5. Brielle

My reflection in the mirror is flushed, cheeks rosy with the remnants of ecstasy. I fix my tousled hair, tucking rogue strands behind my ear, and smooth out my crumpled blouse with trembling hands.

Will everyone know the dirty things I've just done on the plane? Get it together.

I dab under my eyes, erasing any trace of smudged mascara. My pants, slightly askew, get a quick adjustment. Every crease, every fold—I meticulously refine them all, ensuring there's no evidence of the threesome.

Pulse still fluttering, I step out of the bathroom, slipping back into the airport. I clutch my luggage tighter, the longing gnawing at me with sharp teeth. What now? I'm back on solid ground, but I feel like I'm still up in the air.

For a second, I scan the crowd, craving one last glimpse of the men, any of them. But they're gone—and that's probably for the best. I knew what I was getting myself into.

The buzz of my phone brings me back to reality. I fumble in my purse before pulling it out, fully expecting it to be Dad, although pleasantly surprised to see my best friend's name written across the screen.

"Where are you hiding, Brielle Rose?" Callie asks the second I answer.

"I haven't gotten to the house yet," I laugh.

"I know. I'm here to pick you up."

"Really?"

"Yep, took a lot of convincing, but I finally made your Dad give in. He'll get to see you plenty."

"Gate B7," I reply, laughing. I really have missed her.

"Girl, get your cute butt over here! I've missed you!" Her excitement, palpable even through the static, tugs at the corners of my lips.

"I'm coming. I'm coming," I say, weaving through the crowd.

Then, I spot her. Callie stands with arms wide open, her vibrant red hair obvious even in the crowd.

"Callie!"

She turns around and grins, quickly closing the distance between us before pulling me into a bear hug. "God, it's good to see you." Her words are muffled against my shoulder.

"You have no idea."

"Let's grab your stuff, and we'll hit the road. There's so much to catch up on."

* * *

The car doorcloses with a soft click. "Still have this old sedan, huh?" I ask, as she pulls out of the airport parking lot.

Her attention is focused straight ahead, but she grins. "Too many memories to let it go."

"Oh, like making out with Johnny Devito in the back seat in the ninth grade?"

She laughs. "Actually, that one I'd like to forget."

"He was the hottest guy our year!"

"Yeah, but his girlfriend, Bridget Kyler, slapping me after she found out…yeah, not fun."

Amusement dances on her face as I laugh. "Oh right, I'd almost forgotten about that part."

"Yeah, I didn't." Callie pauses for a moment before her eyebrows furrow. "Something is different about you."

My heart skips a beat, but I try to stay calm. There's no way she can know, is there? "It has been almost a year since we've seen each other."

"No, it's something else." She makes a turn. "Spill the tea."

Callie is like a hound dog when it comes to these things, so there's no use trying to lie to her. I bite my lip. The air-conditioning brushes against my skin, but it can't cool the burn of my confession simmering at the tip of my tongue.

"I took your advice," I begin, feeling the weight of each word. "On the flight here."

Her eyes widen, reflecting a mix of shock and excitement, hands tightening on the steering wheel. "You mean…"

"Yep." I nod slowly, watching her reaction. "I lost my virginity."

"Shut up!" She nearly swerves in her astonishment, then rights the car, glancing at me with her brow furrowed and lips parted. "I don't even believe it. Details, Brielle. I need details!"

"It was…incredible," I confess, the memory flooding back in vivid flashes—Conrad's intense gaze, Grayson's teasing whispers. I picture their strong hands, hands that did things to my body I'd never experienced before.

"Was he gentle? Was it everything you hoped for?" Her questions puncture the silence, eager to hear a play-by-play.

Right. Like a normal person, she thinks it was with just one man. For right now, I'm not going to correct her. Maybe I'll never tell her the truth. I don't want her to think I'm some kind of sex freak.

"More than gentle," I say. "He made me feel…" I trail off, unsure how to encapsulate the storm of sensations that coursed through me, how one touch sparked a wildfire I couldn't contain.

"Alive?" she offers, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

"Exactly." I lean back, gazing out the window.

"Damn, girl." She lets out a low whistle. "I'm so proud of you. How did that even happen? You are not the type to join the mile high club."

I furrow an eyebrow at her. "Mile high club?"

"Don't you read any books?"

