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The air crackles with a sense of anticipation, maybe even expectation, and the moment stretches out between us. My mouth is suddenly dry, but my body is humming with an energy like lightning. My insides quiver and my sex grows hot and wet and all I want in that moment is to feel his mouth on mine and his hands all over my body. But he takes a step back and turns away and the moment passes.
“Have a seat,” he says.
I walk over and sit down on one of the sofas. He drops down onto the sofa across from me and a moment later, a woman bustles in and sets a couple of cold drinks on the glass and burnished steel coffee table that sits between us.
“Thank you, Margaret,” he says.
She gives him a small smile then turns and walks out of the room, leaving us alone. Bastian picks up his glass of iced tea and takes a drink, his eyes never leaving mine. He was right about me having a million different questions, but I honestly don’t even know where to start. Sensing my hesitation, he sets his glass down and takes the lead.
“So, this is where you’ll be living now,” he starts. “My home is your home. If you need anything, I will make sure to get it for you. All you need to do is ask. Your every want, whim, and desire will be fulfilled… just as your father would have wanted.”
With a host of filthy thoughts racing through my mind, I doubt my every want, whim, or desire is going to be fulfilled. That’s the last thing I’m going to say to him though. I clear my throat and rake my fingers through my hair, trying to push those thoughts out of my head and focus on the here and now. On getting answers to some of the questions I have.
“When did you get rich, Bastian?” I ask. “Did you win the lottery or something?”
A corner of his mouth quirks upward and he chuckles softly. “I did win the lottery, I suppose. I was fortunate enough to be born into the right family,” he tells me. “My father is Charles Bullock. He founded one of the most successful and lucrative financial management firms in the country. So, I come from a lot of money.”
I shake my head, battered by waves of disbelief. “Why are you working as a firefighter then? How did that happen?”
“Despite having a talent for it, I’ve never been all that interested in financial management. It bores me,” he replies.
“I’m not understanding all of this, Bastian. How did you meet my father? How did…”
My voice tapers off because I’m not entirely sure where to go with this. I’ve got questions but there are so many thoughts swirling around in my head that I can’t get a clean grasp on any one of them, let alone be able to form a coherent question.
“My parents wanted me to have a normal childhood. They didn’t want to put me in one of those bubbles a lot of wealthy families put their kids in. So, they enrolled me in public school. That’s where I met your dad,” he tells me. “We hit it off instantly. We grew up together and I spent as much time at his family’s house—the house you grew up in actually—as he spent at mine.”
I lean forward and pick up my glass of iced tea and take a drink, giving myself a minute to process everything he’s telling me. There is this whole side of Uncle Bastian’s life that I didn’t know existed. It’s like he’s not the same person I grew up with.
“But… why are you a firefighter then?” I ask. “If you’re rich, then why—”
“As I said, I’ve never been all that interested in finances. And because my parents wanted me to live my own life, they allowed me to choose my own path,” he says. “It was your dad who showed me the value of a life devoted to serving others. My folks couldn’t have been more pleased, to be honest. They always thought he was a good influence on me. But they supported my decision to join the FD instead of working for my father’s firm.”
“I had no idea.”
“Nobody does. And that’s by design,” he states. “I don’t want people to know me as anybody other than who I am. When they find out I come from money, people change. Or rather, their attitude toward me changes. I’m suddenly that rich guy instead of just Sebastian Bullock.”
“I… I get that, I guess.”
I’m still having trouble wrapping my mind around this new version of Uncle Bastian. It’s like he peeled off a mask and revealed a whole new face I’ve never seen before or something. It’s surreal. It doesn’t change how I feel about him, nor does it make me think of him any differently. It’s just shocking to find out Uncle Bastian has been a secret millionaire—hell, maybe even a billionaire—all these years.
“Do you have any questions for me, baby girl?”
I search my mind, trying to cut through all the noise and the static of my shock, but can’t latch onto any one thing firmly enough to form a question.
“Okay, so, if this is my home now—”
“It is,” he cuts me off.
“Fine. Since this is my home now, what happens next?” I ask. “I mean, it's a long commute to school, and maybe living in the dorms would—"
“You won’t be going to that school,” he interrupts me again. “You’ll be going to Weston College. It's a private all-girls school—”
"Wait. What?" I object. "You can't send me to an all-girls college."
“I can. And I will,” he grumbles. “I can also say for a fact that your father would want you to focus on getting your education and not fumbling around with drunk, horny college boys. And neither do I.”
His blunt admission takes me by surprise but sends that quiver rippling through me again and I draw in a sharp breath at the hungry look in his eyes. I tell myself though, that I’m seeing things. That he can’t possibly be looking at me the way I want him to be looking at me. That he doesn’t want me the way I want him. He’s my godfather. My uncle. He’s twenty years my senior. I might want it—want him—but that doesn’t mean he wants me in return.
