Chapter 13
It feels like my head has barely touched the pillow before I’m dragged out of sleep by the blaring of my phone. I reach out blindly to snatch it from my nightstand, cracking my eyes open just enough to identify the caller.
With a groan of frustration I fall back on my pillow and answer the call. “What the fuck do you want?”
Jazz lets out a soft chuckle. “It’s a relief to know there have been no lasting effects.”
“Did you seriously wake me up at the crack of dawn just to test that you can still piss me off?” I grumble.
He lets out a soft huff. “The crack of dawn? Dirty boy, it’s almost ten.”
“Huh?” I crack my eyes open again, this time noticing the pale threads of wintry sunlight peeking through the edges of the window blinds. Checking my phone, I see it is indeed nine fifty-two am. “How is it ten to ten?”
“Are you asking me to explain the concept of time?” Jazz drawls.
I roll my eyes. “It was a rhetorical question. You could explain why you’re calling, though.”
“Well, I figured there was a possibility you’d still be in bed after last night’s adventures and I didn’t want you to miss out on the treat I’m sending you.”
I sit up, my curiosity piqued. “What kind of treat?”
“It’s a surprise,” Jazz says coyly. “To commemorate the fun we had last night. But don’t worry, you won’t have to wait too long—it’s on its way now.”
“Huh? On its way where?”
“To your house, of course.”
I bolt upright, alarm racing through me as I envision the apocalyptic scenario of a male strippergram bursting through Blake’s front door and grinding all over me in front of my brother, my brother-in-law, and my two kids to the tune of “Lick It” by 20 Fingers.
“How do you even know where I live?” I demand, tossing my phone aside as I jump from the bed and hastily tug on briefs and a pair of sweats.
“I’m your employer. I know all your personal information. I’m looking at your social security number right now.”
I pause in the motion of reaching for a t-shirt and then stride back to my bed, picking up my phone. “Are you deliberately making yourself sound as sinister as possible to mess with me or should I be worried about being chopped up into pieces and stored in your freezer?”
“That’s really your call,” he says, sounding completely unfazed. “If it helps, I like to meal prep so there’s not a whole lot of room in my freezer.”
“That’s a comfort,” I deadpan, setting the phone back down and returning to my closet to grab a t-shirt.
“Damn, bike messengers are fast these days,” Jazz comments.
I let out a breath of relief. Bike messenger. That means it’s a package of some kind. Whatever it is, I can just grab it and bring it straight up here; it’s not as though anyone’s going to force me to open it downstairs.
I probably should have guessed it wouldn’t be some elaborate scheme to humiliate me—Jazz wouldn’t set something like that up unless he could be there to witness it.
I grab my phone and take it off speaker. “How far away is it?”
“The end of your street,” he informs me. “Oh, and you should know—I might have accidentally forgotten to request discreet packaging.”
“WHAT?” I race to the door of my suite and fling it open, finding myself on the small landing that has the staircase on one side and the elevator on the other. “What the hell did you send me?” I demand as I press the button for the elevator over and over.
“That would spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it?” he taunts.
“Jazz!”
“Okay, why don’t I give you some clues? These things are thick, and girthy.
And really, really tasty,” he taunts, prompting my face to flame with mortification as I continue madly trying to call up the elevator.
“All I want to do when I get my hands on one is wrap my lips around it and suck until I get that cream.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, are you kidding me?” I growl, giving up on the elevator racing down the stairs. “Why would you get me…something like that?”
“Because I think you’ll enjoy it,” Jazz says. “And, yes, I know it’s a little naughty but we both know how much you enjoy being bad.”
“Fuck…” I mutter. “Maybe, but I’d prefer it if the entire house didn’t know.” I swing around another landing—there are too many fucking floors in this house. “Did you seriously have to send it to the house?”
“Well, I didn’t think it would be appropriate to give a gift like this at work,” he drawls. “But if you don’t want it I’m sure someone else will. Maybe your brother and his husband will enjoy it together?”
“What?”
“Ooh was that the doorbell?”
“Fuck.” The gleeful anticipation in his voice has me practically vaulting down the last set of stairs, determined to get to the front door before anyone else.
Unfortunately, I’m a fraction too late, arriving at the landing in the front foyer just as Owen is swinging the door open to accept the delivery.
“It’s a joke,” I gasp out, taking a few staggered steps toward the door.
“Oh, no. Did someone else get there first?” Jazz asks. “That has to be awkward.”
“Shut up,” I hiss.
Owen dismisses the delivery person and turns back toward me, a large white paper bag clutched in one hand.
I breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of the nondescript bag, but it vanishes almost instantly as Owen closes the door and opens the bag, peeking inside.
What the hell? Why is he peeking? And why is he smiling?
“It’s a joke!” I proclaim once again, more emphatically this time. “Ignore it—it’s just a really stupid, not funny joke.”
Owen glances up, his brow furrowing in obvious bewilderment. “You bought pastries as a joke?”
The hand holding my phone drops to my side and I stare at Owen for a long moment, blinking slowly as I try to make sense of what he just said. “Huh?”
