Stepbrother Thief(27)
“Shit,” he grumbles, returning the pot to the coffeemaker and grabbing a roll of paper towels from the counter. When he turns back to face me, all traces of the slipup have been wiped from his face.
“Good morning,” I say, running my hands down the front of the dress, fully aware of how I look in it. “I take it no one tried to assassinate us while we slept?” Gill grunts, like he's halfway between a laugh and a scoff. Not sure what that means, but I'll take it. Anything to prove to me that he's still human. When we were teens, he used to wake me up with pancakes and bacon, plated in silly faces, and he'd deliver them with the biggest grins I'd ever seen. What happened to you? What happened to pull that darkness out and let it take over, Gill? We were going to have a good life, a great life. “Milk and sugar, please,” I say before he can ask.
Gill sets a small silver pitcher of milk and a matching sugar dish in front of me. Fancy. Since he doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd give a shit about things like that, I have to wonder … did a girlfriend ever live here with him? Maybe I'm reading too much into this whole house thing? Maybe, just maybe, this house wasn't meant for me and Cliff and Solène, but for a future wife, a future family, that he was supposed to have.
I decide there's no other way to know than to ask.
“Did you buy this house for us?” I ask, my voice steady. I scoot my coffee mug closer and pour in some milk. “I mean, specifically to use as a safe house for this job? I'm just asking because it seems awfully nice, and awfully large, so …”
“Where am I hiding my wife, two kids, and golden retriever?” Gill asks, leaning back in his chair with a creak, a cup of black coffee cupped in his strong hands. My own tremble a little as I spoon sugar into the mug and try to ignore the aching throb of the scabs on my palm. “They're in the backyard, stuffed in the shed next to the minivan.”
“Please don't deflect my honest questions with humor,” I tell him, lifting my chin up and giving him my most haughty glare. I refuse to smile at his joke, flat out refuse. My lips struggle to betray me anyway. “Gilleon, I want an answer. I feel like I deserve one after what happened yesterday.” The memory of the gunshots makes my head hurt, so I push it back, refusing to acknowledge how close I actually came to dying.
“I bought this house in preparation for the job, yes.” Gill leans forward, the front legs of his chair hitting the floor with a crack. Some of that gorgeous dark hair falls into his blue eyes as he stares at me, my own gaze dropping to his chest, to the tightness of that T-shirt and the smooth slide of muscles beneath it. Every move that Gill makes is done with feline grace, a slick sureness that whatever the prey is, however fast or strong or cunning, he'll be the one to take it down. “And no. No, there is no one, Regina. I don't have a wife or a girlfriend or kids.”
My throat works hard to swallow past the sudden lump that forms and I choke on my coffee, turning away and closing my eyes for a brief moment.
“What's wrong?” he asks me, but I just shake my head, hating him for being so damn perceptive. This is going to get old fast, isn't it? “Regina.”
“Gilleon,” I say, turning back to face him, finding his eyes on my body, roving over the smooth square of chest and cleavage above the neckline on my dress. He lifts his gaze back to mine as I reach down and pick up my coffee. “I don't care about any of that. That's not what this is about.”
“Bullshit,” Gill growls, tightening the muscles in my lower belly. He bares his teeth at me in a small scowl. “Why can't we just be honest about what's going on here? You've been cold and distant since the moment I set foot in Dad's kitchen.”
“Me?!” I ask, and I can't seem to keep the shriek from my voice. I point at myself, right at the diamond pendant hanging down on my chest. “I'm the distant one? I'm not the one that puts on expressionless masks, that goes all cold and dark and deep, retreats so far into his fucking self that even though he sees everything, sees it all, he's blinded by it and misses the most important things of all.”
“What, Regi? What is it that I'm missing?” His blue eyes are vacant, focused on the tabletop as the fingers on his right hand curl against the polished wood. I don't miss the bunching of muscle in his arms, the tension in his jaw. When he flicks that gaze up to me, all of the emptiness breaks and I have to really struggle to catch my breath.
“If it seems like I've been cold and distant,” I say, already regretting the massive hint I just dropped on him, “it's because I've been trying to be cordial and pleasant. Because, after all these years, I see you appear like a ghost from the grave. Because the first time in a decade that you decide to talk to me, it's about a robbery. Because ten years ago, you left me with an engagement ring on my finger …” I suck in a deep breath, fighting against the prick of tears behind my eyes. This is why I hate reliving this shit. Not seeing him all that time, it was really a blessing in disguise. Love can't be killed. Once it's there, it sits in your heart forever. Sometimes, it morphs or changes. Sometimes, it grows. And sometimes, it lies dormant, like a seed in dry dirt. I don't want this particular seed watered because I don't want it to grow thorns. I've bled enough already.