by Stasia Black
I look back at them like they’re the ones who drank too much.
But Mr. Winters’s eyes are still amused when our gazes meet again.
It’s Dominick who fills me in on the punch line I was missing. “Sorry sis, didn’t anyone tell you? This isn’t one of those marriages. It’s not exactly a love match.”
I frown. Well, I obviously knew enough to realize that, but then what—
Mr. Winters reaches out and takes my hand. “Your mother and I realized we could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement by marrying one another. I could give her and you some financial stability and I could get… other benefits.”
“Like what?” I scrunch my forehead. And then I remember what dots I connected earlier. “Grandpa’s influence.”
Mr. Winters eyes me for a second and nods. “Exactly.”
I sit back on the limo seat opposite the two of them. “What do you need Grandpa for?”
Mr. Winters relaxes his elbows on his knees and laces his hands together underneath his chin. “Do you know the influence your Grandpa has?”
I nod, then pause and shake my head. “Not all of it.”
“Well, the oncology department at my hospital is looking to fund a new wing of the hospital and we’re short of our goal. I need your family’s name to open those doors for me.”
Okay. So the mystery is finally solved. And my head is starting to pound and the inside of my mouth is just…ugh. Time for bed.
Still, the devil in me compels me to ask one last question. “So you and my mom…you never…you know…” I look at the floor of the limo and scrape the toe of one of my strappy shoes against the other.
“No.” Mr. Winters’s voice is firm. “And we never will. I don’t mean to be offensive, but I’m just not sure how…” he looks around the limo like he’s searching for a politically correct term, “hygienic that would be? So no.” He shakes his head, his mouth turning down like he’s disgusted even by the thought of touching my mother in that way. “Never.”
A ridiculous wave of relief rushes through me at his words.
“Well, as enlightening as this discussion has been,” Dominick says, opening the door on his side of the limo, “I think little sister’s bedtime was about an hour ago.” He smiles at me, but it’s more of a challenging smirk.
I narrow my eyes at him but in all honesty, I can’t disagree. When he holds out a hand, I take it and allow him to slide me along the bench seat toward the door and help me out. His dad follows right behind me.
This weekend the two of them will be moving all their stuff into the South End townhouse where Mom and I live. The brownstone has been in the family for three generation. It’s huge and I’m sure would be worth a crazy amount—luckily Grandpa still holds the deed so Mom couldn’t sell it.
The valet brings in two large duffels behind us as we make our way up the stairs. I guess that’s what the guys will be living out of until the rest of their things arrive in a couple days.
Thankfully, they help me up the stairs to the door. My heels are killing me and I still don’t feel too steady on my feet.
And finally, we’re inside. I survived the day. I kick off my heels in the entryway and glare at the ornate stairwell. It would be fine if I just crashed on the downstairs couch for just one night, right?
I’m sure I didn’t say that last thought out loud, but as if he can read my mind, Mr. Winters suddenly sweeps me off my feet. Sweeps me off my feet—I’m not kidding. One of his arms goes underneath my knees and the other under my back. Instinctively, my arms clutch around his neck.
Once again, my body is pressed against the furnace of his body. But my head is clearer than it was earlier in the night so I don’t sag against him and lay my head on his chest. No matter how tempted I am.
Plus, God, I’m aware of what a mess I must be. My eyes watered when I was throwing up earlier so my makeup must be a mess, and I can only imagine the rats nest that my hair is, not to mention my breath—
I clamp my mouth shut and resolve to only breathe out through my nose until Mr. Winters puts me down.
I don’t have to worry about it for long, though.
Mr. Winters bounds up the stairs as if I’m no heavier than tissue paper. Now, I am petite, but still. He’s running up the stairs basically bench pressing me. And by the time he gets to my room and finally sets me down on my bed, he still hasn’t even broken a sweat.
That’s it. Theory affirmed. He’s secretly a Viking god parading as a hospital oncology department administrator.
I knew it.