Frowning, Owen reaches into the bag and produces a blue and white box I recognize as coming from a bakery in the West Village Blake really loves. “I figured you got them as a treat for the twins. Why? Is there something wrong with them?”
Feeling completely dazed, I move closer to examine the box. Through the plastic window in the top, I see six large chocolate eclairs.
Fucking hell. Thick. Girthy. Full of cream. Naughty.
I bring the phone back to my ear. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
On the other end of the line, Jazz makes no attempt to hold back his laughter. “That was fun.”
“I hate you,” I grumble.
“Enjoy your treat, dirty boy,” he tells me, completely ignoring my barb. “I know how much you love licking up cream…”
Fucking hell. I’ll never be able to look at an eclair without springing a boner again.
All I can think about as I take in the sight of that sticky fudge icing, and the splurging sweetened cream, and the cholesterol-packed pastry that’ll require at least an hour’s workout to combat is how fucking hot it would be for Jazz to hold me down and shove that whole thing in my mouth, forcing me to eat it.
I’d probably throw it all straight back up, but for some reason that prospect only makes it hotter.
And then when a new thought enters my mind—that maybe Jazz could empty his load onto the pastry first—I’m lucky not to cream my sweats.
I wipe a hand over my face and let out a soft groan.
“You okay?” Blake asks, arching a brow at me.
I give a sharp shake of my head, reminding myself morning tea at my brother’s granite-topped dining table isn’t the time or place for indulging in creepy fantasies, especially with my kids sitting just across from me. “Just tired.”
“You got in pretty late last night,” he comments. “You sure you’re up for the hockey?”
I somehow manage to tamp down my blush as my thoughts fly back to the reason for getting home so late. I don’t attempt to provide an explanation, instead opting to brush the comment aside and answer the question. “I’ll be fine for the hockey, don’t you worry.”
The exchange with Blake has momentarily distracted me from my creepy thoughts, but when I glance down at the plate Owen has just slid in front of me, I have to fight to keep them from emerging again.
I figure the only way to deal with this is to make this stupid eclair disappear as quickly as possible, so I pick up my cutlery and dig in.
“Oh my god, Uncle Blake, you do that too!” Ava cries in delight. “I can’t believe how so the same you are right now.”
“I can’t believe how terrible young people’s use of syntax is right now,” Blake says dryly.
I let out a breath of laughter and glance to my right to see what Blake could be doing to prompt this level of excitement. As far as I can see, absolutely nothing. He’s just eating his eclair. Same as everyone else.
“Yeah, why do you do that?” Joel asks through a mouthful of pastry.
“They’re fighting the patriarchy,” Owen says wryly.
My brow furrows as I once again study my brother, not sure what all the fuss is about. And then it hits me.
And it hits Blake as well.
We each set our cutlery down and let out a groan, as though our realization has been perfectly synchronized.
“Okay, seriously, now this is getting creepy,” Ava says with a hint of wariness in her tone.
I sit back in my chair with a sigh, glancing briefly at my kids before turning sideways to catch Blake’s gaze. “You’ll have to explain it. I don’t want to traumatize them.”
He arches an eyebrow at me. “But you’re happy for me to traumatize them?”
I wave a dismissive hand. “Go for it.”
Truthfully, I doubt I’d be able to get through the explanation without turning fire engine red.
I’d completely forgotten the reasoning behind my use of a knife and fork to eat these pastries, and for my very particular way of cutting them—first in half, then half again for each piece but on the diagonal this time.
Which is exactly what Blake’s done with his.
Now that Owen’s reminded me, however, it brings my creepy fantasy into a whole new, even more disturbing light.
“Okay, so you guys already know that Sunny’s a bit…”
“Crazy?” I supply dryly as he searches for the word.
“Principled,” he counters. “She has some strong feelings about a lot of things, and once she takes a stance it’s very difficult to get her to budge.”
Yeah, it’s definitely better that Blake’s telling this story. My version wouldn’t have been quite so…generous.
“Yeah, we’ve got that impression,” Joel says with a soft chuckle and a sideways glance at Ava. “What does this have to do with your freakish way of eating chocolate eclairs?”
Blake grins. “One of her convictions is that the overabundance of phallic-shaped foods is indicative of the patriarchal dominance in society. So she didn’t want us eating any of them.”
I pick up the thread, listing off examples. “Hot dogs, popsicles, churros, sausage, basically any kind of meat served on a stick…et cetera, et cetera.” Just when you think my childhood couldn’t get weirder…
“But as you might be able to guess,” Blake continues, “she made an exception for eclairs, but they had to be cut like this.” He gestures at our plates, where we each have a single triangle of our respective eclairs remaining.
Ava’s brows shoot up. “And that’s enough to ward off the grasping claws of the patriarchy?”
“Actually, I think it’s because it’s the best way to stop the filling spurting out all over the place the way yours has,” I say with a pointed look at her plate, which is covered in cream and pastry crumbs.
“If Sunny was abandoning her principles for something, she was going to make damn sure she got to enjoy every last morsel.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Blake agrees, picking his fork back up and finishing off the last piece of his pastry.