by Emelia Blair
The bike roars to life, and I don’t miss the envious look the watchman sends my way before I speed off.
It is still pretty early, and I know that I’d just go home and brood myself to death over why Agatha going out on a date with some random guy has me so worked up. So, turning the bike around, I decide to swing by home and surprise my parents.
I was adopted into the Sawyer family, but not once had Ann and Raymond Sawyer made me feel like I was not blood. Even now, as I park my motorcycle in the garage of my parents’ upscale home, I hear my mother’s cry of happiness as she sees me through the kitchen window.
“Ian!”
My mother is a petite woman with strawberry-blonde hair and wide, welcoming figure. Even though I am a fully-grown man in his early thirties, I am not ashamed to say that my mother gives the best hugs.
As she wraps her arms around me and kisses my cheek, I find a warmth spreading inside me. “Hi, Mom.”
“Where have you been?” she demands, wiping her hands on her apron. “We missed you last Sunday. The barbeque went great!”
My father is reading the newspaper, and he waggles his brows at me in greeting. “Your cousin, Samantha, brought an inflatable pool. Your brothers filled it with Jell-O.”
“Oh,” I sit down at the round kitchen table, next to him. “Where are they?”
“Grounded,” my father says, sourly. “They slipped out last night to go with their friends to that horror movie marathon that’s playing in the cinema. They were stupid enough to get caught.”
My mother grins, setting down a plate of pasta in front of me. “I was doing some writing when I caught them sneaking out. Thought they could outwit me.”
My phone pings and I see that it is a picture from Jake and Sam at the movies, and I smirk. “You sure showed them, Mom.”
“So, what brings you here?” my dad asks, folding his newspaper and giving me an intent look.
I shrug. “I just wanted to surprise you guys.”
My mother runs a hand over my hair, giving my small ponytail a disapproving look, making my shoulders hunch in defiance. “I wish you’d let me cut your hair, Ian.”
My hands fly to my hair.
“C’mon, Mom! The ladies love it.” When my mother raises a brow at me, I give her my most charming smile and wrap my arms around her waist. “No touching my hair.”
She lets out a disappointed sigh and runs her hands over the deep red of my hair, inherited from the parents I’ve never met. “Fine. Now, tell me what’s bothering you.”
I think about glossing over it, and releasing my mother, I scowl. “Agatha’s on a date.”
I don’t miss the way they glance at each other before my father says carefully, “I didn’t know you liked her.”
I pick up my fork and twirl the noodles on my plate, idly, a frown on my face. “I don’t; I mean, we’re friends, but I’m not interested in her like that.”
My mother sits down next to me, eyeing me. “Then why is it bothering you?”
“It’s not!” I protest, trying to shake off the annoyance. “I was just surprised.”
“Why?” My father leans back in his chair, his hands tucked in the pockets of his robe, a grin on his face. I roll my shoulders, a little agitated.
“She hasn’t been on a single date for the past year, and now, suddenly, there’s this guy. She never mentioned him. And she tells me everything.”
My mother shakes her head at me. “You’re overthinking it. It’s just a date.”
I stuff a bite of pasta into my mouth, choosing not to say anything. From what Agatha said, it isn’t just a date.
Although my parents try to convince me to stay over, I decide to go home, clear my head. I have a meeting in the morning, and if I want to get in a workout before going there, I have to be up early.
I enter my house as my phone rings.
It is Agatha.
Warily, I answer, “Hi.”
“Do you think you could help me move tomorrow? Grams has some friends coming over, and I don’t want to be there when they arrive.” She sounds a little annoyed.
I switch on the alarm for the next morning and ask, “Is your apartment done?”
A heavy sigh on the line. “Yeah. I was supposed to move in today, but the moving company bailed; some shit with their transport. It’s just some boxes. I can set up everything myself. It’ll take you an hour, tops.”
I glance at my watch.
It isn’t that late.
“Where are you, right now?”
“Just got back and then Grams threw this at me. I can’t even argue with her because she thinks I’m disrespecting her. I hate Zayn for showing her the Godfather movies.”
As she rambles, venting, I feel a twinge of satisfaction that she will be sleeping alone tonight.
“I’ll come by after work,” I tell her.
When she ends the call, I try to tell myself that I am just looking out for her and that’s why I am happy that her date didn’t go the way she wanted it to.
However, deep inside, I know that I am heading down a dangerous path.
2
Agatha
Grunting, I pick up the cardboard box from the table and stagger under its weight before slowly lowering it to the ground, a bead of sweat slipping down the side of my face.
Standing back up, I put my hands on my lower back and stretch, groaning.
I glance at my reflection in the glass that surrounds the fountain in the center of the mansion I grew up in, and wince at how frayed I look.
My golden hair is tied up in a messy bun, a few strands escaping here and there. My blue eyes, a feature that I share with my older brother, Philip, are glinting with annoyance.
