My Best Friend's Son Is My Secret Lover And Other Stories

I smoothed the charcoal fabric of my pencil skirt for the tenth time, my palms damp. It was too hot for May in the city, the air conditioning in Sarah’s foyer humming a low, frantic tune that matched my pulse. I shouldn’t have stayed for the homecoming. I had a mountain of contracts on my desk and a glass of Chardonnay in my hand that was doing nothing to settle the strange, vibrating unease in my stomach. "He should be here any minute," Sarah said, her voice bright with a mother’s frantic joy. She was forty-two, vibrant and glowing, a contrast to the practiced, professional stillness I’d cultivated like a shield over my thirty-five years. We were best friends, sisters by choice, but standing in her home today, I felt like an intruder. I checked my watch. "Maybe I should head out, Sarah. Give you two some space." "Nonsense, Elena. You’re family. Julian hasn't seen you since your firm took off. He’ll want to see his favorite 'Auntie'—though God, don’t let him call you that. He’s probably forgotten how much he used to crush on you." I winced, a bitter taste hitting the back of my throat. Favorite Auntie. The label felt like a lead weight. I remembered Julian as a lanky nineteen-year-old with messy hair and a mouth that got him into trouble. Then he’d vanished to Europe for three years to "find himself," which, according to Sarah’s i********:-fueled updates, mostly involved yacht parties in Ibiza and a rotating door of French models. The sound of a car door slamming echoed from the driveway. My grip tightened on my wine glass. I took a sharp, bracing breath, putting on my "Senior Partner" face—the one that negotiated multi-million dollar mergers without blinking. The front door swung open, and the heat from outside rushed in, thick and suffocating. But it wasn't the weather that made the air vanish from my lungs. It was him. The boy was gone. In his place stood a man who seemed to take up every inch of the vaulted entryway. He was tall—broader than I remembered—with skin bronzed by a Mediterranean sun and hair tucked back in a way that looked effortlessly messy. He wore a white linen shirt, the top three buttons undone, exposing a glimpse of a chest that was no longer lanky. He looked like sin personified, a walking advertisement for everything a woman of my standing should avoid. "I'm home," he said. His voice had dropped an octave, a rich, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the floorboards and straight into the soles of my heels. Sarah let out a cry of delight, throwing her arms around him. I stayed rooted to the spot, a statue in the corner. I watched him over Sarah’s shoulder. He was laughing, whispering something to his mother, but his eyes—dark, intelligent, and far too observant—were already scanning the room. They landed on me. The air in the room didn't just thin; it turned to ice. He didn't look at me like a family friend. He didn't look at me with the polite recognition of a former "aunt." His gaze started at my heels, climbed slowly up the line of my legs, lingered on the curve of my hips confined by the skirt, and finally locked onto my eyes. It was a predatory, appraisal-filled stare that made my skin flush. "Elena," he said, stepping out of his mother’s embrace. He didn't wait for me to approach. He walked toward me with a slow, rhythmic gait that screamed confidence. He stopped just a fraction too close, invading my personal space until I could smell him—cedarwood, salt, and something sharp and expensive. "Julian," I managed, my voice steady despite the riot in my chest. I offered a stiff, professional hand. "Welcome back. You look… well." He didn't take my hand. Instead, he reached out and took the wine glass from my trembling fingers, his skin brushing mine. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure, unadulterated heat that made my breath hitch. He took a sip from the exact spot my lipstick had marked the rim, his eyes never leaving mine. "You look exactly the same," he murmured, his voice low enough that Sarah, currently fussing over his luggage, couldn't hear. "Still hiding behind that suit. Still pretending you aren't the hottest thing in this room." "Julian," I hissed, my face burning. "Watch your mouth." He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my ear. "Or what? You'll put me in time-out? I'm not nineteen anymore, Elena. And I’ve learned a lot of new ways to be bad." He pulled back, a smirk dancing on his lips—a playboy’s smirk, practiced and lethal. He handed the glass back to me, his thumb lingering on my knuckles for a second too long. "Elena, isn't he handsome?" Sarah asked, turning around with a beaming smile. "The European air did him wonders." "He looks like he’s going to be a handful, Sarah," I said, forcing my gaze away from him. I felt exposed, as if he had peeled back my layers of professional decorum with a single look. "I'll be on my best behavior," Julian said, though the look he shot me was pure promised chaos. "I have a lot of catching up to do. Especially with you, Elena." I took a large gulp of my wine, the liquid doing nothing to cool the fire he’d ignited. I was thirty-five. I was an adult. I was his mother’s best friend. And as I looked at Julian—dangerous, beautiful, and entirely aware of the effect he had on me—I realized the next few months weren't going to be a homecoming. They were going to be a war. And looking at the way his eyes tracked the movement of my throat as I swallowed, I knew I was already losing. "I should really go," I stammered, reaching for my purse on the side table. "Stay for dinner," Julian challenged, his voice a silken trap. "Unless you're afraid of me." I snapped my gaze back to him, my pride stinging. "I’m not afraid of a child, Julian." He stepped even closer, his shadow falling over me, his height looming. The smirk widened, turning into something darker, something hungrier. "Good. Because I'd hate for you to miss the show." I turned on my heel, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I walked toward the door, feeling his eyes on my back, tracing the line of my spine. I didn't look back, but as I reached my car, my hands were shaking so hard I could barely find my keys.