Stepbrother Thief (39 page)

It's an SUV again.

My turn to raise my eyebrows as Gill grins at me and shrugs, opening the door and standing back.

“I figured it'd be nice to have the space,” he purrs, leaning in and looking down at me with half-hooded eyes. “Just in case.”

“Yeah, right,” I say, but my body's already responding to his words, my thighs clenching together in anticipation. Gill closes my door and moves over to his side, climbing in and starting the ignition. “Where's dinner tonight?” I ask, silently praying Italian is still on the menu.

“Same place I planned for last time.” Gill pauses as we pull out of the driveway, swallowing hard before speaking again. “Just because something doesn't work out the first time doesn't mean it isn't worth another try.” My breath catches and I glance out the window, afraid to look at him when he's talking like that, voice low and deep and husky, slamming me hard with a double meaning that makes my throat tight.

“Are we waiting until after the appetizers come to talk about … what we need to talk about?”

“I'm ready when you're ready,” he says, but he doesn't sound very sure of himself. It's not an emotion I'm used to seeing in Gill. Gilleon Marchal is always perfect, always prepared. The man of today is different from the sweet, romantic, humorous boy he used to be. Or at least that's what I thought when I first saw him again in Cliff's kitchen, but … the asshole's starting to show cracks. I can't even talk myself out of remembering the clear passion burning in his gaze when we made love. Eh. As if that wasn't enough of a sign. I've only ever had sex with other men, never made love. Never that.

I glance out the window for a few minutes, my eyes following the rush of rain, the flutter of autumn's last leaves, a beckoning call to winter. Some of Gill's neighbors already have Christmas lights up on their houses, little blurbs of white and red and green that flitter past as we drive. I feel my heart clench tight as I imagine decorating Gilleon's Colonial with lights, of turning the nearly empty sitting room downstairs into a workshop, of inviting Gill into the master bedroom with me …

I take a deep breath.

I'm getting a little ahead of myself here.

“Got any Christmas plans?” I ask Gill, and he glances over at me suddenly, expression sharp, like this is something he's never thought of before. Not likely though. Gill thinks about
everything.

“I haven't had Christmas plans …” he begins, but we both know how that sentence is going to end, so he doesn't say it.
In ten years.

“I think we should do what my mother always did: get the biggest tree we can fit in the house and decorate it with salt dough ornaments and popcorn strands. Then I'll dress up in the nicest gown I've got and dance the waltz with Cliff.”

“Or you could dance it with me,” Gill says, voice smooth and low. I reach up a hand and wipe the fog from the window, clearing my view to the outside. I can't look at Gill, not yet. Inside, I'm preparing, steeling myself for whatever he might say to me tonight.

“I didn't know you could dance,” I say, remembering clumsy twirls in the living room of our parents' Paris apartment.

“I learned,” Gill says and then pauses. “For you. There's never been anyone I've ever wanted to dance with but you.”

“Stop it,” I say, turning suddenly in my seat, the leather creaking as I spin to face him. Gill glances over and our eyes meet. “I'm ready,” I say.

I sit across the table from this guy, Gill, Cliff's son, and give my mom a narrow-eyed look that doesn't even come close to penetrating her bubble of joy. She's unfolding a white linen napkin and laying it across her lap, ever the picture of elegance, even at our own dining room table.

“Have I told you that I adore a man who cooks?” she asks, Dad's diamond pendant sparkling at her throat. I feel my fists clench in anger at my sides. How can she wear a necklace that my dad bought her and gaze at Cliff with such longing all at the same time? I want to be mad, to stay mad, but my sister's already put up enough of a fight for both of us.

A foot pokes me under the table, drawing my eyes to Gill and his wry grin, sitting directly across from me. He's cute enough, I guess, with his raven dark hair and his bright baby blues, but I'm still mad that he picked my lock and invaded my bedroom. I mean, who does that? Picks the lock to the bedroom of a girl he's never met?

“I think you might've mentioned it a time or two,” Cliff replies, laughing and serving her a steaming plate covered in food I can barely pronounce. He's a gourmand, this guy, my prospective new stepfather, and a pretty damn good chef. I mean, he's a cool person and all, but really? I guess I just miss Dad.

My mom notices me glaring, both at Gill and Cliff, and reaches out, curling her fingers around my hand and drawing my attention to her.

“It'll be alright, Regi,” she says, her hair as golden as mine, her skin as pale, not at all like my sister's straight black locks and tanned skin. She looks more Native American than both of us—I kind of think that's one reason my Grandma likes her better. Despite the fact that Gram's only a quarter Yurok—mostly she's French and English—she acts like Mom and me are freak genetic anomalies. Not my fault she married a white guy. Heck, despite Lana's insistence that I follow my sister down to California and abandon Mom, I bet she's happy, glad to be rid of both her daughter and me.

“Nothing feels alright,” I whisper back, fully aware that that boy's still staring at me. In fact, it feels like he hasn't
stopped
staring at me since he got here. “There's gonna be a stranger sleeping in my house tonight.” I glare at Gill and his smile only gets wider.

“A stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet,” Mom says as I roll my eyes at her.

“Or a serial killer that hasn't decided on a knife or a gun,” I respond sarcastically, and my mother laughs, the sound ringing like church bells in our cozy little dining room. Outside, the Seattle rain pounds down hard, pinging off the windows and turning our lawn into a mud bath.

