A Kiss For Three

chapter 5

I sent the same answer to Serena and Camille: working on it. A lie wrapped in a lie. Then I opened Adrian’s pin from last night. Tomorrow. Rooftop.

They wanted Iris? Fine.

I went as myself: black dress, clean lines, mouth sharper than my eyeliner. The guard waved me through. The rooftop breathed open—café lights strung like low stars, the skyline glittering like a hoard. An outdoor sofa, a low table crowded with pizza boxes, bottles, a half-played board game. A greenhouse box glowing with potted plants. It looked more like a treehouse than a penthouse.

Adrian lounged with an empty wineglass and loosened tie; Nico sprawled, a slice of pizza poised like a conductor’s baton. They waved me over like I was late to a joke.

“Welcome to the only place in Manhattan where no one asks for a selfie,” Adrian said. “Except him.” He jerked his chin at Nico. “He selfies with the moon!”

Nico shrugged. “She has phases. I respect a woman with boundaries.”

“I don’t do selfies,” I said, sitting. “Or moons.”

“Good,” Adrian said. “Less to be used against you in a court of public opinion.”

They were… lighter than men at my altitude usually are. Success usually calcifies. On them it hung loose, like a jacket you can run in. Nico tipped his bottle toward a corner with a pile of blankets.

“Tour time. Our secret spot.”

Adrian rose and led, Nico flanking him like the other half of a long joke. The tour was a polilogue—two voices braiding into one.

Adrian: “This is the couch where we pretend to strategize and actually rank potato chips.”

Nico: “Kettle sea salt wins. Except when Adrian’s in a ‘truffle’ mood, which is code for ‘I read the FT and felt poor.’”

Adrian: “This is the fire pit we never light because we are responsible adults who still think we’re fifteen.”

Nico: “And here—” (he spread his arms at the ledge) “—is where the sky is almost close enough to answer back.”

They steered me to the corner where the view opened like a mouth: bridges strung with light, water swallowing neon, helicopters stitching silver thread through dark. It was ridiculous and it was good.

“This is where you run from your wives?” I asked, flat. Skeptical.

“This is where we run from being husbands,” Adrian said, smiling without a bite. “And from being companies. From being galleries. From the calendar.”

“From our own press releases,” Nico added. “From our virtue. And sometimes,” he glanced at me, “from our spies.”

I lifted an eyebrow almost in a warning.

Adrian half-laughed. “They send people often. Trainers, cousins, ‘old friends in town’—you should see the creativity. We decided this time to follow the follower.”

Nico leaned on the ledge. “You were good. The journalist? Fantastic pratfall. The violinist? The bow hold sold it.”

“Thanks,” I said. I meant it the way you mean a weather report.

Adrian’s voice gentled. “What we liked—” he searched for it, and I could tell it wasn’t a line— “was getting to play. Even if they were roles.”

Nico nodded. “With you, we could be a little… made up. In a good way.”

I don’t get praised often. Clients want outcomes, not artistry—the compliment landed warmer than I wanted.

“Don’t get sentimental,” I said, dry. “I’m still here to work.”

“Be cynical on your own time,” Adrian said, lightly. “Up here we’re unserious.”

“Kids,” Nico said simply.

They meant it. The rooftop felt like a treehouse two boys forgot to outgrow. It pressed on a place in me I don’t consult. I stood too close on purpose. A test. “Show me where you hide,” I said.

Nico pointed at the blanket heap. “Hide there. Under siege from carbs and bad jokes.”

Adrian added, “Also under siege from the fact that up here, nobody’s trying to sell us anything.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said. “I sell illusions.”

“You play them,” Nico corrected softly. “Different art. Same muscle.”

The way he said play slid a wire of heat under my ribs. They were handsome; they could play. It lit something I know how to use. I wanted to touch and not be punished for it.

I stepped in and hugged Nico. No performance angle, just pressure. He hugged back immediately, warm, easy, his chin near my temple, his laugh low like a bass note. Adrian joined—long arms around both of us, a brief, ridiculous sandwich of expensive cologne and pizza and the clean outdoors. No hands wandered. Nobody took inventory. They just held and let go.

They’ll break eventually, I tell myself. This is all a game to me. One wrong step doesn’t matter—a changed plan doesn’t matter. The goal remains the same.

Nico pointed at the ledge again. “Lesson time. How to stop being a cop in your own head.”

“I’m not—” I started.

“You catalog everything,” Adrian said, gentle fact. “Up here we yell it out. Tradition.”

Nico climbed the low bench and cupped his hands to the sky like a megaphone. “I AM A GENIUS WHO CAN’T DO LAUNDRY.”

Adrian followed: “MY BOARD HATES FUN. I HATE MY BOARD.”

They looked at me. Invitation, not dare.

“Pass,” I said.

“Cowardice noted,” Nico said, cheerful.

Adrian held out his hand. “Come on, Iris. It’s free.”

The compliment earlier still burned pleasantly; their hands were open; the city was huge enough to swallow anything I didn’t want back. I stepped up between them. We laced our fingers. Their palms were warm. The café lights hummed like a pulse.

I tipped my head to the throat of Manhattan and let it go, the sentence tearing free like cloth: “TO HELL WITH MY EX!”

It ripped through me on the way out. I startled myself—at the volume, at the relief. My eyes stung, then blurred, then overflowed in that stupid, involuntary way tears prefer. I hate crying. It feels like unpaid labor.

“Okay,” Nico murmured, squeezing my hand once and stepping down, giving me space without making a show of it.

I dropped to the blankets before my knees decided to. The tears didn’t stop just because I wanted them to.

Adrian lay down looking at the sky beside me and invited me to join, one arm turned into a careful shelter. He didn’t shush or fix or sermonize, just anchored. The city breathed, the lights blinked, the basil in the greenhouse released its ghost of summer.

“I’m fine,” I said into his shirt.

“I know,” he said, soft.

I am cold, pragmatic, cynical—because it pays. But as my breath evened out, I had the inconvenient thought that these two weren’t the usual kind. Still men, still dangerous in all the ways men can be. But different. Attractive in a way that wasn’t just surface: the play, the permission, the lack of grabby need.

My job is to find cracks. Tonight I felt one open—mine.