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In the shower, where I played out an alternate ending to our elevator adventure. One that ended with me pressing her against the wall, with her slim thighs tight around my waist.
I blinked.
“Well,” I said, “Ian’s never getting married because he’s a prick.”
He conceded that with a lift of his brows. “And Cameron’s not married yet because he’s ugly, and no one wants him.”
I barked out a laugh, earning a glare from Sheila.
I held up my hands. “Sorry.”
“Ian?” my dad said, voice groggy from sleep. “Are you here?”
Ian shoved me as he walked past. I tried to trip him, and he flipped me off when I missed.
“Yeah, Dad,” he said. “I got in late last night, so I stayed at Cameron’s.”
He leaned over for a hug, and my dad’s thin arms held him tight for a long moment.
When Ian pulled back, Dad cupped my brother’s face in his hand.
Ian smiled. “Hey, old man.”
Dad smiled back. “You need a haircut. You look like shit.”
Sheila and I laughed as Ian rolled his eyes, falling back onto the couch with a groan. “Cameron, don’t you owe me some coffee?”
I snagged a blueberry muffin from the counter, wolfing down half of it in one bite. “Get it yourself.”
“So good to have everyone home,” Sheila sighed. But she was smiling happily as she said it, pouring some coffee into a mug as she walked it over to Ian.
“Don’t spoil him,” I said. “He’ll never leave.”
He glared at me over the rim of his mug.
Shuffling footsteps came down the stairs, and Poppy was rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Holy shit, why is everyone being so loud this early?” she muttered.
“Cameron’s fault,” Ian said.
Her eyes snapped open, registering the sight of him on the couch. She squealed, running at him for a hug. He set his mug down just before she tackled him.
“Oof,” he said, ruffling the top of her hair. “Hello to you too.”
She ruffled his hair right back. “You look awful,” she said in a gleeful tone. “What a refreshing change.”
Ian shoved her onto the end of the couch, and she laughed, kicking at his legs with her feet.
And the whole time, my dad simply smiled, happy at the sound of his bickering children filling the room.
We ate breakfast, talking as the sun came up.
Ian told us stories from London, places he loved to visit, the things he’d miss now that he was back. Poppy chattered happily about school—which she was taking her sweet ass time to wrap up—and I envied how blissfully unconcerned she was with her lack of plans when she finished.
Dad would pipe in occasionally, but for the most part, he was content to listen, his wheelchair parked at the table and a picked apart muffin in front of him.
“You taking Ian into the office today?” Sheila asked.
