My mother taught high school English until I was thirteen. Not at the private academy her four children attended, but at a public school in Boston. She loved her job so much she kept it despite the insignificance of her salary and the repeated urgings of her husband to retire. When she finally gave in, it wasn't to bask in the lifestyle near-unlimited wealth could provide, but to devote her life to philanthropy.

My father, Benedict Hughes, is the only child of an only child. The trend actually spans back to the early nineteen hundreds to Roy Hughes, who made the family’s first serious green tapping oil on his land in East Texas.

Roy’s son, and his son after, all the way down to my own father, were each extraordinarily successful in business. Risk-takers with the Midas touch. But none before my father had borne more than one child, and never a daughter.

Not the least among the reasons my father worshipped the ground my mother walked on was her role in giving him four children. Breaking the one-son cycle. It wasn’t until we began reaching talking-and-walking years that my poor father realized the blessings of multiple children came with an equal number of trials.

Deacon came first, then Alex a year and a half after. I showed up four years later, a shock compounded by Charles’ arrival two years after that. By then, Deacon and Alex were unholy terrors and I was firmly in the Terrible Twos. Within a month of Charles’ birth, my father underwent a vasectomy.

When I was six years old, I overheard him telling my mother that he finally understood why God only gave the Hughes men one child. “So they stay sane.” My mother had laughed in that soft, intimate way she only did for him, and I’d snuck away from their bedroom door without knocking.

Having heard this, I was astounded when, a year later, Sebastian Bellizzi came to live with us. There was never any logical reason for my immediate resentment of him, regardless of our explosive first meeting in the kitchen.

I nevertheless latched onto the idea that my parents regretted having more than one child. There certainly wasn’t room in their hearts for another. I adored my brothers too much to resent them for being born, so I focused my amateur loathing on Sebastian.

Despite repeated censure from my parents and brothers, from age seven to sixteen I devoted myself to making Sebastian’s life miserable. If he was unhappy enough, I reasoned, he would go back to Italy.

I embarrassed him at school in front of girls, teased him mercilessly for his accent, and ridiculed him for being poor. An undeserving charity case for my tenderhearted parents. In short, I was a right bitch. But no matter how hard I pushed, he never once rose to the bait. Never lashed out at me or defended himself.

Not until the night of my sixteenth birthday did he retaliate. Already in his second year at Harvard, he came home for the party despite my pointed lack of invitation. Manipulating me away from my friends with the lure of a fabulous gift, he led me down an empty hallway. By the time my selfish desire for presents was eclipsed by suspicion, it was far too late.

In that dark hallway at the back of the house, Sebastian pressed me hard against the wall and kissed me. Thoroughly and passionately, sealing his lithe body to mine until I could feel his arousal against my belly. With his hands and lips and tongue, he coaxed me to a plateau of need that I didn’t, at that age, understand.

Then he stepped back, smiled in devilish satisfaction, and walked away.

* * *

On Saturday, Robert and I drive to Rhubarb for lunch with Alex and Thea. We’re both frazzled by the prospect, but whereas I can mask it, he can’t hide the panic in his eyes. I don’t blame him—my brother is intimidating on a good day. On a bad day he makes people cry.

Alex’s temperament isn’t what worries me, though. He’s extremely well-mannered and charming. Even if he hates Robert on sight, he’ll still make lunch pleasant. My anxiety is due to the fact I’ve never purposefully introduced a man I’m seeing to my family. I’m terrified that I’m making a mistake, and equally hopeful I’m not.

As I pull up to the valet station, Robert asks, “What’s the name of his newest restaurant again?”

I lean over to give him a quick kiss. “Hemlock. Don’t worry. He’s not as scary as he looks. Just be yourself.”

Robert grins and pulls me back for another, deeper kiss, which is interrupted by the clipped demand, “Get your mouth off my sister!”

We jerk apart to see Alex standing in front of the car, a dark scowl on his face. My brain turns to mush, then rebuilds as my brother throws back his head and laughs. Thea walks up beside him and punches him in the arm.

Alex grins at the rebuke and tucks her into his side. To us, he says, “Come on, we’re hungry!” With a proprietary hand on Thea’s back, he guides her toward the restaurant.

Robert shoots me a tortured glance. “I think I missed something growing up with only sisters.”

I laugh and exit the car, meeting him on the other side. My arm tucked in his, we stroll sedately toward the entrance. On the threshold, Robert bends down to whisper in my ear, “I forgot to ask—how are you feeling today?”

