"What the fuck?" Bric says. "Who does something like that?"

"That guy," I say, sipping my Scotch. "Anyway, I'm gonna get her a Christmas present. What'd you get her?"

"I'm not telling you," Bric says, smiling. He knows I suck at this shit. I'm not a relationship kind of guy. And yeah, I got Rochelle presents all the time. But I never put any thought into them. I just spent money on her. She wasn't like Chella at all. Nice things were new for her when she met us. Chella is steeped in nice things. Nice things aren't the same thing as love and friendship, I know that better than anyone. And I'd like her to feel my gift is a sign of our love and friendship.

Do I love her? It's a dangerous question considering what's about to happen next week.

"But I will say, it's nothing Earth-shattering. Just a present."

I nod as we look at each other. "You should maybe put some more thought into it. I think she deserves that much."

"You like her," Bric says. "I get it. I'm not gonna interfere, Smith. If she makes you happy, I'm happy to step aside. I don't know if Quin will, he's having fun with her as far as I can tell. You might've misjudged him when you assigned him as Number Two."

"Yeah, maybe. But he's still in love with Rochelle, don't you think?"

Bric shrugs. "He hasn't talked about her all week to me. You?"

"Same," I reluctantly admit.

"Does Chella want to continue this arrangement?" Bric asks.

"I think so." And I do think that. If she didn't want to experience all four of us together, she'd have seen everything I did last night for what it was. A declaration. But she missed it. She missed all of it. Maybe it was just the shock of her father's message? Or maybe she doesn't feel the same way about me? Doesn't matter in the end because she just missed it.

"Well," Bric says, "if you want my opinion, I think she's got a problem, Smith."

"What kind of problem?"

"Maybe problem is the wrong word," he amends. "Maybe she's just very curious. Or very horny. Or maybe she's just into the gang-bang thing. I don't know her well enough to figure that out yet. But she's into it. You feel it, right? She likes this stuff. I mean, she went along on Wednesday night. We double-teamed her and she was ready for more last night. If her father hadn't shown up, we'd have done it again."

He's right. She wants this. She's known it was the objective since we started. And she's still here, playing the game with us. Allowing herself to be a pawn on the chessboard.

"She needs it, Smith. For whatever reason, she needs it. So give it to her, let her think about it. And then if you still like her enough to back out of this arrangement, do it. I won't stand in your way."

I let out a breath of air. "I know that, Bric. I wasn't thinking you would."

"I'm just being clear with you. We've been friends for a long time and I've never seen you so... interested in one of the girls. Take her if you want her. But do it after she gets what she needs. Or she might regret it for the rest of her life. And you don't want to start something new with regrets."

I finish my drink and stand up. "Yeah," I say. "I'll do that. We can finish this game and then decide after. I'm gonna take off, man. Have fun this weekend."

"Later," Bric calls out.

But I'm already hopping down the stairs and heading towards the revolving doors. I've got an idea for a Christmas present.

Something she probably needs, but won't ever ask for.

Something she didn't get nearly enough of growing up.

Chapter Thirty - Chella.

"Hey," I call out when I get home from work. "You here?"

Smith peeks out from behind the wall of the kitchen. "What's up?"

"Nothing," I say, hanging up my coat in the closet and then hopping up the stars to the main living level. I walk into the kitchen and find him... cooking. "What are you doing?"

"Christmas Eve Eve dinner, Marcella. It was a tradition in my adoptive house."

"Hmm," I say, pulling out one of the barstools and taking a seat. "What do you cook for a Christmas Eve Eve dinner?"

"Traditional Baldwin etiquette says a whole bunch of pretentious bullshit only a chef can make, like crown roast or leg of lamb."

"That sounds good!" I say. "I'm starving!"

"Chella," Smith says, shooting me a sidelong look as he slips his hands into potholders. "I'm Smith. I made mac and cheese."

I laugh. "That sounds good too." He opens the oven and takes out a casserole dish, gingerly setting it down on a trivet to protect my countertops. "You do realize that what you're doing right now is lady porn?"

Smith smiles but doesn't look at me. "Cooking?" he asks.

"And vacuuming. If you really want to turn me on, you'd vacuum the whole house. And dust. Bonus points for using lemon-scented wood polish."

"You're funny, Marcella Walcott."

"OK," I say, tucking down my smile. "So what's all this about? Since when do you cook? And hey-did you... clean up your mess on the dining room table?"

He glares at me. "Your fucking father showing up got me all paranoid that someone else will come over unexpectedly."

"Like who?"

"I don't know. Your friends, maybe? I don't do friends, Chella. I don't do fathers either. But I had no choice."

