“I don’t.” He stands and picks up his glass. “I don’t want to give him another moment of my time or thoughts.”
He drains the last few drops of wine and sets the glass back down. “I’m going to go to bed early. You must be tired too.”
I am tired, bone-deep tired, but I’m not ready to go inside yet. “I’ll sit here a bit longer.”
“Watch out for the mosquitoes. They get vicious at night.”
I chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He nods and turns to go, then pauses at the door. “Marshall?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime.”
He disappears inside, and I hear his footsteps on the stairs, faint and fading.
I sit alone on the veranda, the sky deepening to the last pale edge of blue. I should follow Gabriel’s lead and go to bed, but I can’t move yet. There’s a strange weight in my chest, like something settled there during dinner and isn’t planning to leave. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know why Gabriel’s confession made me feel like this, protective and restless.
I finish my wine and set the glass down.
The mosquitoes can have me. I’m not ready to go inside yet.
3
Gabriel
Marshall and I fall into a routine that’s almost comfortable. He’s outside before eight most mornings, doing inventory, ordering supplies, getting his hands dirty in the garden. I stay inside, working on a new interior design project for a long-time client who wants their Manhattan penthouse to feel less like a museum and more like a home.
It’s not that we’re avoiding each other; we’re just busy. We take turns going into town for groceries, cooking, and cleaning up, and for a few days I start thinking this might actually work. Just two adults sharing space and doing their jobs.
This morning I’m set up at the kitchen table after breakfast, laptop open, fabric swatches spread across the surface. I’m supposed to be choosing between two shades of cream for the living room curtains, but my attention keeps drifting through the window.
Marshall is outside, shirtless in old tattered jeans and dirty boots. He’s wearing that expensive watch he never takes off, the one that looks obscene next to the manual labor he’s doing. His torso is covered in a sheen of sweat that glistens in the morning sun. I watch the muscles in his back shift as he lifts something heavy, carries it across the garden, and sets it down with care.
I pull my attention back to the swatches.
Not appropriate, Gabriel.
The cream on the left is warmer. The one on the right has gray undertones that’ll make the space feel cold. I type notes into the project file, forcing myself to focus on color temperature and natural light and the client’s north-facing windows.
My gaze drifts back to the window.
Marshall is crouched now, examining something in the soil. The line of his spine curves, and I can see every vertebra, the way his shoulders taper down to his waist. He wipes his forearm across his forehead, and as he tilts his head to the side, I catch the streak of dirt it leaves behind.
Jesus Christ.
In the years since I’ve seen Marshall in person, he’s gotten even more handsome, even more muscular, if that’s possible. Despite the family money and doing well financially himself, he’s never shied away from manual labor. If anything, he enjoys it. Getting his hands dirty, getting sweaty. I have to admit it’s hot, even if I know it’s not appropriate.
I close the laptop and stand, needing to do something other than sit here and stare at my stepbrother like some kind of pervert. I’ve been working for three hours straight, so a break is reasonable. Bringing him water is just being considerate.
I pull open the freezer and grab a handful of ice, drop it into a glass, and fill it with water from the tap. I slice a lemon and add it, because that’s what I’d do for anyone.
The heat hits me the second I step outside. It’s not even eleven but it’s sweltering, the kind of dry heat that bakes into your skin and stays there. I cross the garden, my sandals scuffing against the stone path.
Marshall doesn’t notice me at first. He’s bent over a section near the fountain, his hands deep in the soil, pulling out weeds and old roots. I stop a few feet away and watch him work. There’s something meditative about the way he moves, careful and unhurried. His hands are massive, knuckles scraped and dirt wedged under his nails, and I have the intrusive thought that those hands could probably span my entire ribcage.