"Not the ones you do!" I exclaim. "And Jared's throbbing cock was so massive that I could barely get two hands around it…"

"That is not in my books!" I give her a knowing look, having caught passages of her books before. "Well, not that exactly. Anyways, the mile high club is just when you've had sex on a plane. I haven't even joined the club."

"Jealous?" I waggle my eyebrows at her.

"As if!" She rolls her eyes. "But seriously, you have to celebrate this milestone, it's a huge achievement."

"Feel free to buy me a cake." I grin.

"Or, we could go out, hit the bars." That's my best friend, always looking for a good time.

"I wish I could." I glance down at my hands, my fingers still tingling from the memory of touch, of heat, of…them. "But there's this dinner thing at home. I'd get out of it if I could, but it's important to Dad."

"Ugh, fine. Rain check then?" She arches an eyebrow, her grin infectious.

"Rain check." I return her smile.

* * *

"Sweetheart, the roast—"

"Already taken care of, Dad." I cut him off with a raised hand. With swift, practiced movements, I stir and season, actually enjoying cooking now that I'm back home. I never really had the time in New York. "Trust me, I can handle this."

"I know, I know." He rubs my shoulder. "You're probably better than me in the kitchen anyway."

"Remember when you tried to make lasagna and nearly set the kitchen on fire?" I tease, unable to resist a playful jab as he hands me a dish towel.

"Ah, yes, the Great Lasagna Inferno of '09." He chuckles, a sound that fills the room with warmth, and shakes his head. "I was sure I'd never live that one down."

"Never," I affirm, my laughter mingling with his.

"Or that time you tried to surprise Mom with breakfast in bed?" I ask, arching an eyebrow while I toss in a handful of sun-dried tomatoes. "You managed to burn the toast, undercook the eggs, and?—"

"And spill the orange juice all over the duvet," he finishes, shaking his head. The shared memory wraps around us like a warm blanket, even as the ache of her absence twines through it. "I've missed this—missed you, Brielle."

"Missed me saving your culinary butt, you mean?" My tone is light, teasing, but warmth blooms in my chest at his words.

"Especially that."

"Dad…" I begin, hesitating as I take in the lines etched around his eyes, the silver creeping into his hair. "How have you been…really? Since Mom…"

He sighs, a deep exhalation that seems to carry the weight of his solitude. His gaze drifts to the picture window above the sink, where the garden beyond lies dormant, waiting for spring.

"It's been quiet," he admits, his voice barely louder than the simmering of the sauce on the stove. "Too quiet without her laughter, her energy. But I'm managing, sweetie. Day by day."

"Day by day," I echo, slicing through the tension with the blade of my knife. My mind races, thoughts tangling with the tendrils of steam rising from the dishes.

I manage a smile, though it's as fragile as the bubbles in a champagne flute. "You're doing great, Dad. She would be proud."

"Thanks, Brie." His hand finds mine, squeezing it briefly before letting go. "Means the world to me, having you here."

"Why all the fuss tonight?" I ask, changing the topic to something a little lighter.

Dad wipes his hands on a dish towel, turning toward me with a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Well, Brielle," he begins, pausing for dramatic effect as he leans back against the counter, "I thought it'd be a good chance for you to meet some people before you start at the new college."

"Friends of yours?" I ask, trying to keep my tone even as I stir the pot, the spoon circling like a prowling shark in shallow waters.

"Best friends," he elaborates, pride swelling in his chest. "And a couple of your future professors too. These are people who mean a lot to me. I want them to get to know my amazing daughter, and if it gives you a leg up, that never hurts right?"

I grin. He's always trying to get me ahead.

"Sure, Dad."

What's one night with a bunch of old, boring professors anyway?

There's a hard knock at the door. Dad gives me a quick nod and strides off to play the gracious host. I take a deep breath, smoothing down my apron, able to just barely hear the voices across the threshold, my father's and a few others.

"Look who's here," Dad announces as he steps back into the kitchen, three shadows spilling into the room behind him.

"Conrad, Levi, Grayson—guys, this is my daughter, Brielle."

But the second my eyes fall on them, it's clear I don't need an introduction. They're the men from the plane.

Oh my god.

Old and boring…that couldn't be further from the truth.

What would Dad do if he knew that I lost my V-card to his best friends?