The maids offered to help, but I don’t need a word -for-word recitation of what I owe to my overly protective grandmother, who is coming back tomorrow morning. The weather is still cold since it is early January, but the inside of the house is warm enough for me to walk around in tiny shorts and a shirt that I stole from my father’s wardrobe. It’s ten sizes too big for me, making me roll back the sleeves to my elbows.
But I haven’t seen him in a few months since he and my mother decided to travel across Europe for the winter, and I kind of miss him.
The sound of footsteps have me looking up to see my brother’s best friend walk in. Tall, and slightly tan, Ian’s red hair, which he swears he has never dyed, is tied at his nape in a tiny ponytail: his trademark look.
My eyes roam deliberately over the gray waistcoat that reveals his trim figure, giving away his workout regime in a glance. I know for a fact that under that waistcoat and white shirt lays a mouth-watering body that I will probably never get the chance to taste.
When I wolf-whistle, he grins at me. “Don’t you look prim and proper.”
I give him a short twirl, “It’s a new style I’m trying out.”
When he scoffs, I sit on the arm of a chair. “You’re early. I was expecting you to be at least an hour late.”
Ian tosses his jacket and coat on the table and picks up my slice of half-finished pizza and bites into it. “I got a new assistant.”
A flare of jealousy makes me blink and I ask, “She hot?”
He chews and swallows. “It’s a ‘he.’ Very organized and very detail oriented. I don’t think I’ll be putting in much overtime now.”
I watch him polish off the remainder of my dinner, my eyes watching him with a hunger that I have to hide.
I don’t know when I started developing feelings for Ian. It has been at least a few years now. But to him, I will always be a friend and Philip’s sister.
I know he will never look at me in the way I so desperately wish. He cares about me. I am very important to him. But he’s never hinted at having more than brotherly feelings for me.
One of our friends, Fergus, suspects that there is something going on between us. We all grew up together. Well, Philip grew up with Ian, Fergus, and Zayn. They all met at the boarding school they attended in their
preteens. I was just Philip’s sister who followed them around every time they came here for break.
I let out a small sigh and turn away from Ian, closing my eyes for a moment, trying to get my feelings under control.
Fergus is wrong.
There is nothing going on between Ian and me.
For some reason, our friendship is a very physical one. He will hug me, lean on me, let me feed him, put his head on my lap. It’s things like this that make my yearning worsen, but I don’t have it in me to stop these small actions.
I don’t realize he is talking ‘til I turn back around.
“You okay?” he asks, a hint of concern showing. I shrug.
“It’s been a long day, and I want to haul these boxes back home before Grams guilts me into staying.”
Ian starts on putting a pile of my books into one of the empty boxes. “I still don’t get why you decided to move back to the estate. I thought our living arrangement was fine.”
I throw him a dirty look. “I refuse to go jogging with you at the break of dawn. You’re a lunatic.”
He stares at me. “I don’t know how you maintain that figure of yours. You are the least athletically inclined person there is.”
I flip him the bird.
“It’s called portion control. That, and genetics.” I start taping shut one of the boxes, the one that contains my glassware. “And just so you know, I do have a trainer. Raoul makes me cry three times a week.”
Ian looks up at me, his hands freezing. “I didn’t know you had a trainer.”
I waggle my brows at him. “He’s gorgeous and sculpted like a Greek statue. You should see the women drooling over him.”
Ian gives me a smile that doesn’t exactly reach his eyes. “And you’re one of them?”
I snort. “Are you kidding? His husband is the head of my IT department. He’d take away my internet access in a heartbeat if I even think of making eyes at Raoul. Derek is very protective of his little bubbla.”
“Oh.” Ian blinks. “I didn’t know Derek was married.”
I shrug. “Now you do.”
Ian rolls back his sleeves. Seeing the well-defined muscles of his forearm makes my heart skip a beat.
“So, how did your date go last night?”
I purse my lips at the casual question.
Henry is a lawyer. His firm is on the floor above mine, and he is sexy and sweet and funny, so it was only natural to say yes to him when he asked me out last week.
It had been a year since I last went out on a date, or got laid. Part of the reason is my busy schedule, but the actual reason is that the man I’m interested in isn’t interested in me. And anybody else feels like a cheap imitation.
I’d hoped to see some action last night, but mid-date I’d realized that my heart wasn’t into it. So, I left after dinner.
However, I am not going to tell Ian that.
I shrug my shoulders. “It was okay.”
“That’s too bad.”
For some reason, the lightness of his tone pisses me off, and I grit my teeth. “I plan to see him again.”
When I look up, I see him frowning at me. “Why would you see him again if your date didn’t go well?”
“I didn’t say it didn’t go well.” I meet his gaze head-on. Ian doesn’t budge, like an obstinate mule.
“You said ‘okay.’ That word speaks for itself.”
I give him a sharp look. “Well, I have needs, and he seems to be willing to meet them at the moment.”
His green eyes darken, and my breath catches when I think I see a wilder emotion in them, a heated look. It vanishes in a heartbeat, leaving me to think that I only imagined it.
His mouth opens, and the words that come out are like a slap in my face: “Don’t make it that easy for him.”
