Chapter 9
Gabriel
I expect Marshall to be gone when I wake up the next morning.
That’s the natural progression of events after what happened last night, isn’t it?
You have a moment of alcohol-fueled insanity with your stepbrother, you both come to your senses afterward, and then one of you—most likely the straight one—panics and flees back to the States on the first available flight.
I’ve already scripted the conversation I’ll have with Dad and Claire when they ask why Marshall left early.
Heat exhaustion, I’ll say. Or a work emergency.
Something that sounds plausible and doesn’t involve the words stepbrother and orgasm in the same sentence.
But when I come downstairs, still damp from my shower, Marshall is in the kitchen.
He’s standing at the stove with his back to me, and the smell of bacon and eggs hits me first. Then coffee, rich and dark.
He’s wearing a faded gray t-shirt and jeans that sit low on his hips, and his hair is wet, pushed back from his forehead like he dragged his fingers through it and called it good.
He doesn’t turn around, but his shoulders shift slightly, and I know he heard me. “Morning,” he says, his voice easy.
“Morning,” I manage.
He glances over his shoulder, and there’s no panic in his eyes, just his usual steady calm. “Sit down. Breakfast is almost ready.”
I don’t move. “You’re still here.”
“Yeah.” He turns back to the stove and slides eggs onto two plates. “Where else would I be?”
On a plane. Halfway across the Atlantic. Anywhere but here, making me breakfast. But I don’t say it out loud. I just cross to the table and sit.
Marshall carries the plates over and sets one in front of me. Scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, toast with butter melting into the surface. It smells amazing. I stare at it and wonder if I’m still asleep and this is some weird dream my brain cooked up to avoid dealing with reality.
“Coffee?” he asks.
I look up. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He goes to the espresso machine, and I watch as he works it with confidence. He pulls a shot, steams milk, and pours it into a cup with care. When he sets it in front of me, the foam on top has a little heart design in it.
I blink at the heart.
“YouTube,” Marshall says, sitting down across from me, as if that explains everything. “Figured I should learn how to use it since I’m here for a few weeks. Turns out it’s not that hard.”
I’m still staring at the heart.
“Go ahead and eat,” he says, nodding at my plate. “It’s better hot.”
I pick up my fork. The eggs are fluffy and perfectly seasoned, and the bacon is exactly the right amount of crispy. I eat a bite, then another, and the whole time I’m hyperaware of Marshall sitting across from me, eating his own breakfast like everything’s normal.
I take a sip of coffee, set the cup down, and make myself ask. “Marshall, do you remember last night?”
He doesn’t look up from his plate. “Yeah.”
My stomach clenches. “And you’re not… freaking out?”
Now he looks up, and there’s a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I told you that I wouldn’t regret it.” He leans back in his chair, holding my gaze. “And I don’t. Do you?”
I take another bite of eggs, chewing slowly while I consider my answer. The truth is complicated. What happened was hot, really hot, and it’s been replaying in my head on a loop since I woke up. But we shouldn’t have done it.
“We’re stepbrothers,” I say finally, setting my fork down. “That’s not exactly normal.”
Marshall shrugs. “We’re both adults. We both needed a distraction. We got what we needed.” He picks up his coffee and takes a sip, watching me over the rim of the cup. “Nobody has to know it happened but us.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
I don’t have a good answer. I just know that crossing that line feels dangerous, like stepping off a cliff without checking if there’s ground on the other side. “It’s not something we should’ve done.”
Marshall leans forward, his forearms resting on the table. “You didn’t answer my question, though. Do you regret it?”
I look at him and think about lying. About saying yes.
But I can’t.
“No,” I admit. “I don’t regret it. I needed to get out of my head, so thank you. For helping me with that.”
The memory hits me without warning. Marshall’s cock in front of my face, thick and heavy, the head flushed and leaking.
The way he stroked himself, his hand moving from base to tip, squeezing.
The way he looked down at me with that smug, hungry expression.
The way he came all over my face, thick and hot, marking me.
My face heats up. I can feel the blush spreading from my cheeks down my neck, and I look away, hoping he doesn’t notice.
Of course, he notices.
His smirk returns. “Why are you blushing?”
“It’s just the heat,” I say, too quickly.
He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
I look away, focusing on my plate. “I was just thinking about last night.”
“What about it?”
I take a breath and make myself say it, because if I don’t, he’s going to keep pushing. “I was impressed. With your… size.”
The grin that spreads across Marshall’s face is smug and a little infuriating.
“Oh, shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
He chuckles, and the sound is warm and low, and it does things to my chest that I refuse to examine.
“It’s not as great to be this size as it might sound,” he says after a moment.
“All of the women I’ve been with, my ex-wife included, complained about it.
I spent years holding back because I didn’t want to hurt them. ”
I glance up at him, and there’s something raw in his expression, something that makes me think this isn’t just casual conversation. This is something that actually bothered him.
I want to say something stupid like I wouldn’t complain, but I bite my tongue hard enough to taste copper. That’s not a path I can go down. Instead, I force myself to say what needs to be said.
“Even though what we did was hot,” I start, picking my words carefully, “and what we needed in the moment, it can’t happen again.”
Marshall regards me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face. Then he leans back in his chair and nods. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“We can agree to never speak about it.” He picks up his coffee again, his voice even. “It was one night of madness. That’s all.”
Relief washes over me. “Yeah. One night.”
We finish breakfast in silence, the tension easing into something that feels almost normal. I drain my coffee and start stacking our plates, grateful for something to do with my hands. Marshall stands and checks his watch.
“I need to get started on the garden. The supply delivery is coming this afternoon, and I want to map out the irrigation layout before it gets too hot.”
“Okay.” I stand and pick up the plates. “I’ll clean up.”
He nods and heads toward the back door, pausing with his hand on the handle. He looks back at me, and for a second I think he’s going to say something else, something that will undo the careful agreement we just made.
But he doesn’t.
He just opens the door and steps outside, letting it swing shut behind him.
I stand in the kitchen with the dirty plates in my hands, watching through the window as he crosses the garden. The morning light is golden on his shoulders, catching in his hair, and I force myself to look away.
Everything is back to normal, I tell myself as I turn on the tap and start rinsing the plates. Last night was a mistake, a moment of madness brought on by too much alcohol and too many unresolved feelings, and the mess I made of my life.
It meant nothing.
It can’t mean anything.
I scrub at a plate harder than necessary, the water running hot over my hands, and I repeat the words in my head like a mantra.
Everything is back to normal.