Make Me Sin

8

I don’t wake him. By the time the pizza arrives, Eric’s snoring has reached chainsaw levels. I cover him with a blanket, pay the delivery guy, sit down at my kitchen table alone, and eat a slice of lukewarm pizza—picking off the pepperoni, because Eric forgot again that I don’t eat meat—all the while trying not to be driven insane by the little voice inside my head that’s whispering one thing over and over.

A.J.

A.J.

A.J.

I abandon the half-eaten piece of pizza on the table, turn off all the lights, and go to bed, where I lay staring at the ceiling in the dark.

I should be thinking about the future, about what an incredible opportunity Kat and Nico have given me; how if their wedding flowers are admired, my life will change for the better in all the ways I’ve dreamed; or even about why Eric smelled like beer when he arrived, when he said he’d just gotten off work.

But I don’t think about any of that. I think about cold amber eyes and messy gold hair and a stare that burns right through me, until finally, mercifully, sleep overtakes me and I pass out.

Even in my dreams, I can’t escape him.

It’s Sunday afternoon at four o’clock. I’m on the phone with a customer, taking an order for a funeral spray, when I’m grabbed from behind and pulled against a solid chest.

“Hello, beautiful,” a cultured voice purrs in my ear. “Come here often?”

I spin around. When I see who it is, I scream in delight. “Jamie! You’re here!” I throw my arms around my brother’s shoulders.

He laughs, squeezing me. “I’m here, little bug. Your drab, colorless existence will commence being extremely fabulous right about now.” He gives me another squeeze for emphasis, then pulls back to examine me at arms’ length. He grows instantly sober. “Dear God. You’re even prettier than the last time I saw you. Are you in love?”

One of the many reasons I adore my older brother: he gives compliments like no one’s business.

“What are you doing here? Did you just get in? I thought we’d see you later at the ’rents for dinner!”

He winks at me. I see exactly why every gay man in a fifty-mile radius has just achieved an erection, even if they don’t know why. My brother is gorgeous, if I do say so myself. He’s wearing a dove-gray suit, no tie, white dress shirt open at the collar. His dark hair is perfect, as are his teeth, his skin, and every accessory, right down to the silk pocket square peeking out of his jacket. He’s tall and slender like a model, and has the cheekbones of a model, too, but with none of a model’s self-consciousness. He’s completely at ease in his own skin, in spite of growing up with parents who refuse to acknowledge he’s gay.

I still haven’t forgiven them for that. Miraculously, it doesn’t bother James a bit. He accepts people’s shortcomings without judgment, even when they’re viciously judging him themselves.

He smiles warmly at me, hazel eyes crinkling around the corners. “I had to see how the infamous ‘bespoke boutique’ was doing. Couldn’t miss an opportunity to rub your success in Mommy Dearest’s face, now, could I?”

I roll my eyes. “As if Mommy Dearest would care.”

He purses his lips and shrugs. “Mmm. She might care. If you ever land the cover of Vanity Fair, that is. Until then, if she can’t brag about it to her social set, it’s simply not worth the effort. Don’t take it personally, bug, she can’t help herself. Her mother is British aristocracy. If that wouldn’t ruin you, I don’t know what would.”

We share wry smiles, then a tinny squawking distracts me. I realize I’ve still got my customer on the line. I hold a finger in the air for Jamie and whip the phone to my ear. “Mr. Thornton! I’m so sorry, please excuse me.” I continue with the order as I watch from the corner of my eye as James begins politely poking his nose into my business.

He strolls nonchalantly around the counter, lifting a notepad here, opening a file folder there, quickly and efficiently assessing everything within sight. I see him mentally catalogue the entire operation in a glance, nodding in satisfaction every so often. He frowns briefly at the state of disarray around the cash register, where the young son of my last customer tampered with a display of enclosure cards. Jamie quickly and silently straightens the display, leaving it looking better than it had before.

He’s always been like this. Inquisitive. Precise. Unobtrusively infusing elegance into everything he touches. I can’t believe some lucky guy hasn’t put a ring on his finger yet.

Just as I finish the call with Mr. Thornton, Jamie falls still. His lips part. His eyes widen. He stares in fascination at something behind me, looking over my shoulder as if a unicorn has just pranced into the room.

I glance in the direction he’s looking, expecting to see some hot young underwear model or something of the sort. Oh, how wrong I am.

A.J. Edwards stands in front of my counter, as broad and imposing as Thor. Today he’s wearing faded jeans that are stuffed into combat boots with no laces, a battered brown leather bomber jacket, and a pair of aviators that obscure his eyes. His long hair is tied into a sloppy knot at the nape of his neck. He’s unshaven, as usual. He gives my brother a friendly chin jerk in acknowledgment. “Hey.”

Jamie makes a faint noise, not quite a hello. I can tell he wants to fan himself.

A.J. turns his attention to me. I can’t see his eyes because of the aviators, but I imagine I feel their intensity penetrating through. With slightly less acidity than he normally addresses me with, he says, “I need to place an order.”