Epilogue
Daphne
The warm water of the shower feels good. Too good. I want to linger in the space all night.
But I don't have all night.
I don't have nearly enough time for what I want with the night.
My husband, again and again.
I'm not sure I have time for that at all. Not before our guests arrive.
As usual, I'm behind schedule. Between work, running, tending to all the new sore spots in my body, and prepping the apartment for Laurel's visit, I'm exhausted.
But it's not the sort of tired I felt three years ago. It's not the sort of tired I felt when I was accepted to this program, and I realize shit, I have to tell everyone .
Don't get me wrong. I'm not thrilled to have people in my space. I'm not thrilled to share my time and energy with others.
But I am happy to have family here.
She is family.
Her arch nemesis Rome too.
The memory of their banter brings a smile to my lips. What can I say? I enjoy their back-and-forth. There's a certain old Hollywood patter to it.
I wash and condition my hair, soap, shave. Then I towel dry and slip into something comfortable.
A chemise Jackson bought me for our anniversary.
It barely contains my boobs now. I'm not used to the extra mass. I thought I'd enjoy the feel more than I do. After all, breasts are the symbol of an attractive woman.
But I sorta like my normal average size.
Jackson steps into the bedroom with a smile that's equal parts I love you and I need to have you now .
I want to enjoy both of them.
But I can enjoy the former plenty after his family arrives. Right now, I need the latter—
I pull my gorgeous, suit-clad husband into a long, slow kiss.
He wraps his arms around me, kissing back with everything he has.
He pulls back with a sigh. "I have bad news."
"You have to work after this?" I don't mind it, really. He's been working a handful of late nights launching his new business. I miss him when he's busy, sure, but I enjoy my alone time too. And he always makes it up to me.
And besides—
He needs to do it now. Before we both have far less time.
He shakes his head. "Worse."
"What could be worse?"
"Laurel and Rome's flight got in early. They're almost here."
"How could a flight into JFK get in early?" Doesn't that defy the laws of space and time? Anytime I've flown into JFK early—and I've done it a lot now, between trips back home and work trips—I've had to sit there, in the airplane, as we taxied.
And I thought LAX was a bad airport.
"They'll be here in ten minutes," he says.
"I can make that work." I tug at his tie.
He smiles in that pure evil way of his. The way that means I'm going to torture you forever . "I can't."
I shoot him an exaggerated pout. "You'd deny your wife?"
"I get off on denying my wife. You know that, princess." This time, he pulls me into a long, slow kiss.
"Five minutes," I negotiate.
He shakes his head.
I take matters into my own hands. I sit on the bed, roll the chemise to my waist, and touch myself.
Like he always does, he stands there, eyes wide, body tuned to mine, throbbing with desire and endless patience.
He watches.
I come for his viewing pleasure.
It's fast.
Too fast.
And not satisfying enough. I only want him more. But I love playing this game with him too. I love this life we're building.
His firm. My career as a sex researcher. And soon—
His phone buzzes. "They're out front."
"You should wash up."
He nods I know . "Do you think they've killed each other yet?"
"He might be dead, yeah," I say. "But you'll help Laurel bury the body."
"I would, normally," he says. "But I'm not sure you can spare me anymore."
"You're a lawyer. You know how to get away with it."
He smiles and pulls me into a long, slow kiss.
All love and affection and need and promise.
This big, beautiful life in this tiny little apartment (well, by the standards of our parents' places. By Manhattan standards, it's massive).
And I'm excited to share it with someone else.
Or two more people.
Or three.
And I'm excited to torture him too.
I slip my robe over my nightgown, and I make a point of tossing my panties on the floor. "I might be too tired after."
Jackson smiles. "That's a bad bluff, princess, and you know it."
Meanwhile, on a Manhattan street, outside the apartment
Rome
Here's some life advice: next time your boss asks you to keep an eye on his rebellious daughter, don't.
I know what you're thinking. How am I supposed to tell my difficult, overprotective boss sorry, but your wildflower is annoying as hell.
The man knows she's a troublemaker.
That's why he wants help.
And I owe this family everything.
I can't explain the real problem. I can't say hey, boss, I want to help, I do, but the thing is, once upon a time, your daughter and I fucked, and things didn't end so well, so maybe find someone else for the job.
But I could find a graceful excuse. Another gig. An illness. The loss of a body part. A nonessential one.
Would I part with a pinkie to spare myself a week watching Laurel Steele?
