Chapter 19
“Blair, Blair, Blair. You know, you remind me of someone I know. Her name is Abigail. Do you maybe know her too?” Desmond’s voice cuts through the comfortable chatter, and I grit my teeth.
I know my brother well enough to understand he’s not trying to be mean, but I still want to punch him for bringing Abigail up, especially in front of our mother.
But I can’t. One, because our mother is sitting at the table with us.
And two, because unlike Justin, Kingsley, and me, who box for exercise and stress relief, Desmond actually fights.
Illegal underground matches in New York, no less.
During the day, he’s a renowned chef and businessman; at night, he’s out brawling.
I’d get knocked out if I tried to go toe-to-toe with him.
I glance at Blair, and she looks back at me as if asking for permission to be honest. I discreetly squeeze her thigh under the table, letting her know it’s okay to tell the truth.
My chest tightens with the realization that, somehow, this woman has gotten under my skin.
What started as something I thought would purely be physical, something I could easily get over once I had her, has turned into something deeper.
I’ve had her a few times now, yet I crave more.
She’s in my bloodstream, whether I want to admit it or not.
I’m not ready to name it yet, but I know. I knew when I couldn’t stop myself from telling my mom about her.
Desmond knows all about Abigail. He doesn’t agree with my marrying her just to fulfill some childhood promise.
But it’s easy for him to say that. He had one dream, and he fulfilled it; he’s opened the most sought-after restaurants in Boston, Chicago, Vegas, and now he’s working on opening another in New York.
Blair clears her throat, her cheeks flushed bright pink. I should’ve known bringing her here would confuse her and make things harder for her. I should let her go, give her the freedom to escape this twisted situation. But I’m selfish. I need her close.
“She’s my sister, actually,” Blair says quietly, her gaze dropping to her plate.
Desmond’s brows lift in mock disbelief as his gaze flicks toward me. “You don’t say.”
Of course he knows who she is; he was there when I got the results from the background check I ran on Abigail. What he doesn’t know is what Blair’s come to mean to me.
Hell, I don’t even know what she means to me. Not fully.
All I know is that I want her. Not just in the obvious, skin-on-skin way. I want her in every way a man can want someone.
I want to learn her favorite songs. I want to hear the way she laughs when she thinks no one’s listening. I want to take her out on real dates, the kind she’ll remember years from now and smile about.
I want to let her paint my nails pink if that’s what makes her eyes light up. I want the quiet mornings, the late-night rambling, the chaos, the mess. I want the storms and the sunshine.
I want to be the one who holds her when she’s tired. The one she vents to when the world’s too loud. The one who reminds her, every damn day, that she’s already more than enough.
And if she asked me to, I’d let her paint my whole world pink, just to prove I belong in hers.
I’m so fucking fucked.
“How many siblings do you have?” Mom asks, gently steering the conversation back on track.
I’m grateful. She’s been asking Blair about her family and school, easy questions with a peaceful rhythm… until Desmond decided he wanted to be an assistant.
“I only have one older sister, Abigail…” Blair starts, her voice exuding warmth as she talks about her sister.
But I’m no longer listening.
My attention shifts to Desmond. We lock eyes, and it’s clear we need to talk.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Blair’s head.
“Oh… okay,” she says, seeming confused, but doesn’t press.
We head out to the back terrace. The terrace hasn’t changed much since we were kids.
Same cool slate underfoot, the same wrought-iron railing curving along the edge like a ring rope.
Our father had it built when we were little, said every fighter needed a place to rest between rounds, that even warriors deserved peace.
He’d sit out here for hours, shoulders too broad for the chair, calloused hands wrapped around a glass of whiskey, watching the sun go down like it was part of his training routine. That was the only time we ever saw him truly quiet.
This was his corner of the world.
Desmond and I spent half our lives out here sparring without gloves, throwing jabs with words instead of fists.
It was where we smoked our first stolen cigars.
Where he told me I hit like shit, and I told him he was too soft to ever win a fight.
Where our dad taught us how to take a punch and walk it off.
Where we sat the night of his funeral, not saying anything at all.
The furniture’s new. Sleek black couches and a fire pit now sit where his old bench used to be, but the ghosts are still here.
