The deal is simple: three months as their secretary, and my stepbrothers release my inheritance.
Jones, Eric, and Vincent Ashford are fertility doctors who own the biggest clinic in North Carolina.
They're also the trustees of the money I need to open my library café — a detail my late mother arranged in her will, because apparently graduating cum laude at twenty-one doesn't qualify me to manage my own finances.
I have a dream. A degree. A vision for a cozy café filled with books and community.
What I don't have is a business plan that survives their questions.
So I take the deal. Three months. Prove I'm responsible. Get my money and get out.
I should not have agreed to spend every day ten feet away from three blue-eyed, green-eyed, brown-eyed men who make my body react in ways it never has for anyone else.
I'm twenty-one, and I have never once been attracted to another human being — until the three of them walked into my life wearing tailored shirts and ink I can't stop staring at and the kind of quiet authority that makes my knees forget how to work.
The problem isn't that I want one of my stepbrothers.
The problem is that I want all three.
And apparently, they've always been good at sharing. Once they claim me, they're not letting me go.
They're also fertility doctors. So when they talk about keeping me forever, they mean it in ways I didn't expect — and in ways my body seems to have already agreed to.
Three months. That was the deal.
Nobody said anything about what happens after.
