Stepbrother Thief(65)

There's nobody there either.

There's nobody here at all, least of all Gilleon.

I dry off and change clothes, heading outside and starting down the sidewalk back to Cliff's apartment.

I can't seem to shake the feeling that someone watches me the entire way home.



#



I sweep some hair off my forehead and blink away the memory. I've got enough to worry about in the here and now that random trips down memory lane are probably best left off my schedule, but still …

I wait as Gill climbs out of the pool, his dark green shorts slung low on his hips, his powerful pecs glistening with water, and his nipples rock hard. I can't seem to look away.

“Hey,” he says, raven dark hair dripping onto his forehead. “How's your book?”

“I haven't even looked at it yet,” I admit, drinking in his body like I'm parched, like I'm trapped in the desert and Gilleon's my oasis. He notices it, too, and his eyes shimmer with amusement as he lifts his powerful arms up to towel dry that dark hair of his, leaving it damp and tousled and oh so sexy. “Gilleon,” I start, wondering if I'm about to make a terrible mistake in asking the question that's tingling my lips, “can I ask you something?” I set my book on the plastic side table next to the chair and sit up, swinging my legs over and onto the pavement so that I'm facing Gill, so that I'm perfectly at eye level with the waistband of his wet swim trunks and the small dark patch of hair that trails beneath it, leading down to better places.

With effort, I force my gaze up the long line of his body so that I can look into his eyes.

“Of course,” he says, his voice a rough whisper, like he can sense what's on my mind. “You can ask me anything.” Gill's lips twitch in amusement. “But I might not be able to answer all of it.”

I take a deep breath, drawing the sharp bite of chlorine into my lungs. It's that smell, I think, that triggered the memory. They say scent's the most powerful reminder there is. I can totally believe that—Gill's spicy sweet scent still gets under my skin like nothing else.

I keep my eyes trained on his, even if they'd rather wander elsewhere. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. What happens if I get fooled a third time? Where does the blame lie then?

“About six months after Solène was born, I started swimming at one of the public pools late at night, on a favor from the manager.” I wet my suddenly dry lips. Mon Dieu, this is harder than I thought it would be. It should be a simple question, an easy ask and an even easier no for Gilleon because there's no way in hell he could've been there, right? But it's not. This is one of the hardest questions I've ever asked in my life.

I notice right away the sudden tension in Gill's powerful shoulders, the way his blue eyes darken and his breathing turns rapid.

There's no way. There's just no way.

“I tripped and fell in the pool,” I say, unable to stop the words even though I think I already have my answer. “And somebody saved me, gave me mouth-to-mouth. Gill … was that you?”

The silence that follows my question is more than enough to confirm my suspicions.

I feel my eyes go wide and my fingers curl around the edge of the lounge chair.

“Gilleon,” I say, feeling my own breathing picking up speed. “How could you? How could you have been so close and still have said nothing to me? I was aching, Gill. I was bleeding, and it wasn't just from hitting my head on the cement.”

“I'm sorry, Regi,” Gill growls, anger riding up and over him. Not at me, I don't think, but it's there. At who, at what, that's what I need to know. I watch as he rakes his fingers through his wet hair and lets the towel fall around his shoulders. “I couldn't be with you. I shouldn't even be with you now, but I couldn't take it anymore. Being separated from you was killing me. It was fucking killing me, Regina.” He fists a hand over his heart and closes his eyes, taking a step back like he needs to find some space for himself, a moment of alone time to process this. I don't let him dodge the questions, reaching out and curling my fingers around the waistband of his shorts.

The contact between us ignites in an instant, my fingertips grazing the smooth, hard planes of his belly as I swallow hard against the surge of emotion that rises up in me.

“Why run away only to come back? I don't understand, Gill, and I want to. I need to.”

“I love you, Regi,” he says with a sigh and a shake of his head. “I love you, and love is selfish.”

He breathes out, a rough, harsh sound that makes my fingers curl tighter around his waistband. Down below, an aching begins, hot and fierce, and I can't seem to get it under control. Gill either for that matter—the bulge in his shorts is painfully obvious.