“Did he say something?”
“No— Fuck, sorry.” Pressing my palm into my eye, I rub it until I see stars. “He didn’t say anything to me about you, Violet. I’m simply asking, but it was a stupid question. I’m hungover and feel like shit, and clearly not thinking properly. Ignore me. Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll call you later?”
There’s a tense beat of silence that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. She’s spiraling now because of what I said, and I know I should put her mind at rest, but I just…can’t. “Okay,” she finally murmurs. “But quit being so distant. We’re in the same town now; I should see my brother more often.”
“I will. Bye.”
Hanging up the phone, I rest my arms on my knees, letting my head hang. Never drinking again.
By the time I head back inside, Finn’s already sitting in his usual recliner, the lights dimmed, and music playing softly. Looking back at me as I put my shoes near the rack, he holds up his drink. “Want one?”
Grumbling and fighting the urge to gag, I shake my head. “Fuck no.”
I pad across the house into the kitchen, grabbing a huge glass from the cabinet, and fill it with water, chugging the whole thing in one go before refilling it. Aside from the nausea, I swear the worst part of a hangover is how utterly dehydrated you are the whole next day.
“Gotta say,” Finn says from behind me, startling the ever-loving shit out of me. “You were in a much better mood last night. Much nicer too.”
Spinning around, my gaze lands on him. I didn’t even hear him come in, but he’s standing at the center island, tan, corded forearms rested on the counter as he watches me with what seems to be amusement in his gaze.
“Was I?”
“Mmhmm.” He nods.
I rest my backside against the counter, crossing my right ankle over the other. “You cooked for me.”
“Oh, so youdoremember?”
“Nothing after you feeding me. What a gentleman you are,” I tease, a smirk tugging on my lips.
He huffs out a laugh. “Only because you probably would’ve died from alcohol poisonin’ had I not.”
“Aw, you care if I die? Does this mean you actually”—I gasp—“dare I say it…like me?”
Finn chuckles, looking down at the counter as he shakes his head. There’s something so cute and boyish about it. “I don’t know ’bout all of that,” he drawls. “Tucker would be sad.”
“Oh, right.” I nod with a sigh. “Tucker would be sad. Daddy can’t let that happen.”
As if saying the word triggers the foggy memories, I’m suddenly hit with how many times I called him that last night in my inebriated state, and all the blood drains from my face, especially when his head snaps up, and he meets my gaze. There’s a pregnant pause before either of us moves or blinks or says anything. My mouth dries as I watch him, as I watch his Adam’s apple roll as he swallows.
What I wouldn’t give to drag my tongue along it.
Fuck,I need to get my shit together. Not even twenty minutes ago, I was listening to my fucking sister go on about how much she likes this man, and here I am, fantasizing about tasting him. It’s so fucked up.
Clearing my throat, I grab the glass of water off the counter, and announce, “I should go to bed.”
“Yeah.” Finn stands to his full height and nods. “Get some rest. I’m sure you’ll feel better in the mornin’.”
I don’t look at him as I walk by. I can’t, or I might do something ridiculous like throw myself at him. Climb his tan, muscular body like a fucking tree, and make more of a fool of myself than I already have. Because while Finn may not be as straight as I originally thought, two very strong reasons still stand as to why that would be a terrible idea.
Shutting my bedroom door behind me, I walk over to the desk and open my laptop, knowing what I need to do. I’m sexually frustrated; it’s been way too long since I’ve gotten laid, and while I don’t think I’m going to do that any time soon, there are things I can do to stave off some of the frustration… Toys.
When I was packing up all of my stuff in Portland to move here, I got rid of anything I had. It felt weird and kind of inappropriate to bring sex toys to my new job, but continuing to call my sister’s boyfriend and my boss ‘daddy’ is infinitely more weird and inappropriate. Desperate times and all that.
After I pull up my favorite website, I find a handful of fun items that’ll no doubt satisfy my needs and add them to my cart. As I check out, I notice how long the delivery will take. A fucking week. I groan, suddenly missing Portland even more. Two-day shipping isn’t a thing way out here, but I could get almost anything in the blink of an eye in the city. That would come in handy now.
There.
They’re ordered. Maybe now I’ll finally be able to stop thinking about my twin sister’s boyfriend in a way I very much shouldn’t.