Dominick comes in right behind him.
“Thanks,” I blush so hard I’m sure I can feel it to the tips of every hair follicle.
I sit on the edge of my bed, my ugly orange dress crinkling in the sudden silence. Both men just look at me. Dominick’s smiling at me affably, but his father’s watching me with an intensity that makes me—I don’t know, feel hot and at the same time creates little chills that run up and down my spine.
He’s not sleeping with Mom. The thought comes out of nowhere but pings back and forth like a pinball going crazy and lighting up little neon signs all over my head. He never has and, from the apparent disgust on his face when he talked about the subject, he never will.
I look down at my toes. I got a pedicure for Mom’s big day so for once, my feet look pretty. I hide one foot under the other. Fidgety. Suddenly I’m feeling far too sober.
“Okay, well.” I break the heavy silence. Maybe I’m the only one finding it awkward? I glance up at the two men studying me as if I’m an intensely fascinating TV channel. “I’m going to get cleaned up and head to bed.” I give a short little wave. Oh God, well I just amped the awkward up to a whole new level. “Thanks for everything. Night.”
“All right, sweet girl.” Mr. Winters smiles at me like he’s amused by me, then leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead.
Dominick follows his lead and pulls me close with his hands on my shoulders. Then he kisses me so far back on my cheek it’s almost on my ear. It’s not a quick little peck either. It’s a slow press of his lush, wide lips. “Sleep tight, little sister,” he breathes low into my ear. Then he kisses me again, even closer to my earlobe.
By the time he pulls back I’m almost trembling, eyes wide. The feeling I had low in my stomach when I woke up with my head in his father’s lap is back. A deep swooping sensation that feels connected to parts even lower and—
What is going on—?
But he and his father both have the same smiles they did moments ago, like everything that’s happened tonight is perfectly normal. And then, without another word, Dominick heads out the door, his father following.
Chapter 2
Life with Dominick and Mr. Winters in the house is strange at first, but I quickly get used to the routine of having two extra people around. I was dreading it before the wedding—while the brownstone is big by Boston standards, it’s still only four thousand square feet. But I find that I don’t have to hide out in my room or stay at the campus library for all hours of the night like I’d been planning before the boys moved in.
It turns out it’s actually nice having more people in what was always an empty, hospital-like space.
Mom went through a phase where she was obsessed with white as a decorating scheme. Therefore, all the walls are white. The furniture. The art. Vases. You name it, it’s white.
“I’m in a hospital where I’m surrounded by white,” Dad declared on move-in day. And then he and Dominic proceeded to carry in all kinds of eclectic furniture and place them all throughout the house. Worn leather chairs and overstuffed couches that were actually—gasp—comfortable to sit on.
And, oh yeah, sidebar: Mr. Winters asked me to start calling him Dad after about six weeks. He said it was too awkward for me to keep referring to him as Mr. Winters—it was far too formal. And Paul didn’t sound right either. So why not try out Dad? That was, if I was comfortable with it?
I was probably far too readily accep
ting of the intimacy. Calling him Mr. Winters, or even Paul…that just meant he was some guy who happened to be living with us. But ‘Dad’…it makes it, I don’t know…real. Like he’s actually family. My family even if he’s not Mom’s.
They avoid each other. Mom stays out all hours of the night and then sleeps all day, only to wake up in the late afternoon to make herself ready to go out all night again. She’s got money again, though Dominick told me Dad’s given her a strict allowance. They have different bedrooms. I heard them say a few words to each other the other night, but that’s been the extent of their interaction that I’ve seen.
No, it’s Dad, Dominick and me that are the family.
We all leave the house at different times of day so we don’t usually see each other for breakfast. Dad’s usually up the earliest of any of us to make it to the hospital. Dominick’s just started his residency at a different hospital. He’s training to be a cardio-thoracic surgeon. Both he and his dad are so crazy smart. Dominic graduated from high school a year early and then raced through college doing a combined Bachelor/MD program. Sometimes when they get to talking at the dinner table about the things Dominick is learning, it’s hard not to feel intimidated.