I'm a guitarist. I need my fucking pinkie.
Now, the pinkie toe—
"Finally!" Laurel interrupts my daydreams of deforming myself to get out of this.
Our car, the yellow cab we hailed at the airport, is stopped in front of a midtown building. The building that houses her brother's apartment. The place we're staying for the next week.
Her brother and his wife, the lawyer and the doctor, the success stories in both their families. (Not that there are any success stories in mine. Unless you count evading a third strike and life in prison as a success).
Another thing I can't say to the boss. I know you work with "at risk" kids because you were an "at risk" kid yourself, but your daughter thinks hardship is a broken heel.
Laurel glares at me. As if she knows I'm thinking about her. Somehow, she knows I'm thinking about her shoes. She taps her heel (and, yes, she did wear heels on a cross-country flight) against the floor of the cab. Impatient.
She doesn't want a babysitter.
She especially doesn't want me as her babysitter.
I get it, I do. I don't want the job either.
But the woman refuses to make nice. What am I supposed to do? Tie her up and force her to sing kumbaya until we both achieve inner and outer peace?
That will take until the end of time. We're not inner peace people. And we've been at war since the day I ended things.
Even if, every time I see her, she acts as if she hasn't thought about me in years. Her eyes betray her. Even now, the fire in her dark eyes betrays her. It says I hate how much I want to mount you .
And, well—
I hate how much I want to feel those heels digging into my back.
Before, I was—
Fuck. Why is she so sexy when she scowls? There's something about her anger. The pure, honest passion of it.
Nathan is right.
I'm a masochist, plain and simple.
"Are you ready, Romeo?" She shoots me and the cabby the world's sweetest smile.
The driver, a guy about her dad's age with brown skin and a thick accent, responds with a smile of his own. He's charmed by her. Most people are.
She almost sells the smile too. I only barely see the cracks at the edges. The stiffness of her brow. The hate in her eyes.
"You know it's Rome." Short for Roman. As in the Roman Empire. But she finds the nickname hilarious. She especially loves referring to my current girlfriend as Juliette. Not that I have a girlfriend at the moment. Or an interest in a girlfriend.
Work is my life.
When would I find time to date, talk, fall in love?
I don't even have time to fuck myself.
Also a problem. Especially right now, with Laurel's gorgeous brown eyes fixed on me. She's a beautiful girl. Dark, wavy hair, full, red lips, slim curves, long legs.
The line of her calves in those shoes—
Fuck me.
"Yeah." I nod. I'm ready. Ready enough. I pay with the company credit card—this is a work trip, after all—get out of the car, help the driver with our bags.
It only takes a minute for me to work up a sweat. It must be eighty degrees. Maybe ninety.
Even though it's past midnight, the street hums with energy. Conversations from a rooftop restaurant. Music from a bar patio. Two women around our age, laughing as they walk down the street.
It's not what I expect from midtown Manhattan—isn't this where people go to work and shop?—but it fits the city that never sleeps. The sky does too. It's not the same deep, almost black-blue it is in Laurel's backyard.
It's a softer shade. A warm indigo.
Not that I'm thinking about Laurel's room.
Laurel's bed.
The things I did to Laurel in her bed.
The low, deep sound of her groan. It was music. Some of the best I've ever heard.
It's too hot.
What sort of place stays hot all damn night? That's unnatural.
Laurel taps a code into the electronic lock and leads me through the white and gold lobby to the elevator bank.
The place looks like it belongs on Sex and the City . It's got that perfect mix of old-money New York class and up-and-coming energy. Somehow, it's understated and vibrant at the same time.
It's different than where Laurel lives. It's a fucking world away from where I grew up, in a dilapidated house, in a shitty neighborhood.
The elevator arrives with a ding. She steps inside. I step after her.
She presses the button, turns to the door, checks her hair in the reflection of the shiny silver doors.
The elevator rises.
Laurel does what she always does when we're alone. She pretends she doesn't care I'm here.
She runs her hands through her long, dark hair. She applies another coat of lipstick. She smooths her purple sundress. She raises a foot and rolls her ankles.
"You'd last longer in shorter shoes," I say.
"These are short." She glances at the three-inch platform. "And they're wedges. They're comfortable. But thanks for the life advice." She flips her hair over her shoulder theatrically.
"We can play nice, you know."
"Can we? It doesn't seem like it." She's just as dramatic about raising her other foot, rolling her other ankle in measured circles. "It seems like you feel the need to comment on every one of my choices."
