She laughs, handing me a mug of Joe. “Probably not. Though I'm much less particular than my little sister Fig. She is all drama, all the time.”
“In a bad way?” I ask.
Lemon shakes her head. “No, she is lovely. She’s dramatic but in a way that makes everything heightened. Better. Larger than life. I love her to death. And I can't believe she's graduating this year.” She turns to me. “Which makes me think, you haven't exactly told me anything about you. I mean, your family. You said there isn't any but—”
I clear my throat, forcing myself to push forward and not retreat like I usually do when things get personal. Lemon makes me want to set my comfort zone aside, permanently. “I lost them when I was young.”
“I'm so sorry,” Lemon says softly, her hand on my arm.
I shrug. “I was raised by my aunt and uncle. They live in Bend, Oregon. They're good people but they weren't close with my parents. They never felt like family. They felt like people who were looking after me. They were older than my mom and dad by quite a bit, and I feel like they were just doing their duty as opposed to raising me as their own. If that makes sense?”
Lemon nods, listening as she unpacks my basket, plating the croissants and pouring the orange juice and champagne in the flutes. “Hey, I should be doing the work,” I tell her. “It's your birthday.”
She smiles. “I don't mind. Besides, you're the one who made that amazing dinner last night.”
“But you helped me clean up when we made midnight pancakes.”
“We cleaned that kitchen pretty well, don't you think?” She laughs, remembering.
“Yes. And can you believe that it's already 11 in the morning now?” I ask.
“Sure, considering how late we stayed up.”
I walk toward her as she hands me a glass of champagne. We clink our flutes.
“I think I get to make a toast,” I tell her, wrapping an arm around her waist, eager to untie her bathrobe.
She nods as I pull her closer, her breath shallowing in anticipation.
“I have a better idea than a toast,” I say, untying the knot on her bathrobe, letting it fall open. Underneath, she's wearing nothing at all.
“Fuck me now,” I groan.
She sets her champagne aside. “Yes, please,” she says, licking her lips.
I moan in pleasure as I pick her up and set her on the kitchen counter, her thighs spreading before me. Her pussy, mine.
“Fuck, you look good.”
“I feel good,” she saysas I lean down, kissing her perfect tits, loving the sight of them in broad daylight.
She wraps her arms around my neck. “I feel…” She shakes her head then lets it fall back.
When she looks up, though, she looks straight past me. “Oh my god,” she shrieks. But not in delight as I was hoping—in genuine shock. Horror, even.
“Oh my god. Oh my god.” She pushes me away—fast, hard—and tugs her robe tight around her.
Jumping off the counter, her feet plant on the floor just as the front door opens. She leaps away from me.
“Anybody home?” someone calls out. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. You may act like a sour puss. But Lemon, we love you,” several male voices sing, poorly.
“Oh my god,” she whimpers.
“Who is it?” I ask just as three big-ass guys enter the kitchen. I take them in, realizing just who these guys are. “Your brothers?”
She drops her head in her hands. Her bathrobe is tugged so tight around her that no one would guess she has nothing underneath. She reaches for that champagne and downs her glass in one drink.
But I don't need champagne. I need coffee. Fast.I was not expecting to be meeting her family so soon. And the issues I have with commitment come, rearing their ugly heads. This is getting real, fast.