa couldn’t see any advantage in making the Baers wait. In fact, perhaps full bellies would make the brothe
rs more amenable to forgetting last night had ever happened.

  At her subtle nod, Tate and Asher got up from their seats and headed toward the stove. They returned with a quartet of covered casseroles, one in each of their oven-mitted hands.

  “We’ve got eggs and bacon, here,” Asher named the dishes as he and Tate set them on the table. “And pancakes. Those are home fries.”

  “And this, Goldie,” Tate explained as he held up the last crock. “Asher made special for you.”

  “For me?”

  Asher lifted the lid of the stoneware as soon as Tate placed it in front of her, releasing a swirl of steam and an achingly familiar scent, earthy like fresh baked bread. But before she could identify it, her stomach produced a protracted growl, which she tried to stifle beneath the flat of her hand.

  “That sounds promising,” Tate quipped, giving her a wink before taking his seat.

  “What is it?” she wondered aloud, inhaling deeply.

  “Oatmeal,” Asher told her, picking up a ladle.

  Of course. His answer triggered a faraway recollection, a blue canister with a gray-haired puritan pictured on the front, the plunking sounds of thick cereal boiling, a woman at the stove stirring a steaming pot. Her mother? Or an actress from some commercial she’d seen as a kid? Who could tell? She’d given up sorting out her childhood memories a long time ago.

  “You know, Goldie,” Tate interrupted her ruminations. “Like porridge.”

  “Yes,” she retorted primly. “I get it.” Lips twitching with reluctant amusement, she turned to Asher. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that actually sounds good.”

  Asher’s smile broadened. Pleasing her seemed to give these guys a particular thrill, and she didn’t know what to make of it. Either she’d made one hell of an impression, or a whopper of a promise she had little hope of keeping.

  Still grinning, Asher picked up a bowl and scooped out a fair portion before handing it to her.

  “Brown sugar, nuts, raisins.” He pointed to an array of ramekins. “If any of that appeals. What about milk?” He scanned the table and then frowned. “We forgot the milk.”

  “That’s okay,” Christa rushed to assure him. “Just brown sugar and raisins for me.”

  “You sure?”

  Christa nodded.

  “We got everything?” he asked the group at large.

  “Will you just sit down?” Tate snapped.

  Asher narrowed his gaze at his sibling, but then settled into his seat.

  “All right. Let’s eat.”

  The men each grabbed the closest serving dish and turned their attention to filling their plates. Free from scrutiny, Christa reached for the raisins, tipping the ceramic cup over her bowl and watching as a dozen or so plump morsels tumbled down the hills of steaming cereal. Adding a healthy sprinkling of sugar, she stirred everything together.

  The first bite was a revelation. The sweet, creamy concoction brought to mind snowy mornings in footed pajamas. It also triggered a scent, cozy and floral, like towels fresh from the dryer. Inhaling deeply, she continued to eat, each spoonful settling her stomach.

  Bowl empty and belly full, Christa leaned back in her chair, wondering at the sense of contentment which had fallen over her. It seemed perfectly natural to be sharing a meal with three strangers wearing nothing but a robe and a tentative smile. And as much as she appreciated the benefits of a good breakfast, it seemed a bit much to have achieved with a bowl of hot cereal.

  The Baers had said they’d made the oatmeal because of the inside joke they’d shared last night. But had there been another reason? Had she drunkenly recounted some half-baked memory, which they’d used to give her a false sense of security?

  With narrowed eyes, she considered the men. The way they were shoveling food into their mouths, she doubted they had any motivations beyond fueling those impressive bodies of theirs. She tipped her head to the side.

  Something about them nagged at her, reminding her of the brainteasers she’d like to do when she was a kid—Spot the Difference—the object being to figure out the subtle inconsistencies between seemingly identical pictures. She’d been good at it, too. Even as a child, she’d been attuned to details. The trait had served her well in her work as a proofreader and aspiring editor. And, watching the Baers, she became convinced; she was missing something.

  “So which one of you is the oldest?” she blurted, immediately regretting the impulse as a trio of tawny eyes refocused on her.

  “Felix,” Tate fired back gruffly, as if it was a point of contention. “By four minutes.”

  “Oh!” She angled her head as she looked from one to the other. “You’re twins?”

  “Triplets, actually,” Felix corrected.

