Stepbrother Thief(100)

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.