Like a Tonka truck. That’s the first thing I think of—two brothers sharing a Tonka truck. That makes me break into a fit of giggles, but the men don’t take offense. They chuckle along with me. Then Oliver’s hand moves down my arm. His fingertips graze the outside of my breast. Lucas pushes his hand closer to the top of my thighs. “Invite us upstairs, Jane.”

No, I don’t want them to come upstairs. It’s cold up there. And the bed is way too small for us. Plus I don’t want to have sex with them. They’re not Beau.

“I don’t know,” I whisper, leaning my head on Oliver’s shoulder. “You’re so pretty.”

He’s pretty like one of those marble sculptures you see in textbooks from the ancient Greeks. You don’t think about getting into bed with a marble sculpture.

It would not feel soft and cuddly.

Oliver pulls me in for another kiss; his palm covers my breast. I gasp in surprise, but then Lucas’s hand delves deep between my legs, almost touching my sex. It’s so much. It’s so much, and it’s not actually funny.

I’m not laughing anymore.

“Get the hell out of my house.”

Everything stops.

Oliver pulls back, only slightly. He’s still embracing me. “What the fuck?” he asks in this tone that manages to be both friendly and offended.

Mr. Rochester sits in the armchair, leaned back, casual as ever. The only sign that he’s serious is the flashing in his dark eyes and the ferocity in his voice. “You heard me.”

We all know that he has three broken bones in his body. That he underwent major surgery only a few nights ago, and yet there’s a sense of lingering violence in the air.

A warning crackling like static before a storm.

“We were just having a little fun.” Oliver.

“And now it’s over. You have five minutes to vacate the premises.”

It’s only now, when everyone stands still that I realize how far things got in a room full of strangers. There are other people in close embraces. I don’t think we were the only ones making out, but it’s still crazy. And not funny. Like suddenly nothing is funny anymore. I’m so sad about it. It feels like nothing might ever be funny again.

Zoey stands up. “Beau. You don’t mean this.”

“You too,” he says without glancing at her.

Her mouth opens. Her shock feels genuine. I feel bad for her, even though I think she got me really drunk on purpose. “Don’t make her leave,” I say. “It’s raining outside.”

“It’s always raining outside,” Mr. Rochester says.

“It was a kiss,” Zoey says, her voice rising in pitch. “They kissed her. Are you that much of a caveman that you can’t stand to see anyone kiss her?”