Dirtiest Secret (SIN 1)

Since Stacey is currently my ally, I don't point out that she had seconded the crazy plan.

"That's not what I meant," he says. "But come on, Jane. I've never even met the guy and I know he won't do anything to hurt you. Not on purpose. And you aren't just two people deciding to have a good time. He's your brother, which makes it a big fucking deal, no pun intended."

"We don't share a drop of blood. I don't care what the law or our parents or all of society says. It's stupid."

"Doesn't change the fact. Doesn't erase the taboo."

I glance up at Stacey and then over to Brody. "Then let me just second what your wife said. You're the one who suggested this in the first place."

"And I stand by my suggestion. I'm just saying that my take on this guy is that he's a gentleman--"

"Do you read the tabloids?"

He narrows his eyes at my outburst. "As far as you're concerned, he's going to tread carefully."

I resist the urge to throw my arms up in defeat. "So where does that leave me?"

He spreads his hands and shrugs, looking more like a Jewish mother than a half-Irish bartender-turned-dom. "You want a fuck, you're going to have to make the first move."

I scowl. Because frankly, I thought I had.

--

"There's my pretty girl!" Grams, my dad's eighty-year-old mother, holds out her hands to me and urges me over.

She moved to Florida three years ago after Gramps died, and I don't see her nearly often enough. Now I hurry into her arms and give her a big hug. She seems more fragile now, and the knowledge that I will probably lose her soon keeps my smile from blooming all the way.

She peers at me with eyes that seem tiny now, lost in a wrinkled face that has never seen plastic surgery. "These are my battle scars," she told me once after a friend pointed out that Grams could easily afford the best. "Do you know how much work it was to live a good life? Why should I hide it?"

"What's that frown for?" she asks me now, her hands cupping my cheeks.

I shake my head and glance over at my mom. "I just miss you, I guess." I lean over and give her another big hug.

"Well, that's because you don't visit often enough. Millions of dollars in a trust fund and you can't hop a plane to Florida once in a while?"

She's grinning when she says it, and I know she's only teasing. But she's right. And I make a promise right then and there to visit more often.

"Where's the guest of honor?" I ask. Poppy is Grams's father-in-law, and although he'll be one hundred years old tomorrow, he still does the New York Times crossword puzzle every Sunday, even though his hand shakes too much for him to write the answers in himself.

"Your dad told Becca to take a little break and took him down the boardwalk to the beach," my mom tells me. Becca is Poppy's live-in nurse and crossword helper, and has been for the past twenty years. Which pretty much makes her one of the family.

"Oh. I guess I'll go catch up to them." I look around the room. There are five bungalows on Barclay Isle along with the main house, which is where we are now. It's the most understated of all the Sykes family homes, which isn't saying much. It's six thousand square feet with walls that actually open so that the entire downstairs can be converted into an outdoor living area that flows out onto the flagstone patio.

I've always loved it here. The water is beautiful and warm. The sky is blue, and there's privacy. So much privacy.

Even on a weekend like this where there are over a dozen people in the house, there's still always room to get away. As far as I can tell, that's what people are doing, because while I see my great-uncle talking with his oldest son by the window, I don't see my uncle's wife or any of their three grandchildren, all of which are about my age.

I wave to them, but don't pause to talk as I head toward the patio, intending to follow the boardwalk until I find Dad and Poppy.

My mother's voice stops me. "You should grab a bite before the staff takes the buffet away."

I nod, then apologize again. "I didn't mean to be so late," I say. It's already after noon. I dropped my bag at my bungalow--the one I've used ever since my parents said I was old enough to have my own space--and then headed to the main house. "I left New York before dawn, but I had to wait for the helicopter in Norfolk. Mechanical issue."

"You're here now," Grams says. "That's what matters."

I smile, thinking how comfortable it is to just be hanging with family. How different than the way it felt with Dallas at our game night. He's family, too, but it wasn't easy like this.

No, Dallas Sykes is in a category all by himself. Brothers with Benefits, I think, then curse my own stupid, sick sense of humor.