Heat pushes into my cheeks and I duck my head. We had sex last night for the first time since last weekend’s chaos. A week of steadily building tension, and a man hellbent on discovering what made me fall apart… It was a very successful evening.

“Fantastic,” I whisper back.

His arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me close. A soft kiss presses to my head and the oddest feeling drops through me. Warm and soft.

When I realize we’ve stopped walking, I look up, a silly smile still stuck on my face. Alex looks briefly shocked but recovers quickly, standing to shake Robert’s hand. Thea stands too, and the four of us do the awkward handshake and hug dance.

Lunch is perfect. Wine, laughter, and good food. Despite their differences in character, Alex and Robert seem to hit it off.

I won’t actually know my brother’s thoughts until later, as he’s very good at playing social roles. But he makes a special effort to put Robert at ease, which in turns puts me at ease.

Thea is more animated than I’ve ever seen her, chatting easily about the remodel on the house and the success of Hemlock. At a few points in the meal, though, I catch her looking at me oddly. Almost sadly. The expression is always masked before I can address it.

The looks bother me, but I don’t know her well enough to pry. I reason to myself that she might be thinking of something unrelated. Perhaps the recent death of her mentor, a lovely society matron named Margaret White.

“I can’t believe it’s almost four thirty,” Alex says into a pocket of companionable silence. He glances at Thea with a sly grin. “We’d better head out.”

“Are you staying up here tonight?” I ask.

He shakes his head, eyes twinkling. “We still have unpacking to do.”

At Thea’s blush, I say, “Gross!”

Alex laughs, unaffected, and waves at the server for the check. Having never quite overcome her awe of serving the owner, the young woman stammers out her closing platitudes. We all listen, smiling, and Alex hands back the bill.

The waitress opens the slim leather folio, then slaps it back closed. When her eyes lift to us, they show white around the edges.

“D-do you want change?” she squeaks.

“Nope,” says Alex, already standing.

The rest of us follow suit. We file out of the restaurant to the valet. After another dance of farewells—not so awkward this time—Robert and I watch them drive away in a horrendous, ancient Saab. I shake my head fondly while Robert scratches his in confusion.

“Don’t ask,” I say, laughing.

He chuckles and holds me close. I melt into him. It feels easy. Comfortable. Why did I discourage his casual touches before?

He asks teasingly, “Are you going to tell me what Alex did to make our waitress piss herself?”

I grin. “He left her a four-hundred-dollar tip.”

Robert’s brows go up and he whistles softly. “That’s… well, I’m impressed.” He shakes his head and kisses me on the cheek. “Thank you for bringing me today, Candace. I know it was a big step for you. I’m honored.”

I blink at him, a little unsettled by how easily he identified my fear. Thankfully, the car arrives before I have to decide on a response. He holds my hand the entire drive home, tracing circles on my palm with his thumb. And I like it.

When we reach my house, we lounge on the couch for a while, then hike down to the beach. We stroll along the waterline hand in hand. We share private smiles and soft kisses, surrounded by idyllic beauty.

As the sun begins to set, we head back to the house. Without speaking, I take him by the hand and guide him into the master bathroom. I turn on the shower, then face him. I undress slowly, shaking my head when he tries to help. By the time I’m naked, the heat in his eyes burns me from three feet away. His clothes are shed with alacrity.

He takes me against the shower wall, my legs locked around him, my arms trapped over my head by one of his hands. It feels amazing to be held this way, to give up control.

“I’m close,” he whispers. “Are you?”

I promised him I wouldn’t lie, but can’t admit the truth. “Don’t stop,” I gasp.

He groans, thrusting harder. I close my eyes, concentrating on the sensations. I can do this. But I know it’s no use—climax lingers behind slippery fog.

Then, out of the blue, a memory punches me. It’s so vivid, so carnal, that I instantly peak, whimpering and bucking as Robert whispers encouragement in my ear. Seconds later, he shudders and groans.

We wash each other gently and dry off the same way. Once dressed, I make us a light dinner of grilled chicken and salad. If he notices my emotional withdrawal since the shower, he doesn’t comment.

I do my best to stay upbeat and responsive. I don’t flinch when he touches me. I return his kisses with all the passion I can muster. After cleaning up, we settle on the couch to watch a movie. He browses the guide while I make popcorn.

I hear Sebastian’s voice on the television and freeze.

Robert quickly changes the channel.