"Your dad asked me to keep an eye on you," he says.
"Yes, he did." She shoots me that same serene smile. The one that says fuck you, I don't care what you think . "He did not ask me if I needed a babysitter."
"Well yeah, not after what happened with—"
She cuts me off before I can remind her of the gory details. "I'm a grown woman."
Yes, she's a grown woman who had a public meltdown when she caught her ex with another woman.
I don't blame her for cussing him out.
But then, I can't blame the people who watched the viral TikTok either. Laurel is entertaining when she's mad.
She's sexy as sin when she's mad, actually.
Like right now, the way she's staring daggers at me—
My head screams don't do it; she hates you.
But my dick? My dick doesn't give a fuck about that. It only cares about the feel of those lush red lips—
She was—
We were—
Nope. Not a productive area of thought.
"If I don't comment on your shoes?" I offer an olive branch. I'm the one who needs this job, after all.
Her dad is always going to be her dad.
If I fuck this up, he won't be my boss for long.
The door arrives. The elevator doors slide open.
Laurel motions after you . "I'll think about it."
"If I compliment your shoes?"
"I'm waiting." She motions go ahead , but I'm not sure if she means shut the fuck up and walk to my brother's apartment or let's hear the compliment .
So I do both. I roll my suitcase into the hallway, and I say, "You look hot in them."
"That's about as good a compliment as I can expect from a man. Thanks." She smiles. This time, it's half fuck off , half you're all right . Then she shakes it off and charges forward.
Straight to her brother's apartment. The one at the end of the hall.
He pulls the door open before she knocks.
She drops her suitcase and her glare and throws her arms around him. "I missed you, Jackie." She squeezes him like he's her favorite teddy bear.
All of a sudden, she's not a princess who hates me. She's a kid who craves her older brother's protection.
"Jackie? You haven't called me that in years." He hugs her back. "I missed you too." He releases her. "How was your flight?"
"Good. Except for my companion," she says.
He whispers something in her ear.
She laughs. "In your dreams. Now, where's my favorite sister-in-law." She spots Jackson's wife, Daphne, inside and runs into the apartment to greet her.
Which leaves me alone with her protective older brother.
For some reason, he's still wearing a suit. An expensive charcoal with a grey tie. It brings out his green eyes. The man looks so much like his dad, it's scary.
Actually, he looks like his dad, if his dad went into the FBI instead of joining a band, getting a lot of tattoos, and eventually retiring to a career as a record executive. (Which is absolutely Mr. Steele's idea of retirement. He "only" works forty hours a week now, and he "only" travels two weeks a quarter).
Does FBI big brother in training know what happened a decade ago? That's not the only reason why she hates me, but it's a big one, and it's the kind of thing that convinces older brothers to kick asses.
Even the mature, married lawyers.
The motherfucker does martial arts.
Sure enough, he stares at me with the focus of a hero in a kung fu flick. He could kill me with his bare hands. If he wanted.
But, no, he's the better person. He follows the non-violence of the practice.
He fully intends to spare me.
"How's Dad?" he asks with a calm, even voice. But then he always has a calm, even voice. The guy must be a great negotiator. He's got an intimidating poker face.
"The same as always," I say.
"How's Laurel?"
"You should ask her."
He half-smiles. That was the right answer, I guess. "And you two?"
"The same as always."
He nods that's what I expected . "Well, come in. The couch is made up for you."
"Thanks. I appreciate it." I offer my hand.
He looks at me funny, but he still shakes. "Don't fuck with her. Please."
"Of course."
"Thanks." He pulls me into a hug and pats me on the back.
I expect him to whisper a threat, but he doesn't. That's all in my head. Too many action movies. Too much awareness I fucked up royally.
But it was nearly ten years ago now.
Does she have to hold it against me?
I roll my suitcase inside. Sure enough, a set of sheets, two towels, two pillows, and one blanket are folded neatly on the blue couch.
The rest of the apartment isn't quite so neat. It fits Jackson's wife better than it fits him. Framed pop-art prints, plus posters of all four Matrix films, and furniture in bold colors.
A TV, two overflowing bookshelves, a couch, a kitchen table, and a little kitchen in the back.
A nice size for New York, I'm sure, but smaller than what I'm used to these days.
"Do you prefer Rome or Roman?" Jackson's wife, Daphne, greets me with a smile and a hug. She's wearing a cherry-blossom print silk robe over a pink nightgown. It looks like silk too. Not that I can tell the way Laurel can.
