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My lips find hers and I’m flat out making out with her pubescent style, waiting for my dick to resurrect to life so I can pick up where I left off.
I might have an obsession with kissing Nicole. I like to think I’m a healthy man without serial creeper tendencies, but deep in my mind, I know I’d kiss her any chance I get for all the times I couldn’t.
For all the times I wished I could trap her in a room and kiss her until she looked at me the way she did that day she almost died.
Like I’m the only one who mattered.
After a few minutes of kissing me like in one of her cheesy black and white romance films, Nicole pulls back with a gasp. “Oh my God, we’re going to be late.”
“For the second round? Don’t worry about that, it’ll happen in about two minutes.”
“The dinner.” She pushes me away.
“That can wait. In fact, I’m not hungry.”
“Well, I am.” She wraps herself in a towel and winces when she steps into the en-suite room.
I guess having dinner wouldn’t be so bad.
And yes, I’m trying to pacify my urges and keep up the “I’m not a sex addict” façade. Stay out of it.
Nicole tells me to hurry up and meet her downstairs.
By the time I put on some trousers and a shirt, I’m ready to shove food down both our throats so we can go back to a much more fun activity.
How much Minions merch should I buy Jay so he goes to bed early tonight?
A commotion of voices scatters my master plan.
My steps to the dining room turn heavy, instead of light, and the snap of emotions jerks my spine into a line.
This isn’t real.
I probably frustrated the tea monsters enough that they put something in my water.
Maybe this whole thing ever since Nicole showed up at Weaver & Shaw has been a dream and I’ll wake up to find myself dashing, every girl’s wet dream and so fucking alone, authors should write nihilistic books about my brain.
But the moment I step into the Victorian-like dining room, I know this is, in fact, real.
The two people I only wished to see at my funeral while I was in a casket and they threw skulls at me are here.
My mother and my fucking brother.
30
DANIEL
My childhood is a phase that I like to consider nonexistent.
It was a splash of eating disorders, a loss of faith in my cheating father, and a deep-seated hatred for the woman who allowed him to get away with it.
The woman who chose misery for herself and her sons instead of walking away about…thirty-one years ago, before Zach was even born.
The Zach who held her hand and couldn’t care less about her status as a meek woman who didn’t mind being used any way Benedict Sterling saw fit.
Both of them are staring at me now.
Mother is grabbing the napkin that’s on her lap with long, skinny fingers that reflect the rest of her body. She’s an abstract of bones and flesh wrapped in a designer dress and jewelry that cost a small fortune.
