“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Sarah chirps the minute I walk through the front entry. “Finally.”

“Don't start with me,” I snap. “Not tonight.”

I walk straight past her and down the hallway to my room at the back of the house. It was my childhood bedroom, and even after I moved out, my mother left it the same way it was the day I left. Frankly, I'm surprised Sarah hasn’t turned it into a cat sanctuary or anything by now.

I walk in and drop my bag on the bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I start to take off my shoes. I'm exhausted and all I want is a shower and to go to sleep.

Sarah storms into the room, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Where the heck have you been?” she asks. “Do you even know what time it is?”

“Are you my keeper now?”

“I've been waiting up for you,” she seethes.

“Something you didn't need to do,” I say. “I'm a grown woman, you know.”

“Technically, maybe, but you've got the maturity of a teenager.”

I stare at her for a long moment. “Give me a freaking break, Sarah.”

“It's almost four in the morning,” she says.

“Yeah? And?” I shoot back. “I didn't know I was on a curfew.”

“It's just being considerate,” she says. “You told me you'd be here earlier.”

“Read the text again,” I say. “I told you I'd be here tonight. I never said what time.”

I drop my shoes and socks beside my bed and start rooting around in my bag for my pajamas. Sarah rolls her eyes and snorts in disapproval.

“Does your family mean so little to you that –”

“Shut up and get out of my room, Sarah! I'm not in the mood to do this tonight.”

“Girls.”

We both turn to find our mother standing in the doorway. Her hair is a mess, her eyes are glassy, and her nightshirt is rumpled – we'd obviously woken her up. Sarah, of course, runs right over and takes her hand.

“Mom, what are you doing out of bed?” she simpers.

“It's pretty hard to sleep with the two of you screaming like a couple of banshees in here,” Mom grumbles.

“Sorry we woke you,” I say. “I just want to take a shower and go to bed.”

“Then take a shower and go to bed,” she replies.

“I would if the golden girl here would leave me the hell alone,” I growl.

“Sasha,” my mother admonishes me.

Sarah turns to me, fury in her eyes. “Maybe if you didn't behave like a spoiled little brat –”

“Sarah,” my mother cuts her off. “Your sister is a grown woman. She is more than capable of making her own decisions. She doesn't need your supervision. All that matters is that she's here with us now. So, mind your business and leave her be. Ok?”

Our mother walks over and gives me a kiss on the cheek, before turning to do the same to Sarah. She then disappears back down the hall without another word. Frankly, I'm a bit surprised that we didn't get more of a lecture. But, I'm grateful for the reprieve.

Sarah glowers at me for a second before stomping out of my room, slamming the door shut behind her.

“Finally,” I mutter. “Peace at last.”

I strip down the rest of the way before heading into the bathroom. Reaching into the shower, I turn on the water and wait for it to get warm – I can't help but notice immediately that the water pressure isn't nearly as high as at Miles' place. When the steam begins to billow out of the shower, I pull back the curtain and step into the tub – and a pretty weak stream of water. At least it's warmish, I guess.

I sigh as I stand beneath the water, trying to wash away my guilt over conning Miles and his family the way I did. I'm not going to lie – it was nice to live the pampered life for a couple of days.

I enjoyed living that lifestyle –a little too much.

More than just guilt, I also feel a stinging sense of loss. I know I'll never see Miles again. I could barely bring myself to look him in the eye. Not after what I did – and then what we just did. I'm not the kind of girl who sleeps around – regardless of what my sister might think. I'm not a one-night stand kind of girl. I never have been, and I never will be. But, when I was with Miles earlier, it just felt so good – so right.

In fact, I can't think of a single man I've ever had this kind of primal, visceral reaction to.

The second our lips touched, my body reacted on its own. I had to have him inside me.

I’m pretty sure I like Miles – a lot. Despite our completely opposite personalities, I felt like a strong connection was being forged between us. I know he felt it too. It was real. It was powerful. And it scared the living shit out of me.

My feelings for Miles are completely illogical. I barely even know the guy. Not really. Sure, we've swapped some stories and shared a few moments together, but nothing on a deep, meaningful level. Well, besides what we just did in the SUV.

