“These are your brothers?”
“Yeah.” He pauses, then turns the laptop around to face him, immediately turning it back again. “I thought for a minute one of the arseholes had done a sneaky nut.”
“A what?”
“Never mind,” he says with the kind of laugh that seems more from pleasure than at me. Note to self: find out what a sneaky nut is. “Flynn is on the left.” His tone turns fond. “His kids are the ones with hair like busted mattress springs.”
Next in the family group is a strawberry blond, just as buff as Flynn. His arm is flung around Roman, and the pair are captured laughing up a storm. On the other end stands a blond, tattooed hunk of a man wearing the kind of withering expression that I, as a big sister, recognise. This must be Byron, and Roman is right. The dark-haired boy standing in front of him looks spookily like Wilder.
“He looks a little older. Matty, I mean.”
“He’s nine.” Nine sounds more like n-oy-n in Australian. “But it’s freaky how alike they are, right? Flick through the images if you want. There are heaps from the last time I was home.”
I take him up on the invitation, curiosity getting the better of me. Next up comes the female contingent of the Phillips family, smiling, all kinds of gorgeous and high on life. The sun is shining, the sky is so blue, and they all look so happy. I hate how the photograph ignites a flickering of resentment in my chest, especially as I move to the next and find Roman front and centre of his attractive sisters-in-law. It’s mad to be jealous—how can you miss what you’ve never had? I would never have fitted in.
“See the little blonde?” Roman asks, not realising how I feel or how I’m looking at an image of him. Tall, dark, and so handsome in his shorts and a loud Hawaiian shirt. I sneakily flick back as he peers over the screen. “That’s Edie, or Edana if she’s in the doghouse, which she often is. She’s Matty’s twin.”
“You wouldn’t necessarily guess that,” I reply. “Matty looks like a dark-haired version of his father, so I guess Edie must look like her mom?” I look up at the same time as his expression clouds.
“Their mum passed away. Amber, the redhead, is the only mum they’ve ever really known.”
“Oh.” I guess smiles can be deceptive.
“And then there’s Ruby-rube,” he says, smiling again, “their baby girl.” Sure enough, the redhead is holding a baby dressed in pink, a shock of fluffy red hair sitting on the top of her head. “Then . . .” He turns the laptop a little so he can see the order of the photograph. “Lyssa is Rafferty’s wife, and the blonde on the end is Chastity.” This he says with such a smirk that I find myself unable to resist.
“What?” I glance down at the photograph. I can tell by her hair that she’s the toddler’s mother. She’s the kind of beautiful that, without that smile, would look icy. “Why are you smiling?” I glance up at him again.
“Chas is a pom—a Brit, I mean. She sounds like the queen, and well, that’s funny because she produces porn for a living. Produces, not stars in. Not that there’s anything wrong with . . . well, the other.”
Of course he’s wearing a grin as I look up again. The kind that says he gets a lot of the other.
“That’s interesting,” I hedge. I wouldn’t have guessed her background from looking at her. Her accent? Totally. Prim and proper and all kinds of haughty. Her job? Not at all.
“She usually pinches me when I say the p-word.”
Why would he be using pussy in front of his sister-in-law, even if she does—
“It’s not porn, Roman,” he intones in a posh English accent. “It’s female and couple-centric erotica with an emphasis on seduction, romance, and sensuality. Whatever,” he adds with a chuckle. “It’s still naked people fucking. And there’s my old girl.” He points down at the older blonde, who doesn’t look much like an old girl at all.
“Your mom?” He nods. “She’s pretty.”
“She’s something,” he answers with a grin. “And fair warning, she’ll be all over Wilder when I tell her about him. And don’t think you’ll escape the lovefest, either.”
“Oh, but we’re not . . .” I gesture back and forth between us. We’re not like them. Together, I mean.
“It won’t matter,” he offers equably. “There’s no escaping Sally’s arms or Sally’s love.”
I feel a little sick at his words because that won’t be the case if the truth comes out.
“You haven’t told her about us yet?”
He shakes his head. “I haven’t known myself for a full twenty-four hours. Besides, telling her I married a girl I couldn’t resist seven years ago and that she has a grandson she doesn’t know isn’t exactly something you want to tell Sally over the phone.”