“Don't be so cynical, Regina,” she says, winking and watching as Cliff sets a plate of food down in front of me. I mumble my thanks and reach for a fork to dig in. “Cynicism is cyanide for dreams.”

“Aren't we full of quotes tonight,” Cliff says, leaning down to kiss my mom on the lips. I watch them, half-disgusted and half-fascinated. Clearly there's love there, even I can tell that. They kiss like the world around them is falling away, fading into nothing, like all that matters is the feel of her mouth, his lips. Their kiss only lasts about half a second, but it feels like forever.

I look back at Gill and find his grin fading into a wistful smile, like he's as eager to taste that forbidden fruit as I am. And I don't mean kissing, just kissing. Anyone can put their mouth up against someone else's. What I want, what I secretly dream of, is a love worth dying for but a love that never dies. Somehow, someway, I can see that same sentiment reflected in Gill's eyes.

I blush and turn away.

“Have you ever heard this one?” Cliff continues, sitting down on the opposite side of the table next to his teenage son. “Never miss a glance at a second chance romance?”

“You made that one up, didn't you?” Mom asks, tossing some hair over her shoulder, far too elegant and beautiful for a Seattle suburb. In her burnished gold gown, she looks like royalty, destined for great things. I hope this new job of hers can deliver.

“Maybe,” Cliff says with a soft smile, his hair as dark as his son's, black and gleaming. “But that doesn't make it any less true, right?” When he looks up at her, she flushes, taking in his handsome good looks with a soft smile.

“True,” she says in a small whisper, and the room goes quiet for a few seconds, nothing but the sound of forks clinking against Mom's best China.

“Elena,” Gill says, breaking the bubble, drawing the attention over to him. He leans back in his chair and tucks his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. He's talking to my mom now, but he's looking right at me. “Thanks for taking me in.”

My mom looks over at him with an almost startled expression on her face.

“Taking you in? Oh, honey, don't look at this as me doing you a favor.” She smiles her best smile at him, a look that always draws the attention in a room towards her. “Me and you, we're family now, and this is what family does. We take care of each other.”

Gill's blue eyes flicker over to my mother's brown ones and he smiles shyly.

“I'll try not to cause you any trouble,” he says, looking back at me, right into my eyes. “No trouble at all.”

“Are you sure?” Gill asks as I blink back stars and memories of a different place, a different time.

“Positive,” I say, meeting his gaze when he looks over at me, searching my expression for a moment before he glances back towards the windshield. “And Gill?” My voice wavers with the words, but I know I have to say them now or he'll never really be able to know how serious I am, how much I mean what I'm about to say. “No matter what you tell me tonight, it won't change the decision I'm going to make.” I swallow hard and close my eyes, letting my emotions come together, letting the truth roll over and through me. When I open them, I know I'm really ready. I sit up straight and turn in my seat, knowing I should probably wait until Gill's stopped driving to tell him this.

Somehow, someway, he seems to feel that something big is coming and pulls over, just parks us on the side of a suburban street sparkling with fresh rain and white Christmas lights.

This time, when he turns to look at me, the full force of his gaze is like a heat wave, rocking me back and forcing me to sit up straight or wilt beneath the passion in it; I choose to face it head-on.

“Take a walk with me?” I ask, echoing Gill's words from that day at the hotel. He looks at me for a long while and nods, opening his door and stepping out into the rain. I follow suit in my four inch heels, knowing they're going to be almost as trashed as my poor feet after this. Oh well. Compared to the pulsing ache in my heart, this is nothing.

“I've got an umbrella,” Gill says, but I grab his wrist before he can move to get it. I know it's raining, and I know I'm going to get soaked, but I can't wait anymore. I have to say this and I have to say it
now.

“Walk with me.” I reach down and squeeze Gill's hand, the hot warmth of it searing through me. It almost feels like the rain should be sizzling when it hits us, turning to steam and drifting off to join the distant stars. I grit my teeth and shake my head, trying to keep myself calm, logical, thoughtful. Because, really, I've put a lot of thought into this—but I've also got a lot of heart invested. And some of it's broken, and some of it's still bleeding, but it's all still there and I'm starting to wonder if it might not be so bad to try to put it back together with Gill's help.

We start off down the sidewalk, rain pattering softly on green lawns, sloped roofs, dragging my carefully styled hair into my eyes. The drops sneak inside my coat, no matter how hard I try to keep them out, sliding down the back of my neck, beneath the lace of my dress.

“We never seem to be able to get to our destination, do we?” Gill asks with a small smile. I can tell he's nervous. The tight set of his shoulders, the tenseness in his fingers, the strength with which he squeezes my hand. He wants this. Bad. Probably more than I do. And I want it, too. I'm still struggling with the idea, but it's there and it won't go away. I almost quote Solène's words back at him.

It's not about the destination, but the journey. If you'd already arrived where you were meant to
be, then how would you ever enjoy the ride to get there.

Instead, I wait, letting the words curl up inside of me, stepping over puddles in an attempt to save my shoes from the worst of it.

“I don't know what you're going to tell me,” I say, running my tongue across my lower lip, tasting sweet Seattle rain, “but it doesn't matter.” Gill tries to stop walking, but I drag him along with me, shivering against the cool breeze scraping past my lower legs.