No, it's better if I cut all ties right now. If I give in to those cravings and impulses – I'm only setting myself up for a world of hurt. And I don't want that. Not at all.

I finish up my shower – still lamenting that it’s not as amazing as the one in Miles' house – and towel off. After that, I slip into my usual pajamas – yoga shorts and a tank top – then crawl into bed, pulling the covers up around me and sinking into the pillows.

I can't help but compare this bed to the one I slept in at Miles' place – and it doesn't even come close to measuring up. I sigh and roll over, trying to shut my mind off and stop myself from obsessing over a life I'm never going to have.

I have a roof over my head, food in my belly, and a bed to lay my head down on at night.

That should be enough. It is enough.

“Well, look who's finally up,” my sister grumbles. “I guess we should be thankful you didn't sleep the entire day away.”

“Sarah, really?” my mom asks in a chiding tone. “Is that necessary?”

I shoot my sister the finger – pretty much my default reaction when dealing with her – and head for the coffee pot, pouring myself a cup of the rich, aromatic brew. That's one thing we don't skimp on around here if we can help it. Our coffee is every bit as luxurious and decadent as the coffee served at the Churchill mansion, so I comfort myself with that fact as I sit down at the kitchen table across from Mom, who is silently reading a magazine.

Sarah seems to be fixing lunch. “I suppose you'll want something to eat?” she asks begrudgingly.

“No, I'm fine, thanks,” I say, taking a long sip of my coffee.

“I'm so glad you’re home, Sasha,” my mom says. “Sorry if I was grumpy last night.”

“You mean this morning,” Sarah mutters.

I roll my eyes and take another drink. “It's nice to see you too, Mom.”

I glance at the clock and see that it's noon –earlier than I thought I'd be up, honestly. It had been a late night – and a mentally and physically exhausting one. My body aches in places I don't ever recall it aching before and it's not entirely unpleasant. At least, the memories of how I got this sore are not.

Thinking of Miles causes a renewed wave of guilt and sadness to crash over me. I quickly push those thoughts away and focus on the mug in my hand. Sarah walks over and drops a plate down in front of me, the loud and unexpected clang making me jump.

“Oops,” she sneers. “It slipped.”

Right. I'm sure it did. Sarah turns and gingerly sets a plate down in front of our mother before sitting down with her own. Ham sandwiches and potato chips – standard lunchtime fare at the Gates house. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but I've had so many damn ham sandwiches over the years, I'm pretty tired of them. Really tired, actually.

My mother sets her magazine down with a smile and picks up half of her sandwich and takes a bite. I'm about to push my plate away and remind my sister that I was fine with coffee but end up deciding to bite back my words. My younger sibling is chewing on a bite, glaring at me with contempt burning in her eyes. The last thing I want to do is bring any more drama to the table. I really don't want the next few days to turn into one long, annoying argument.

“Thanks, sis,” I say as I pick up half the damn sandwich and take a bite.

Sarah nods but says nothing. She’s obviously still pissed that I came in after four this morning because she's that much of a control freak. Our mother seems completely oblivious to Sarah’s foul mood as she munches away happily on her sandwich, her gaze flitting back and forth between the two of us.

“This is really nice,” Mom says. “Having both my girls at the table with me again, sharing a meal. I've really missed this, Sasha.”

I can see my sister fighting herself to keep from saying something mean or snarky.

“Yeah,” I say. “It's nice.”

“How is life in L.A., dear?” my mother asks.

Part of me resents her for trying to play the perfect mother after spending so many years acting like the total opposite. It almost feels like she's trying to wash away with sins of her past by acting like June Cleaver or some bullshit. Yeah, it doesn't work that way. Not for me. I may have forgiven her but forgetting is something I can't seem to do. Not yet, at least.

I know, on some level, that she’s trying to redeem herself and be a good mother. I should be able to let go of the past and focus on the here and now. I know she’s trying really hard to reach out and reconnect with me.

It's not that easy, though. There are a lot of issues and resentment that I need to work through before I’ll be able to say that I'm a hundred percent okay with her.

“It's great,” I say. “Working a lot –”

“Still working at that bar?” Sarah asks.

“I also work at a library,” I say.

