Threes Company (22 page)

I smiled back at her and stepped over to the counter.

"So, what's on the menu?"

"I thought we'd have omelet with ham, peppers, mushrooms, and cheese," she answered. "Does that sound all right?"

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"It sure does!" Adam said, moving over to stand on the other side of Simon's mother. "Sounds great! What can I do?"

Mrs Stanford smiled sweetly at Adam. It was

obvious she liked him. "Can you make coffee, dear?"

Adam beamed. "Sure can."

While Adam rummaged through cupboards and set

about making a pot of coffee, I started to deseed and slice peppers, ham, and mushrooms.

And it was really very easy. Simon's mom wanted to know how chefs got their omelets so light and fluffy, so I gave her a crash course on whisking and timing. Adam made coffee and toast, and we talked and laughed a little, and after I'd called her ma'am for about the tenth time, Mrs Stanford hummed quietly beside us. "Well, I can say one thing about Simon," she mused out loud. "He has a thing for well-mannered, polite boys."

Adam grinned proudly, and I blushed seven shades of scarlet. "I, um… I, uh…"

"Don't be nervous, dear." She patted my arm. "I'll admit I was shocked at first, when he told me, but I wasn't surprised. The fact that my Simon loves two people at the same time doesn't surprise me at all."

"It's, um…" I started and exhaled loudly. "It's just…

well, it's just that we're hardly conventional."

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Mrs Stanford smiled fondly. "My dear, there isn't much about Simon that's conventional." As she got the service trays ready, she told us, "He's never done anything the conventional way." She sighed loudly. "You know, when he was a baby and learning to walk, he'd get cranky if anyone tried to help him. And riding his bike, he wouldn't have the training wheels." She shook her head at the memory. "Said he'd prefer to fall off and learn how to do it right the next time, rather than have something propping him up."

She looked at us both. "You boys probably know all too well how stubborn he can be," she said with a fond smile. "Wouldn't go to work for his father. He flat-out refused. But as much as it drove his dad crazy, he respected him for it."

Mrs Stanford smiled at us warmly. "So for Simon to come here asking for help, or even advice, tells me all I need to know about how he feels about you two."

I didn't quite know what to say to that. Apparently neither did Adam. He looked at me, his face a mixture of smugness, shyness, and surprise.

"Are the omelets done?" Mrs Stanford asked, snapping me out of my daze.

"Yes, ma'am."

We plated everything up and carried breakfast to the

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outside patio where Simon and his dad were sitting in the morning sun. The reports Simon had organized for the hotel owners and their accountants were now printed off and on the table in front of them. They were discussing figures, but promptly stopped and packed away the papers so we could all eat breakfast.

And it was good, too. The quiet hums of

appreciation while everyone ate were an excellent indication they enjoyed it. And it wasn't until plates were empty that anyone spoke.

Simon sipped his coffee and took a deep breath before he spoke. "Dad's company is in imports and exports, but I asked if he could at least meet with the owners to talk investment."

Simon's father looked at him and sighed. "I'm not sure, to be honest, Simon. If they've met with Hartley on-site already, then they seem happy with his proposal."

Simon shook his head. "Dad, they'd be happy with anyone's money. The owners told me themselves they don't like what the man stands for."

Mr Stanford stared at Simon, then at me and Adam for a long moment. "And this Hartley guy only wants to buy it to get rid of the gay-friendly hotels?"

Simon nodded. "Yes. He's a homophobe with the finances to back his beliefs." Then Simon looked at his

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mother. "You remember this Hartley guy's political campaign? He wants to get rid of us one way or another."

Simon's mother nodded. "Of course I remember."

"I'm not saying it's not true," Mr Stanford conceded.

"I just find it hard to believe someone would garner a real estate portfolio like his with such a blatant agenda."

"Yeah, well, money talks apparently," Simon said curtly. He sat back in his chair, and I could see he was getting angry.

Mr Stanford looked at his son. "I'm sorry, Simon.

It's just business."

"No, it's not," Simon hissed and lifted his chin proudly. "It's more than that. It's what I've worked my ass off for, over three years, getting that place just perfect. It's more than just a
business
or a job to me. It's my home."

Simon looked at Adam and then at me. "It's
our
home."

I could tell Simon's father was an astute

businessman. He needed to know what kind of commitment he'd be getting for his investment.

"Mr Stanford?" I interrupted, trying to reinforce Simon's argument. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I offered him the money from selling my restaurant and my parent's house. I wanted him to see what it meant to me. "I have a little over five hundred thousand dollars. I know it's pennies compared to what you'd be talking for the hotel,

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but it's all I've got. And I'm more than prepared to offer it to you, in return for our three names to be included on that contract."

Everyone at the table stared at me.

Simon's father smiled like he was dealing with a child. Maybe he was.

I cleared my throat so my voice didn't betray my nerves. "I know we'd only be talking about five percent, probably less, but it's an invested interest. If we—" I looked quickly to Adam and Simon—"have part ownership, no matter how small it is to you, it's
huge
for us, and it's an incentive for us to give it everything we've got."

"Wil," Simon whispered.

I turned to him, taking in his wide eyes. He looked a little pale. "Simon, I'm serious."

"I can see that," Mr Stanford replied.

I could see a flicker of something in his eyes, so I struck while the iron was hot. "I think you're worried about commitment or dedication from us for your investment, and that's fair enough. But Mr Stanford, we're a partnership: Simon, Adam, and myself. We're not a legally-bound partnership, but we'd request it be reflected on the contract of sale for whatever percentage it works out at, and we'd expect dividend returns as such."

Mr Stanford smiled again, but this time with what

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looked like an inkling of respect.