  “What?”

  But as she swung her gaze toward him, the truth became crystal clear. Though they’d worked hard at cultivating their own personal aesthetic, they shared the exact same streamlined nose, broad foreheads, and generous lips. Not to mention the singular shade of their eyes. How had she not noticed sooner?

  “Is that even possible?” she wondered in a whisper. And then louder, “You’re identical?”

  “Well, if not, we’ve been living a lie.” Tate chuckled. “You really don’t remember shit about last night, do you, Goldie?”

  “You’ve already told me this?”

  “In detail—”

  “Though,” Asher interrupted Tate, “We’d be more than happy to go over it, again, for you. Wouldn’t we?”

  Tate just shrugged and went back to eating.

  “The odds must be astronomical,” she muttered.

  “One in million,” Felix offered.

  Christa found him smiling openly at her.

  “Literally?”

  He nodded.

  “Was your mother on fertility drugs? Oh, wait.” Christa closed her eyes as she thought back to high school biology. “To be identical, you all would have had to come from the same egg, so that wouldn’t matter.” She looked at Asher. “So the same egg split three times?”

  “Not exactly,” he explained. “Identical triplets occur when a single fertilized egg splits and then one of those eggs splits again.”

  “That’s incredible!”

  Almost as incredible as the same three ova maturing into the sexy triad who—for reasons as yet unexplained—had seen fit to bring her home with them. Christa decided it was well past time she knew what had happened. Steeling herself, she turned to the Baer most likely to give her the unvarnished truth.

  “So, Tate?”

  His mouth full, he offered a muted, “Hmm?”

  He hadn’t even bothered to look up, though she noted with some amusement she’d gotten both of his brothers’ undivided attention.

  “Would you mind telling me why you brought me home with you last night?”

  Holding up a pointer finger, he grabbed for his glass of juice, taking a couple of quick gulps before placing it back on the table.

  “The short answer is, you asked us to, Goldie.”

  “And that’s all it took?”

  “Basically.” He shrugged.

  “And the long answer?” She raised her brows expectantly.

  “Well, I guess it started with Felix,” he told her, lifting his chin toward his brother. “He noticed you first.”

  Christa turned toward Felix. “Really?’

  “Most women go there for the dancing,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Not the bar.”

  “So you’ve been there before?”

  He nodded. “A few times.”

  “We stop in every now and then for a couple beers,” Asher elaborated.

  “But you’d also managed to get the attention of some of the locals,” Tate continued.

  “Local assholes,” Felix muttered.

  The memory of deep voices raised over the din of the club replayed in Christa’s mind.

  “And you argued,” she surmised.

  “Not much of an argument. We told them to fuck off, and th
ey did.”

  “Just like that?”

  Tate appeared confused by the question. “There were only four of them.”

  Christa could only shake her head at his arrogance.

  “That still doesn’t explain how I ended up here?”

  “You offered to buy us a drink. One turned into two…” Tate smirked at her over the rim of the coffee cup he held in the crisscross of his long, bronzed fingers. “And then three.”

  “No wonder I can’t remember anything.”

  “Oh, no, Goldie. The damage had been done long before we got there.”

  “Probably,” she conceded. “But if I was so obviously drunk, why in the world didn’t you just put me in a taxi?”

  “I already told you,” he drawled, his voice flowing over her like sun-warmed honey. “You asked to come home with us.”

  “And that’s all it took?”

  “Well.” He grinned lasciviously. “You asked very nicely.”

  Ignoring the subtext, she looked at each of them in turn.

  “And none of you had the slightest concern? I mean, you don’t know anything about me. I could be—”

  “Hate to tell you, but that’s not true.” Tate leaned forward, setting down his mug before reclining back in his chair. “Just because you don’t remember, doesn’t mean we didn’t learn a helluva lot about you.”

  Christa tried to remain calm as an avalanche of possibilities threatened to smother her.

  “Such as?”

  “You’re a junior editor for a small local publisher,” Asher broke in, making sure he had her attention before continuing, “Single. Never been married, you’ve been living with your friend, Lana, for the past couple of months.”

  “Ever since your relationship with Brandon ended.”

  Wide-eyed, Christa turned to Felix, somewhat puzzled by the edge in his tone.

  “Not that it was much of a relationship,” Tate added dryly.