I turn white at his harsh words and my lips tremble for a moment before I ground myself, staring down at my box for a few heartbeats. Raising my head, I meet his eyes and say in a cold voice, “I think you should leave, Ian.”
Regret fills his eyes, a sincere emotion that makes the barbs sticks in my heart, twist painfully, and he curses softly. “I’m sorry, Agatha. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t mean to be a dick.”
“I don’t care to be called a whore in my home.” My voice is chilly, concealing the hurt underneath the frost.
His jaw tightens, and he growls. “I would never call you a whore!”
I turn my back to him, not wanting him to see the look on my face. “Yes, well. You did.”
He is silent, and then I hear his footsteps, and he crouches next to me on the marble floor, his voice uncharacteristically subdued when he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that.”
I shake my head. “Fine. Whatever. You are still an asshole.”
But I know him. And I know he would never call me that, intentionally.
“Agatha, come on. I’m sorry. I would never call you that. Tell me we’re okay,” he persists.
I make the mistake of looking up and seeing the misery in his gold-flecked green eyes, making my pulse skip a beat.
“Fine. We’re good. Will you get out of my face now?”
“I don’t buy it. You’re just saying that to get me to leave.”
I bare my teeth at him. “Well, nobody can accuse you of not being able to read the room. Go put that box in the van outside.”
And just like that, the mood dissipated.
I feel the press of his lips on the top of my head, a silent apology, and he leaves to obey my orders.
However, I had forgotten that the box was not sealed.
As soon as he lifts the cardboard box, the bottom gives way and spills out small articles of clothing.
Ian curses and kneels to pick up the clothes. “What the fuck is this?”
He is holding up a black see-through teddy and a crotchless panty.
I give him a sweet smile. “I’m sure you’ve seen lingerie before, Ian.”
He stills and then eyes the panty, and his voice is hoarse when he speaks. “Why is this torn?”
I can’t help but widen my eyes at him, innocently. “For easier access.”
He can’t drop the scraps of cloth quickly enough.
Staring down at the huge heap, he asks roughly, “Why are there so many of them?”
I turn around and maintain eye contact with him, my voice husky as I say, “I like to wear them when I go to bed.”
This time, I don’t miss the flash of lust in his eyes. “Every night?”
I smile at him. “Put them in the box, Ian.”
As I turn back to my task, I stare down at the tape in my hand.
So many years together, and not once has Ian given me that look: like he wants to devour me.
Am I missing something?
Have I been misreading his behavior all these years?
“What is this?”
His voice breaks into my thoughts and I glance over to see him dangling a pair of metal cuffs from his finger. His cheeks are slightly flushed.
“I didn’t know you were into—”
“I’m not,” I say abruptly. “Those aren’t mine.”
Ian raises a brow. “They have your name engraved on them.”
I climb to my feet and make my way over to him, snatching the cuffs from his hand. “Let me see that.”
I stare at the shiny engraving of my name on them.
“See. Your name’s there.”
My head tilts, a frown drawing down my lips. “I’m telling you these aren’t mine.”
Ian studies me. “Then how’d they get in the box?”
I shrug, putting the cuffs down on the glass table next to him. “Somebody’s idea of a joke? Toss them. I don’t want them.”
I return to my work, but after a few minutes, I glance up to stare at the cuffs, puzzled.
Were they there when I packed my lingerie this morning?
For the life of me, I can’t remember.
3
Ian
I stare out
the window, my fingers tapping on my knee.
The meeting with the client went quite well, and I just secured myself a new CFO. He has a ton of experience, and he is exactly what I need for Bearing Consulting.
So why aren’t I happy?
An entire week has passed and not a single text or call from Agatha.
New York is different from Chicago. It is faster-paced, and I love it here. But for the first time in ages, I find myself wishing I was back home.
I wonder whether Agatha has forgiven me for what I said. But maybe she hasn’t.
I let the waitress refill my coffee, brooding as I remember the stark look on her face when I uttered those words.
It had been jealousy.
I had been jealous, and jealousy complicates things.
Idly, I stare down at the dark liquid in my cup. Agatha is Philip’s younger sister. I have no right putting my hands on something that isn’t mine. And yet, when I saw those pieces of lingerie, I wanted to see her in them. I want her under me, her soft form trembling under my touch as I make her scream my name, teaching her who she belongs to.
But she doesn't belong to me, does she?
I let out a small sigh, filled with frustration.
When did she become so important to me?
This last year certainly pushed us together.
But it wasn’t just this year. When she was setting up her business a few years ago, she came to me for advice. I’ve always known she’s smart, but that was the first time I’d seen her transform from a society woman to someone who was willing to spend hours and hours doing grunt work in sweats and hoodies, eating cheap takeout.
My respect for her had gone through the roof.
Days and nights she put in, building her start-up into something that is now called McCoy Strategies. A successful PR company that is not dissimilar to what I do as a crisis CEO. Agatha and I both step in to fix messes. She works on the reputation of a company while I fix a company’s structure.
It is no wonder that I often end up working alongside her.
