“I feel old,” I answer, stretching my arms over my head as I try to get the kink out of my right shoulder. I’d say I slept awkwardly on it, but I didn’t really do a lot of sleeping.
“Well, I feel wonderful.”
And then I remember why my shoulder, in particular, hurts. I was filling the potholes in my driveway yesterday at six o’clock in the morning, dressed in my pajamas and coat. I had a shovel in my left hand and a heavy bucket of gravel in my right, all because I was forced to take my ten-year-old Range Rover into the local repair shop during the week. It had needed a wheel alignment, thanks to hitting a pothole or ten.
“What are you thinking about?” Sandy asks as he pulls out a mug.
“Potholes.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” I wave away my answer. If I tell him what I’ve been up to, he’ll insist on sending someone to fix it, and potholes are the least of my issues. I have a leaking roof, a temperamental boiler, rotting window frames, and a suspected case of subsidence I’m currently battling my insurance company over. The crumbling pile sometimes feels like a reflection of my life. At first glance, it all looks fine. But take a second look and the cracks are more than apparent.
Sandy bangs another cupboard door closed, making me jump.
“What are you looking for?”
“Honey for Holland’s cup of tea.”
“You’re taking her a cuppa in bed? How sweet.”
I wonder if Van would be that kind of hus—
Why is my mindset intent on torturing itself today? Because Niko Vanyin is as tempting as the devil himself. Last night, after I’d gone to his room, I’d tried to creep out, tried not to look at him lounging in the bed. His bare torso is a study in deliciousness with lines and ridges of muscles like a man half his age. He’s so wonderfully put together. Long, graceful limbs and broad shoulders. That gorgeously solid chest dusted with sandy hair, and home to the tattoo, a swirl of Cyrillic script, I’m dying to ask about but won’t allow myself to. A washboard stomach and the dip between his belly and thighs, a trail my lips love to follow. And there I go again, thinking about him. Tempting, yes. I tried not to look, but he’d caught me doing it anyway. The way his gaze wandered down my body, it was like I was naked, not him.
No man has ever made me feel like he does, and not just physically. He has a way of looking at me like he can see into my head. He listens intently when I speak. And those eyes, they make me feel so wanted. But to give in would be purely selfish. I have the boys to think about first and foremost. Involving him in our lives is not a chance I’m willing to take. My sons and my heart require distance and protection.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sandy mutters, banging another cupboard closed and making me snap back to myself. “Where does McCain keep the stuff?”
“The honey? In the downstairs kitchen, I imagine.” We’re currently in the much smaller kitchen in the family apartments.
“I’m not going all the way down there,” he mutters, making me laugh again.
“The thought was sweet, I suppose.”
“Sweet, yes. I’ll take her a chocolate biscuit instead,” he says, pulling out a patterned tin.
“I see you know where those are kept. I suppose you have one with your cup of cocoa—”
“I am not old.”
“—cocoa and a chocolate biscuit, dressed in your jim-jams and slippers by nine in the evening.”
My brother is as vital as a man half his age, but I’ve been teasing him since we learned to talk. It’s my life’s work, though I’m happy to say I’ve recently handed over the reins to Holly because she’s very good at it. They’re an unlikely pairing but they make marriage and partnership look so easy.
“Surely, a man of my station reaches for his smoking jacket and pipe in the evenings, forgoing cocoa for a brandy nightcap.”
“Before long, you’ll be reaching for a walking frame.” Brows raised, I cast my eyes over him so he can’t miss my meaning. “But that’s what you get for marrying a woman nearly half your age.”
“Not quite half my age,” he replies, giving my ponytail a quick tug.
“Ouch!” I strike out to slap him when he steps out of reach.
“And that’s not the kind of thing a sister should remark on.” I huff out a protest but give in as he swipes my coffee from my hand. “Though it’s exactly the kind of thing Griffin would,” he adds, referencing our half brother. He’s not the only half sibling we have, thanks to our father’s prolific affairs, but he was the only one invited to Sandy’s wedding.