Once we’re seated, Desmond pulls out a slim silver case, cracking it open with a familiar click. Inside, two tightly rolled blunts. He hands me one and I take it.
The second I catch the scent, I know exactly where it’s from: our dispensary in Colorado. High-grade, top-shelf, smooth as hell. We’re silent partners, but the product never lies.
He flicks the lighter my way, and I light up, inhaling deeply. The smoke drags through my lungs, warm and grounding. It doesn’t fix anything, but it dulls the edge.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks, exhaling a sharp cloud of smoke.
I don’t answer right away, taking another hit instead.
“I don’t know, man,” I say finally, exhaling slowly. It’s the truth. I’m more lost than I’ve ever been.
He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Your fiancée’s little sister? Did I hit my head and wake up in some twisted alternate reality where I’m the responsible one?” He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “How did you let this even happen?”
He’s right: I’ve always been the level-headed one. Desmond’s always been the reckless one, the impulsive, unpredictable wildcard. And now here I am, the one bringing someone, not just anyone, but her, home to meet Mom.
Abigail’s little sister.
The line I never should’ve crossed.
But now that I have… I’m not sure I can go back.
“I don’t know,” I repeat, exhaling the smoke. “But I’m going to need you to shut your mouth about it.”
Desmond raises an eyebrow, then exhales another slow puff of smoke. “Oh, fuck… she doesn’t know, does she? And what about Abigail? Does she know you’re screwing her little sister?”
I want to tell him to watch his mouth when he talks about my girl, but I catch myself before I hand him that kind of ammunition.
My girl.
The problem is… it feels right. The thought of Blair being anything less doesn’t sit well with me.
Desmond’s laugh comes loud and unrestrained. He leans back, grinning like the smug bastard he’s always been. I roll my eyes and flip him off.
“Holy shit,” he says between laughs, pointing the cigar at me. “You love her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just…” I pause, searching for the right word, “…it’s just sex, okay?” I avoid his eyes, which only earns me another low, knowing chuckle.
“Jesus,” he says, quieter now, amusement fading. “You really do love her.”
“Okay, I’m gonna need you to stop saying shit like that. It’s not funny.” My tone’s sharper than I mean it to be, but it doesn’t have its usual bite, and he knows it.
Desmond smirks, the kind of look only an older brother can pull off.
“Besides,” I add, grasping for some ground to stand on, “what about anything I’ve done makes you think I’d be that whipped?”
“Uh, first of all, you brought her to meet Mom,” he says, holding up a finger like he’s counting off an unarguable list. “I don’t know if you’ve suddenly developed amnesia, but we both agreed years ago that we don’t bring women home unless they mean something. You know, out of respect.”
I scoff, waving him off, but the memory of that conversation is clear as day. That was a hard-and-fast rule, and we’d never broken it… until now.
“Plus,” he continues, “look at you.”
“What about me?” I ask, crossing my arms, daring him to say something.
“Oh, come on, man. Look at your nails.” He gestures, laughing his head off when I flip him off again, this time showing off the very pink nails she painted. “You’re sitting here with pink nails, and you’re gonna tell me this is just a fling?”
“Whatever, man,” I mutter. “This is just my new style.” I try to sound casual, but even I can feel the lameness in my own excuse.
He snorts. “Sure, sure. You keep telling yourself that.” He leans in, eyes sparkling.
“At least tell me you’re not still planning to go through with this wedding.
” I stay silent because the truth is I don’t know.
A part of me wants to say screw it and marry Blair instead, but it’s insane.
We barely know each other, and who’s to say she feels the same way?
“Fucking hell,” Desmond says, rubbing his hand over his face. “Do you know how big a hole you’re digging for yourself?”
“I know, alright?” I snap, frustration boiling over. “But I need to marry Abigail. I can’t back down now… fuck, this is getting out of hand, but I’m so close.”
“It is. But you know I got your back no matter what,” he says. “From birth to death.”
A smile tugs at my lips. That phrase has been ours since we were kids, bonded by love even though we don’t share the same blood.
My parents adopted Desmond before I was even conceived. Mom found him abandoned in a dumpster while leaving work. He was just a newborn, barely clinging to life.
“From birth to death,” I repeat, the words comforting despite the chaos. I blow out another stream of smoke, needing to change the subject. “Tell me how the new restaurant’s coming along.”