I used to tease her about her interest in fashion, but these days, I'm jealous. I can't tell cotton from bamboo from polyester.
"Rome," I say as she releases me.
"Welcome, Rome." She smiles as she looks to Laurel. "I'm so glad you're here."
"You wouldn't rather have Cassie?" Laurel asks.
"Of course, I'd love to have Cassie," she says. "But I'm glad to see you too. I need help with this—" She pats her stomach.
"No." Laurel's jaw drops. "You're pregnant?"
Daphne beams as she nods.
Jackson too.
They're the picture of happy parents to be.
"Since when? You said you were going to wait," Laurel says.
"We were," Jackson says. "Then someone wanted to play truth or dare."
"You dared him to get you pregnant?" Laurel asks.
It would be a stupid question if Daphne hadn't dared him to marry her. But according to their one-year-anniversary card, she did. (I guess I made the list by virtue of attending the same trip to Las Vegas).
"Not exactly." Daphne laughs. "He, uh, he dared me to stop putting my life on hold. I loved my first year of residency, but it took over everything, and I missed having that time for me."
"So, you thought, if I have a baby, I'll have more free time?" Laurel laughs.
"Is that not how it works?" Daphne asks.
Jackson laughs. "It was an experiment, of course. She wanted to see if sex felt different if we were trying."
Laurel's nose scrunches in distaste. Too much information about her brother's sex life.
Daphne notices and raises a brow. "If Zack saw that…"
"If you don't tell, I won't tell." Laurel mimes zipping her lips.
"Did it feel different?" I ask.
"Very," Daphne says. "But I'll spare my sister-in-law the details." She hugs Laurel again.
This time, Laurel refuses to let go. "Are you working tomorrow? I have a really great maternity idea for you. And no charge because I need a portfolio. Maternity styling is huge business. And I… I'm so excited." She releases Daphne and talks directly to her stomach. "Your Aunt Laurel loves you already."
"I don't think she can hear yet." Daphne rests her hand on her stomach.
I guess, now that I'm really looking, I can see the world's smallest bump. But it's hard to notice. She can't be that pregnant.
"Wait. You're having a girl?" Laurel asks.
Daphne nods.
"That kicks ass!" Laurel claps. "Do you have a name?"
"We're debating," Daphne says. "But we're not debating the amount of pink. The spare room is already halfway to nursery."
"Did you tell Cass?" Laurel asks.
"Not yet," she says. "She's coming in two weeks. I want to surprise her."
Laurel nods of course . She smiles a big, pure, honest smile. It's as inviting as her glare. Inviting in a whole other way.
She's beautiful. There's really no other way to say it.
"Does that mean you're staying in New York long term?" Laurel asks. "And I can crash on your couch if I decide to move here?"
"Maybe on point one," Daphne says. "Yes on point two. Jackson is setting up on both coasts." She looks to me. "How has it been, working with my husband?"
Jackson looked at a few contracts for me as a favor. Then I recommended a friend, and they recommended a friend. And pretty soon, he was drowning in business. Fully paid business.
He partnered with a friend from law school who stayed in California and opened a boutique bicoastal firm.
Entertainment law.
I guess he does take after his father.
"He's a great lawyer," I say.
"A ruthless negotiator too." Daphne smiles in a way that suggests another implication. A sexual one.
But I don't want to know.
Laurel ignores their flirting. "Do Mom and Dad know?"
"You know your parents," Laurel says. "Somehow, they know everything."
"Yours too," Laurel says.
Daphne nods. "HIPAA be damned."
"Do you need anything, Laur?" Jackson asks.
Laurel shakes her head. "I know my way around. Go. Do what you must. I see the look in your eyes. I don't need to see it again."
Daphne blushes.
Jackson smiles like a teenage boy who got caught necking at prom.
It's weird. The man is my lawyer. I know I'm a family friend, but I'm not family. I don't usually see the head over heels side.
I say my own good night.
After another round of hugs, Daphne and Jackson take Laurel's directions and retire to their bedroom.
The second the door closes, Laurel pulls out her cell phone, connects to their speaker system, blasts a playlist of new dance music.
She loves EDM.
She loves falling into the flow of the music, melting into someone as she dances.
And I love being that person.
No. I did. Once.
Now—
My dick wants her more than ever. But my brain now possesses the ability to overpower the motherfucker.
I name the artist.