But then the next second, Dad’s asking me about what I’m learning at college. Talking about my early education and learning theory classes seems a bit, well, juvenile compared to saving lives, but both Dad and Dominick have a way of making you feel like you’re the most important person in the room.
No matter where our days take us, we always make sure to meet back up for dinner. No matter if that’s at six-thirty or ten o’clock. We can’t manage it every day. Dominick has twenty-eight hour shifts sometimes. I always heard that doctors-in-training had insane hours, but getting to see it up close and in person makes me appreciate all the more what a sacrifice it is to become the best of the best in his field.
Dad told me it’s one of the reasons he moved into administration—the hours were so punishing. One day, he said he woke up and wondered what he was doing it all for. He ended up realizing he’d rather spend more time with his son and enjoy the years he has left on this earth.
Dominick obviously feels differently at this point in his life. Then again, he’s only twenty-four.
I look up from the chicken marsala I’m stirring when Dominick calls out in a loud voice, “Honey, I’m home!” from the entryway. It took me awhile to distinguish their voices. Dad’s has a slightly lower, scratchier quality.
The kitchen is behind the main living room beside the entryway, so Dominick’s voice comes through loud and clear.
“In here,” I call back. “Hope you’re hungry.”
Dominick’s heavy footsteps sound as he walks across the hardwood toward the kitchen. Even without his shoes on, I swear he always lumbers everywhere he goes. Dad is totally the opposite. I never hear him and then all the sudden he’ll appear in a room behind me, inevitably startling the crap out of me. It’s become a game with him. I swear he gets a fiendish delight every time I jump out of my socks.
“I’m starved,” Dominick says. His eyes certainly appear hungry as he eyes me. He looks me up and down, from the tips of my bare feet up my legs to the short boy shorts I’m wearing, up my tank top where he pauses on my cleavage, then to my face.
And finally he glances down at what’s in the pan.
My mouth has gone completely dry. My cheeks are hot.
Because I’m cooking, of course. It gets hot in the kitchen when I have the stovetop on like this. That’s all.
I stir the marsala and pull it off the burner to the side of the stove.
And I pretend I didn’t just catch my stepbrother ogling me.
“Where’s Dad?”
I swallow, then smile up at Dominick. “Showering. He barely beat you getting home.”
Dominick nods and leans back against the counter. That’s when I notice just how tired he looks. He just came off a double yesterday and then had to go in again today.
“Hey,” I walk over to him. “You doing okay?” I bump my shoulder into his. “You sure this new schedule isn’t too much?”
Even with his eyes closed and his head tipped back, I see his jaw tense. “I can do it. I have to. There are only four spots in the advanced cardio-thoracic residency program at Boston General. I am going to get one of them.”
“I know you will.” I’m not just blowing smoke up his backside either. I can’t imagine anyone else who works or studies harder than Dominick. He just started his residency but already he’s thinking about advancing. He’s good enough too, from what Dad says, even though he’s the youngest of his fellow residents. My first impression of him as a pretty playboy was completely wrong. He never goes out or parties. Every night he’s home, studying or sleeping. He never gives himself a break.
I lift his arm and nestle in for a hug. I squeeze him tight around his middle. “There’s no way you won’t get it. You work your ass off and you’re a genius. Plus, you genuinely care about the people you come across every day. I know you could barely sleep the other night, you were worrying so much about Mr. Nunez after his surgery last week.”
Holding him as tight as I am, I feel the huge expulsion of air as he breathes out what feels like a mountain of stress.
“Damn. You always make me feel better. How do you do that?”
Does he have any idea how happy his words make me? That I’m able to affect his mood and make things even an iota better for this amazing man, God, that’s everything. I turn my face up toward him and grin so hard I’m pretty sure my face will break.
He smiles down at me. It’s breathtaking. Heartbreaking, because he still looks so tired. Always so weary. I wish I could really make it better for him in more than just a surface way.
