Rounding the corner, I see my mum standing at the counter, adding tea to the kettle, and my sister, Tarrah, sitting opposite on an old wooden stool. Both of their heads whip in our direction. Tarrah is the spitting image of our Ma, down to their blonde shoulder-length bobs. The only difference is that Ma now has silver streaking through the strands. This sends a pang through my chest. She’s getting older, and signs of age are more noticeable than the last time I saw her.
“Teagan, love!” Ma wipes her hands on a dishtowel, rounding the counter. Her hands grip my face as she takes me in momentarily before pulling me into her embrace. I return the hug tightly, placing a kiss on the top of her head.
“Hullo, Ma. It’s good to see ya.”
“Oh, my boy. You’ve no idea how good.” Like Tommy, she holds me at arm’s length so she can get a proper look at me. “You’ve always been my handsome lad, but you’re even more so now. Tarrah, come greet your brother.”
My sister grins as she moves in for her own hug. “Hiya, little brother.Welcome home.”
Ignoring the last part, I kiss her cheek. “Hiya, Tar. How’s she cuttin’?”
Ma doesn’t give her the opportunity to answer. “Are ya hungry? I’ve just wet the tae and have biscuits cooling on the rack.”
“Sure, Ma, that sounds great,” I say with a smile. “But I’d like to introduce you to someone first.”
Gently tugging Layla out from behind me, I place her in front of me proudly. “This is my lass, Layla Diaz.”
Ma knew she was coming, but she still acts surprised, reaching to take Layla’s hand between both of hers. “Oh, hello there, dear! I’m Siobhán. It’s lovely to meet you! This is my oldest, Tarrah.”
“Hi,” Layla says shyly. “It’s nice meeting both of you. Thank you for having me.”
My sister’s gaze lingers on Layla, no doubt finding something to scrutinize. If there’s one thing she’s good at, it’s being a judgmental harpy. I wrap my arms around her middle possessively, giving Tarrah a look that clearly says to keep her fecking opinions to herself. She pretends not to see it.
Layla
It’s official. Teagan’s sister is a bitch. Between the dirty looks and the underhanded comments about my size, I’m ready to go off. She’s tall and thin while I’m shorter and round. However, my tits are biggerandmy man can’t keep his hands off of me. This is evident by the way he pulled me down onto the couch with him, nearly on his lap when we relocated to the living room for tea.
Shortly after our introduction, Tarrah’s fiance, whose name I can’t—and don’t care to—remember showed up. The two of them together are awkward, at best. He’s a nasally dickhead who treats Tarrah like his personal servant. She caters to his every whim out of sheer obedience, some archaicdesire to be the doting housewife. He doesn’t touch her at all, not even sitting directly beside her. Every time Teagan strokes the back of my hand with his fingers, or kisses my temple, or slides his hand over my knee, the sneer on her face grows. She doesn’t think I see the longing in her eyes though. Under all of that holier-than-thou complex is a woman who wants to be loved the way her brother loves me.
I tried to make conversation with her regarding their upcoming wedding, but it was a failed attempt. She’d open her mouth to answer, only to be cut off by fiancé Dickhead. Each time, her eyes would drop to her folded hands in her lap. And because I’m me, I ignore him, not looking away from Tarrah. I can feel Teagan shake with silent laughter because he knows exactly what I’m doing.
“Do you have your dress picked out?” I ask.
“Yes,” Dickhead answers.
With a saccharine smile, I pin him with my gaze. “Oh, how progressive of you! I love when men can be in touch with their feminine side. In fact, there’s a gay couple I know where both men wore wedding dresses when they got married. They just loved how magical it made their special day.”
Tommy explodes into a fit of laughter while Siobhán blushes. Tarrah is even more pale than what I thought possible for an Irish girl. Dickhead is red-faced, and not at all amused.
“I beg your pardon!”
“Oh,” I say innocently. “I just assumed that since you answered the question meant for Tarrah, you were excited to share with us about your dress.”
“Cailín,” Teagan mutters in playful warning against my ear.
“Teagan, you really ought to get her under control, mate,” Dickhead sniffs. “Otherwise, she’ll be wearing the pants in your family.”
We both go rigid. My first instinct is to make some comment about how neither of us wears pants when we’re together, but I really do want his mom to like me, at least. Pinning the asshole with a glare, my lips part as I prepare to put him in his place but Teagan beats me to it.
“First of all,mate,” he says icily. “Layla looks fecking gorgeous in and out of pants, so I really don’t care either way. Second, aman doesn’t control a woman at all. Not sure what century you’ve been living in, but women are allowed to speak for themselves. As they bloody well should be. And finally, if ya want to keep my sister happy, you’ll pull yer head out of yer arse, and start treating her with love and respect, yeah?”
The room goes silent. Siobhán is wide-eyed, Tommy looks delightfully entertained, and Tarrah is slack-jawed as she stares at her brother in disbelief. I’m so fucking proud of himandturned on by his outburst. I want to pull him into any empty room I can find and let him put me in my place—under him, on top of him, or on my knees before him.
It’s at that moment that an older gentleman, who I’m assuming is Teagan’s father, chooses to stomp through the front door. He wears a tweed flat cap over graying hair and his skin is slightly wrinkled and weathered, likely from working outside. He pauses on the threshold, sensing the tension in the air. His gaze goes to his wife first, brows furrowing as he looks from her face to Tarrah’s, then to Dickhead’s. He turns his head in our direction, hard eyes landing on Teagan, who tenses beside me. I smoothly prop my elbow on the back of the sofa and slide my hand to the back of his head, wishing he wasn’t wearing a hat. I want to thread my fingers through his hair, letting him know he’s not alone. Neither man makes a move toward the other. No hugs or happy greetings.
“Son, nice to have ya back.” His voice is a slightly deeper version of Teagan’s lilting accent.
“Hiya, Da. Good to see ya.” Teagan says without emotion.