"You're confident in this"—he searched for the right word, looking between the three of us—" this
partnership
, that it would withstand the pressure of working together, living together, running a business—"

"Yes," I cut him off, answering without hesitation and without doubt. "Absolutely. It's the three of us or none of us."

Simon's father looked from me to his son. "Simon?"

Simon stared at me for a long moment and I was expecting him to speak to me, to tell me to butt the hell out, but then he looked at his father. "I can almost match Wil's offer," he said. "If I can use Grandma's trust money. That will give you at least nine hundred thousand."

His father blinked, taken aback. "You'd do that?" he asked, clearly surprised. "That's a huge commitment, Simon."

"I know it is, Dad. But that's what this is. That's what I've been trying to tell you!" Simon huffed out a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. "Anyway, what Wil said earlier is right. It's the principle of the thing. If we let Hartley win, then we stand for nothing. We're not just trying to keep the hotel. I want to prove to that asshole we won't apologize for being gay."

I swear, in that moment, I could have thrown my

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arms around Simon and kissed him so fucking

inappropriately in front of his parents. But instead I grinned at him, and I realized at that point, even if we didn't get to keep the hotel, that we'd be okay. Simon wanted to stand up for who he was and for what he believed in, and right there, in front of his father, he just did.

I was so proud of him.

Mr Stanford sat back in his chair, looked at the three of us, and sighed. Then he looked at his son, but still said nothing.

"Just meet with them," Simon said, resigned, pleading. "Meet the owners, meet that Hartley prick if you want to. No promises, no obligations, just meet with them."

Mr Stanford looked at Simon. "One meeting. No promises."

Simon clapped his hands, and in the next second was on his feet, walking off into the garden with his phone to his ear.

* * * *

I was still buzzing when we got back home. Simon had organized a meeting with the owners for the following afternoon at the hotel and even told them to extend the offer to Hartley. He wore a grin from ear to ear.

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"I thought your dad was going to say no," I told him. "I mean, it's a huge investment. We're talking millions of dollars, so I understand why he's so hesitant."

Simon nodded. "He takes all business negotiations seriously, and if he thought for one moment we're not committed to this, he wouldn't even consider it."

I cupped his face in my hands and kissed him. "I'm committed to this."

He smiled warmly and whispered, "I'm committed to this, too."

I turned to look for Adam, wondering why he

wasn't in between us. He was staring at us, and he looked…

wrong. It took me a moment to realize what it was that was different.

He wasn't smiling.

"Adam, what's wrong?" I asked, alarmed. "I thought you wanted this? You said before you'd love to own part of this place."

His mouth opened and closed, twice. Simon stood by my side and we waited for Adam to find the words he was looking for.

"I can't be a part of it…"

Simon frowned. "Why not?"

Adam shrugged and spoke to the floor. "I can't… I don't have that kind of money to put in…" He shrugged

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again.

"It doesn't matter about the money," I told him.

"The money isn't important."

"Yes, it is," he answered softly.

"Not to me, it isn't," I replied, just as quietly.

"I've got nothing to give," he said hopelessly.

Simon's frown deepened. "How so?"

Adam looked at him then, almost teary-eyed. "You run a business, and you"—he looked at me—"ran your own business. You're both qualified, and have the finances to do this. How can we be equal thirds, when we're not equal at all?"

"I'll tell you why, Adam," I said gently, but seriously. "Because without you, we'd have nothing."

His eyes shot to mine, confused. So I walked over to him, and taking his face in my hands, I told him, I told him the exact truth, honesty laid bare. "Without you, I wouldn't be here in Florida. Without you, I wouldn't have been invited into your lives, invited into your world. Adam, it's you who holds us together. I love Simon, very much," I said, like he wasn't standing right there. "And I know he loves me, but without you, there wouldn't be an us."

Simon took Adam's hand. "Adam, look at me," he ordered gently. Only when Adam's eyes met his, did he continue. "Wil's right. It's three of us or none of us. All the

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money in the world doesn't mean a damn thing compared to what you mean to us."

"Without you, Adam, we've got nothing," I told him again. "The things you give us can't be counted or measured. I mean it, Adam, you are everything to us."

"Thank you," he said with a sad smile. "But I just don't feel very equal."

The thought of him feeling anything but equal just tore at me. "Adam, if you want, I'll cancel the offer. We'll call Simon's dad and say we can't do it."

He looked at me with wide eyes. "What?"

"If you're not comfortable with this, then we don't do it. It's as simple as that," I told him. "We'll find something else."

Adam frowned. "I don't want to find something else. This is my home. I belong here."

"You belong with us, as an equal third," Simon said.

"So the offer stays?"

Adam looked at us both, and then slowly, he

nodded.

I lifted his chin and pressed my lips to his. "I love you, Adam Preston."

Then Simon kissed him, softly and sweetly, and rested his forehead on Adam's, holding their faces together.

Simon didn't have to tell him he loved him. Jesus, it was

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there. Wordlessly, it was
right
there.

And later that night, Simon and I proved to him, proved to every inch of him, just how much he meant to us.

There was no way, no possible way, he could have doubted us.

* * * *

At four o'clock the next afternoon, the two owners arrived with a smug Hartley. Simon's father had arrived ten minutes before, along with his lawyer. They were impeccably dressed in suits I could only dream of owning.

They were extremely professional, no nonsense, and there to talk business.

Hartley had been told he was meeting the owners again and another interested party, and that was all he was told. Needless to say, Hartley was surprised by who he met—or rather, surprised by the obvious wealth and business expertise he met—and his smug attitude got defensive from the very beginning.