Possessive Step Daddy And Uncle's Milky Obsession

1. Jolie

JOLIE

My mother loved this restaurant more than she loved me, and now that she's dead, I have to decide if I'm cruel enough to sell it.

The restaurant's supposed to be closed, which makes the two cars parked outside the first sign that my morning isn't going according to plan.

I shut off the engine and stare at the building for a moment, already irritated that something's gone wrong before I've even had the chance to meet the real estate agent.

I came here with one purpose: sell the restaurant, clear out my mother's apartment upstairs, settle the estate, and leave.

I don't want to run the business, and I don't want to spend another year tied to the place that took so much of my mother's attention while I was growing up.

Whatever memories this restaurant holds for everyone else, I've spent most of my life trying not to think about them.

I grab my purse and get out of the car. The August heat is already heavy, and the five-hour drive from the city has left me exhausted.

My chest aches beneath the tight cotton bindings I've been wearing since yesterday, but I push the discomfort aside.

I've dealt with it for years, and right now I have more important things to worry about.

I unlock the front door and step inside. The bell above it rings, and a man's voice comes from the kitchen.

"You're early."

I stop.

Jarvis Donovan is standing behind the counter with his sleeves pushed up, looking as though he's been waiting for me.

He's forty-six years old, tall and broad, with salt-and-pepper hair and a serious expression that makes it difficult to tell what he's thinking.

I've only seen him a handful of times since my mother married him, but he has the kind of presence that's hard to ignore.

His dark eyes settle on me, and I feel them like a touch. I shouldn't notice the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders or the way his hands look like they could handle anything. But I do. The attraction is visceral, unwanted, and completely out of my control.

"I have a meeting," I say, my voice coming out smaller than I want. I hate it. I clear my throat and lift my chin. "With Rudolf Wolfe. At nine."

His eyes travel down my body. Not leering. Cataloging. Assessing. Like he owns the space and everything in it.

"You're selling." It's a statement.

"Yes."

He sets down the knife and turns fully toward me. "You've already made the decision."

"I have."

"You haven't seen the books."

"I've seen the financial records."

"That's not the same thing."

I tighten my grip on my purse. "I have a marketing degree. I know how to look at financial statements. Wolfe wants the property, and he's willing to pay for it."

"He's buying the property. Not the business."

"Correct."

Jarvis studies me. "And you're comfortable with that?"

"Very."

A second voice comes from behind me. "She sounds pretty sure."

I turn.

A man is leaning against the doorway to the back office.

I recognize him from photographs before he even introduces himself.

Jett Donovan. Jarvis's younger brother. He's forty-four, slightly shorter than Jarvis but still tall enough to make most people look small beside him.

His dark hair falls in loose waves, and his steel-blue eyes are sharper than his brother's, more amused.

And God, I wasn't prepared for what that would feel like.

Jarvis is controlled power. Jett is something else entirely. He leans against that doorframe like he owns the building and everyone in it, and his eyes rake over me with an openness that makes my face burn. He's not hiding his interest. He's not even trying.

"So you're Jolie," he says, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Yes," I say, keeping my voice even.

"I've heard a lot about you." His tone is casual, but his eyes travel over me with an intensity that makes my stomach tighten.

I glance at Jarvis. "Really?"

Jett laughs quietly. "Mostly good things."

"Mostly?"

"I didn't say all." He shrugs, and Jarvis gives him a warning look that Jett completely ignores.

I look between them. "How long have you two been here?"

"Long enough to know you're serious about selling," Jett says.

"I'm very serious."

"I can see that." His eyes stay on mine a moment longer than necessary.

I cross my arms. "I don't understand why either of you thinks this is your decision."

Jarvis answers before Jett can. "It isn't."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because your mother asked me to help with the restaurant."

I stare at him. "When?"

"Before she died." The words land like a stone in my chest.

"What exactly did she ask you to do?"

"Keep the business running while she handled the transition."

"What transition?"

Jarvis's expression shifts. "She planned to retire."

I stare at him, the words refusing to make sense. "No, she didn't."

"She was considering it."

"My mother would never retire," I say, shaking my head. "This restaurant was her whole life."