“I love seeing my two kiddos getting along so well.”
I jerk away from Dominick at hearing Dad’s voice. I look up and see him standing in the doorway of the kitchen. I don’t even know why. It’s not like we were doing anything wrong. It’s just— I— I mean—
“The marsala’s ready,” I blurt, turning away from both of them.
“Smells delicious,” Dad says.
“Thanks,” I say, my cheeks heating stupidly as I reach up and grab plates from the cabinet. When I turn back to get the rice and marsala to dish out, music plays from Dad’s ipod that he’s set in the dock by the window—the blues, like he always puts on when it’s his turn to choose the music. Dominick’s busy setting silverware by the plates.
I can’t help pausing and just watching the two of them. A woman’s deep, soulful voice rings out from the speakers, providing the perfect soundtrack to the moment. God, I can’t believe that at nineteen, I’ve finally found the family I never had.
Dad sees me watching him and smiles. He comes over to me and lifts my right hand up, his other hand moving to my waist just like he did at the wedding. Then he pivots and before I know it, we’re dancing around the kitchen. I let out a little yip of surprise and then laugh as he spins me out and then back into his chest.
The song changes to a faster tune and when Dad spins me again, he lets go. I almost cry out but needn’t have worried. Dominick is right there to catch me. He expertly picks up where his father left off. More familiar with the form now, my right hand immediately lifts and Dominick’s is there to meet mine.
We dance and spin a few times and then right as the jazzy number reaches a frantic chorus, Dominick dips me to the floor.
Naturally, this elicits another squeal out of me.
Dominick rolls me back up to standing and pulls me so close that when we’re chest to chest, I can feel just how hard he’s breathing.
And then, as suddenly as he first grabbed me, he releases me. “Let’s eat before the delicious food you made gets cold.”
I step back, nodding and hoping I don’t look as flustered as I feel.
“You sit,” Dad says, putting his hands on my shoulders and giving a quick massage as he directs me toward my chair. “I know you�
�ve had a long day too, and you cooked. Let us take care of you for once.”
“Oh, that’s not necess—”
“Sweet girl,” he says, his tone warning. “I insist.”
He puts a little bit more pressure on my shoulders once we get to my chair and I sit. It does feel so good to get off my feet. I was observing a kindergarten class for a school project, and well, there’s no way to simply ‘observe’ when there are screaming five-year-olds grabbing at your skirt and asking you to color and play with them. I became the unofficial class ‘helper’ all day. And as adorable as those kids were, I’m pretty sure my ears are still ringing. There was this little blonde girl and that kid had a set of lungs on her and she didn’t mind letting the whole world know when she wasn’t in a good mood, let me tell ya.
Dominick sets the rice on the table and serves everyone some, followed by Dad with the marsala. The steaming food smells delicious and my stomach rumbles in response. I barely had time to scarf down half the peanut butter and honey sandwich I packed for lunch before there was a crisis on the playground and I had to hurry back to it.
The men sit and then we’re all diving in.
Dinner’s quiet for a while as everyone digs in. I have a feeling Dad and Dominick were just as hungry as I was with the way they’re attacking the mini-mountains of marsala Dominick loaded onto each of their plates with.
Dominick eats with the gusto of a man who’s been starved for months.
After about ten minutes, when he’s filling his plate for seconds, Dad shakes his head. “Filling up that hollow leg of yours?”
Dad always eats with a calm, measured pace and will sometimes close his eyes with a look of concentration, like he’s just thinking about the flavor of his food and how pleasurable the whole act is. I’ve never been more conscious of my cooking than since he moved in. I want it to be perfect for him.
Dominick acts like the whole thing is a land/speed contest, except you know…with food getting shoved in his mouth. It’s even worse in the mornings. He jams food in his mouth as he runs out the door, always in a rush. Apparently before they moved in, he would just eat the worst junk too. And him a doctor.
