And possibly high. Most of the dinner party guests have taken turns in the bathroom. Doing snow, Oliver informs me under his breath. Only Mr. Rochester and Zoey haven’t taken that trip. Oh, and me. I don’t have any snow. That makes me laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Oliver asks.

“I don’t know.” There are tears in my eyes. “I love you guys. You know that? You’re my best friends.”

That sets off another round of us laughing. At some point in the evening we moved back into the room with the fireplace. It’s just so big and warm and fiery. I love this room.

“Jane.” That’s Lucas. His eyes are super blue. “I’m going to suggest something. I don’t want to shock you, but I think you’re really hot. We both do.”

I giggle, though I don’t know why it’s funny. There doesn’t need to be a reason. Everything’s funny right now. “I think you’re hot, too,” I whisper.

Oliver puts his arm around my shoulders. “Invite us up to your room.”

“You already saw my room,” I say, drawing the word out. It sounds funny. Kind of like vroom. “Room. Room. It’s not interesting.”

“It’s very interesting with you in it. There’s a small bed, but I bet we could all fit.”

“All three of us,” I say, fascinated by the idea. The bed is way too small for all of us, but what if we shrunk? “We would be so tiny. Little elf people all lined up in that bed.”

Lucas’s shoulders are shaking with laughter. I can feel him moving the whole sofa. Oliver’s not laughing, though. He takes my chin in his hand and turns me to face him. His lips press against mine. I suck in a breath of shock. He uses the opening to press his tongue inside my mouth. It pushes against my teeth, demanding entry. I make a small sound of distress.

“What are you doing?” I say, pulling back.

“Having a good time,” he says with an easy grin, his lids low.

Lucas’s hand rests on my thigh. His fingers are between my legs. Not touching all the way in a private part, but close. So close. “We both want to feel good, Jane. You can make us feel good. We’ll make you feel good, too.”

My throat feels thick and swollen. There’s a strange taste in my mouth. The taste of Oliver. The imprint of him. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s not… Mr. Rochester. It’s not Beau. “You’re talking about sex.”

“Sex with both of us,” Oliver says, pulling me in for a hug. “We like to share.”