Jett pushes away from the doorway, stepping closer. "She talked about it more than you probably realize."

I look at him, caught off guard. "You knew?"

"Some things," he says, and I don't like that answer. I don't like realizing that these men know things about my mother that I don't. That has always been the problem.

"It doesn't matter now," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "She's gone, and the restaurant isn't doing well. I'm selling."

"Why?" Jarvis asks.

"Because I don't want it."

"That's not a reason."

"It is for me."

He watches me carefully, his dark eyes steady and unreadable. But he doesn't push. Not yet.

I can feel the irritation building in my chest, and I know it's not entirely directed at him. It's everything—the funeral, the lawyers, the paperwork, the long drive, the apartment upstairs, the memories I've spent years avoiding.

"My grandparents raised me because my mother was always here," I say. "They were the ones who showed up for me. They remembered my birthday. They took me to school events. My mother missed everything because there was always another problem in this restaurant."

Jarvis remains silent, and I continue because once I've started, I can't seem to stop.

"I used to sit in that corner booth and wait for her. She always promised she'd come out when she was finished. She never did. So when you ask me why I want to sell, that's why."

Jett's expression becomes serious. "That sounds like you have a lot of anger toward her."

"I do," I say, surprised by how easily the admission comes out.

"Fair enough." He doesn't argue or defend her. He just accepts it.

Jarvis looks toward the dining room. "Your mother made mistakes."

"That's a nice way of putting it."

"I'm not trying to excuse her. I'm trying to make sure you don't make a decision based entirely on what she did to you."

The words hit harder than I expect. I look away. "I know what I'm doing."

"I'm sure you do."

I reach for my purse and adjust it on my shoulder. The movement pulls uncomfortably across my chest, and I wince before I can stop myself.

Jarvis notices immediately. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"You winced."

"I'm tired." I avoid his eyes. "I drove five hours. I'm exhausted."

"When did you last sleep?"

I hesitate. "I don't know."

"And eat?"

I don't answer. Jett looks at me with concern. "That's probably not a good sign."

"I'm fine," I insist.

Jarvis's gaze drops to the arm I'm keeping close to my body.

"You don't look fine." His hand moves toward me, then stops, like he's giving me space to pull away.

I should. But I don't. His fingers graze my wrist, and the contact sends heat up my arm.

I feel it everywhere. I hate that I feel it.

I hate that my body responds to him before my mind can catch up.

I pull my arm back. "I didn't come here to be interrogated."

"No one is interrogating you."

"It feels like it."

Jett's mouth twitches. "You should know that Jarvis has been interrogating people since before I was old enough to drive."

"Jett," Jarvis warns.

"What? It's true." He shrugs innocently, and despite myself, I almost smile.

Then the familiar pressure beneath my blouse gets worse. I shift my purse in front of me, hoping the movement is subtle enough that neither man notices. It isn't. Jarvis's attention immediately returns to me.

"You need to sit down," he says.

"I need the restroom," I correct him.

"Then go." He gestures toward the hallway.

I turn too fast. My purse strap slips down my shoulder. I grab for it, and the motion pulls my blouse tight across my chest.

The binding shifts.

I feel it immediately. The cotton bunches on the left side, and the pressure turns uneven. A sharp ache radiates through my breast, followed by a sudden, humiliating warmth. I look down.

A damp spot spreads across the light blue fabric of my blouse, just above my left breast.

No. No, no, no.

I cross my arms over my chest, hugging myself.

But the damage is done. The air in the kitchen is still.

I can smell it. That sweet, faintly milky scent that no amount of soap or perfume can mask.

I've hidden this from everyone. Friends.

Doctors. My mother. My grandparents, the people who raised me. Everyone.

And now, in less than a minute, both of these men have seen it.

Jarvis goes very still. His dark eyes drop to my chest, to the damp spot, and something shifts in his face. It's not disgust. It's not pity. It's a focused, predatory awareness that makes my knees weak. His gaze darkens. His jaw tightens. He takes a step toward me.

"Stop," he says.

I don't stop. I'm mortified. I want to disappear. I pivot toward the hallway, my face burning, my eyes stinging with tears I refuse to shed.

I make it two steps before he's in front of me.