I lean over the island and grab a breadstick from a basket. "I'm sorry you had to see all that. And I'm sorry I was moody last night. You were really perfect, Smith. And I appreciate it."

"So you're over it?" he asks, then dips a fork in his mac and cheese and takes a bite. "It's good," he says, putting the fork down and going to the cupboard for plates. "I didn't think you'd be so calm about it tonight, to be honest."

"Is that why you're cooking? To make me feel better?"

He walks over to the small kitchenette table next to the living room and sets the plates down. "Maybe a little. I guess. But mostly because I got it out of Quin that your family never celebrated Christmas." He stops to shoot me a pretend glare. "I owe him something big for that secret, I hope you know that."

"Then why didn't you just let it go?" I ask, chewing on my breadstick. "Is this homemade?"

Smith glares at me again and I can't stop the chuckle that escapes.

"I mean"-he continues his thought-"even I had a Christmas every year. And since Quin beat me to a tree, I figured I'd go for food." He comes back into the kitchen and grabs the silverware and some white linen napkins, folded into the envelope design, like at the Club.

"Did you bring... fancy napkins from the Club?"

"You don't have any," he says, like this explains everything. "How could a woman with your breeding not have linen napkins? How can I possibly write you a Christmas Eve Eve message on a paper towel?"

Oh, shit. He's really trying to make me happy tonight. A message on a napkin. I take a moment to think about his other messages so far. The first one had his number on it. Don't worry. I'll take care of you, it said. And the poem on the second one. The one about going into the dark without a light.

"What else do people do on Christmas Eve Eve?" I ask.

"Not much. My big plans are for tomorrow. We have a party to go to, Chella."

"Oh, now your name is Bric."

"Not that kind of party," he says, shooting me a sidelong look. "The fun kind. At the Club."

"Hmmm," I say, thinking that over. "Saturday night at the Club sounds dangerous."

"I'm not telling you anything else. It's a surprise."

"And Bric and Quin know about this?"

"They do," he says.

"And they're OK with me being there for a Saturday night party?"

He winks at me. "You're a fun girl, Marcella. Why wouldn't they be OK with it?"

"Hmm," I say again. "Now you've got me curious. What kind of fun times are we talking about?"

"No clues," he says. "It's a surprise." He grabs a bottle of champagne from the counter and pops the cork, then fills two glasses. He hands me one and raises his-seemingly at a loss for words.

"What should we toast to?" I ask to break the silence. He's just staring at me with a look I can't describe. Thoughtful? Confused? I'm not sure.

"To us," he says. "We should toast to us."

"You know, this relationship I have with you is coming dangerously close to dating."

"Aren't we dating?" he asks.

"Are we dating?" My eyebrows shoot up my forehead.

"We're living together."

"Are we?"

We both laugh.

"I guess it's a little confusing, isn't it?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Is it?"

"You're full of questions tonight, Marcella."

"You're full of surprises, Smith."

He takes my arm and leads me over to the table, setting both our glasses down before pulling out my chair. "The food's getting cold."

"Mmm-hmm," I say, taking my seat and letting him push in my chair. "You have nice manners, Mr. Baldwin."

"Don't look at your napkin yet. Let me sit first. So I can enjoy it." He goes back for the casserole dish and places it on the table, then serves me a heaping spoonful.

I really don't know what to make of this version of Smith Baldwin.

"OK," he says. "You can look now."

I get a little nervous as I open up the napkin flap. In black marker it says, What will it take?

I look at him. Back down at his message. Then at him again. "What will what take?" I ask.

"To make your dream come true."

I sigh. "I already told Bric. I don't know what my dream is."

"How could you not know what you want out of life? You're thirty years old. Surely you've felt disappointment and wanted more."

"Of course," I say, tasting his food. "Mmmm. This is good, Smith. You should have dinner waiting for me every night when I get home from work."

"See, that's what I'm talking about. Is that what you want?"

"It was a sexist joke." I laugh. "Role reversal and all that good shit?"

"But is it something you want?"

"A house husband? No. I can honestly say I've never wished for a house husband. The cleaning only turns me on if you never do it, then decide to do it to make me happy." I wink at him, but he's got a very serious look on his face. "What?"

"Do you see yourself with... a family?"

I just stare at him. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't think my question was cryptic."

"Who would I want a family with?" I ask. He's about to answer but I put up my hand. "No, wait. You asked, so I guess you're really interested. I'll answer you. The person I'm having a family with is the only thing that matters."

"So you'd like to fall in love?"

"Of course," I say, laughing. "Doesn't everyone?"

He takes a sip of his champagne and then sets his glass down before answering. "I think most people would. At least when they're young. I can imagine you get to an age where you don't care anymore. But I don't think thirty is that age." He looks at me for a second. "I don't think thirty-six is that age either."