Laurel nods of course . She raises a brow, already shifting back to the girl who finds me impossible. "Am I not with the times enough for that?"
"Not everything is an insult."
"Tell that to your face." She slips her phone into her purse and sets the bag on the kitchen counter.
"Why was he wearing a suit?" I ask. "It's one a.m."
"Why do you think?" She shakes her head isn't it obvious? "It's a sex game."
"How's that a game?"
She raises a brow really? "What do you think he does with the tie."
"Your brother is into BDSM?"
"Yes, he is my brother, so thank you for putting two and two together. I don't want to talk about it."
"But how do you know?" I ask.
"'Cause Daphne is worse than Cass. She can't stop gushing about her husband's amazing sexual skill. I don't blame her. I like when people know my man is talented." There's a sharpness to it, but I'm not sure where she's trying to send the knife.
Is it I've had way better sex .
Or we could have been that couple, the one everyone envied because we had it so fucking good .
"It's not a big deal." She shrugs, making great effort to sell her effortlessness. "People have sex."
"Laurel Steele doesn't think sex is a part of life?"
"It's an important part of life, sure," she says. "But it's not always a momentous occasion."
Since when?
She watches me attempt to form a thought. "Listen, Romeo, I know you think I'm some sort of Malibu Barbie, who's so busy picking out her next pair of shoes she doesn't notice your contempt, but I'm not an idiot. If you want to be friendly, drop it."
"Drop what?"
Her eyes narrow. "Friends don't remind each other they had sex three times."
"You counted?" I ask.
"I can count that high."
"When have I ever implied you weren't smart?" I ask. I know idiots. Lots of them have advanced degrees from the best schools.
Laurel might not be book smart the way her brother and sister-in-law are, sure, but she's street smart. She's people smart.
She's creative and talented.
She can look at a person and a rack of clothes and just know what they can wear to turn into a vision.
It's not my art form, but it's an art form. I appreciate it.
"Your friends have," she says.
"I didn't have friends then," I say.
"Your frenemies then." She stretches her arms over her head and lets out a low yawn. "You want to babysit me with as little fuss as possible. I want you to go the fuck away. But I'll accept a bodyguard who plays nice. If you actually play nice."
"You don't want to be friends?" I ask.
"When were we ever friends?" The harsh edge to her voice fades into pain. She stares directly into my eyes, daring me to answer, to explain what happened.
But how could I?
She's right. She acted like my friend.
I acted like a shithead.
I want to tell her what happened, I do. But I can't. For too many reasons.
"Is that really how you see me?" I ask.
She gives me a long, slow once-over. "You're tragically sexy." Her eyes settle on my hips. She stares at my jeans like she's trying to see every thread of fabric. "Don't pretend you don't know. Those are designer jeans."
"Secondhand."
"They fit you perfectly." Her teeth sink into her lip. "You have the thighs for them."
She's thinking about my thighs.
"The ass too." She lets out a low sigh. One that means I hate how much I want you .
I take a deep breath.
She takes a step toward me. "Face it, Romeo, that's the only way we've ever played nice."
"That's the only way we can be friendly?" I answer her dare.
"Obviously," she says.
"And that's what you want?" I hold strong. "To kiss and makeup?"
"To fuck, yes. That's the only thing I want from you."
She means because I don't want your thoughts, your comfort, your personality, or your company .
But my body hears none of that.
It hears I want to fuck you .
My body is a fucking idiot.
"But you wouldn't want to make Daddy mad." She shoots me an exaggerated pout. "You'd never touch the boss's daughter."
"It wasn't about that."
"Is it not now?" she asks.
Of course, it is. But it's about other shit too.
"You wouldn't."
"You wouldn't," I return the dare.
She scoffs. "Watch me." She looks me directly in the eyes and pushes her dress off her shoulders.
The fabric falls at her feet.
Laurel Steele is standing in her brother's living room in only her bra and panties.
Black mesh that barely covers her nipples.
And those red shoes—
Fuck me.
I need to do the smart thing and stop now.
I don't.
I pull my t-shirt over my head.
She gets something from her purse. A condom. "I'm not playing, Rome."
Rome. My actual name.
She isn't playing. She hasn't said that since she groaned it.
I swallow hard.
"Fuck you, or shut the fuck up?" I ask.
She nods. "That's right. Your choice."
"What if I'd rather put my mouth somewhere else?"
She stares at me, fire in her dark eyes, voice dripping with desire, and she issues a dare I can't resist. "Then make yourself useful."