“Right. Yeah. A library,” My little sister says, rolling her eyes with disdain. “And how's your writing career going?”

Knocking my writing is one of Sarah's favorite pastimes. She's not the creative type and looks down on anyone who is. She believes in having a practical career path – one that has you punching the clock and working a nine-to-five job. She is a firm believer in the rat race and the steady paycheck that comes along with it.

Sarah automatically criticizes everything and everyone that doesn't conform to her idea of how the world should be. She looks down on people – like me – who can't tolerate the corporate grind and want off the never ending, run-but-always-stay-in-the-same-damn-place treadmill.

Frankly, I couldn't live the drab, passionless existence my sister does. It kills my soul a little bit just to think about it. I don't know how she freaking does it. The obvious answer, of course, is that she simply doesn't have a soul.

“It's going fine, thanks for asking,” I say.

“Funny, I haven't seen you top the bestseller list anytime recently,” she cracks.

“Sarah,” my mother says.

“Hey, how's your love life, sis?” I ask. “Still involved with your pillow? Or have you moved into a more meaningful relationship with something that requires batteries?”

“Sasha,” my mother snaps. “Do we really have to do this? Can't we have a pleasant weekend where you girls aren't at each other's throats?”

I shrug. “Ask her.”

Sarah chews on her sandwich, glaring at me with contempt in her eyes. I send it right back. She seems even more on edge than normal. Which, given is saying a hell of a lot.

“Speaking of meaningful relationships,” Sarah says. “Who dropped you off this morning? Was it your mysterious boyfriend? Or some guy you prostituted yourself to for a ride home.”

“Were you spying on me?” I hiss.

“No, I was up waiting for you and I saw you get out of a dark SUV – after it was parked out front for a really long time. Gee, I wonder what you were doing in there.”

“Yeah, so you were spying on me,” I say. “Don't you think that's a little creepy? Have you tried Tinder? I really think getting laid would do you a world of good, Sarah. Have you thought of trying Tinder?”

“Unlike you, I don't have to be a tramp to feel fulfilled!” she practically shrieks.

My mother ignores her, turning to me with a knowing smile on her face. “Your boyfriend dropped you off? Here? That's wonderful,” she beams, completely overlooking Sarah's insult. “I thought he was in Los Angeles?”

I almost choke on the bit of sandwich in my mouth but manage to swallow it down. “Don't sound so surprised, Mom,” I say. “And he's from the area. Originally. We just happened to meet in L.A.”

“We actually have a bet going about whether or not your boyfriend is real, or a character from one of your unpublished books.”

“Sarah, that's not true and you know it,” my mother says. “Stop antagonizing your older sister.”

It's all I can do to keep myself from reaching across the table and punching Sarah in the mouth. I manage to contain the impulse – just barely. The one thing Sarah has always done incredibly well is get under my skin and push my buttons. It feels like it’s totally instinctive for her. The girl always knows just how to piss me off.

“It's fine, Mom,” I say. “It's not like she has anything worthwhile going on in her life.”

“At least I'm not selling myself for a ride from the airport.”

“You couldn't whore yourself out for a ride to the end of the block. Case in point, you’re twenty-one and never been kissed,” I snap back.

“But I have been kissed,” Sarah whines.

It's a cheap shot and I know it. But, at the moment, all I care about is demonstrating that I can get under her skin just as much as she can get under mine.

“Pretty sure a peck on the cheek in fifth grade doesn't count as a kiss,” I say. “Nor does kissing that pillow you grind every night, either.”

“Sasha!” Sarah cries and I know I scored a direct hit.

Our mom sighs and shakes her head. “Are the two of you ever going to grow out of this?” she asks. “Can't we just have one holiday where we’re peaceful and kind to each other?”

My scathing reply dies in my throat as I focus on my mom. She looks tired. Intellectually, I know nothing is horribly wrong with her. She isn’t not dying. But, when she looks this tired and frankly, so old, it dredges up feelings of compassion and guilt I'd rather not feel. I give my mom a small smile and try to defuse the situation, rather than escalate it for a change.

“She started it,” I say.

“I didn’t start –”

Sarah realizes she’s walked herself into a trap, and pauses. The joke is meant to lighten the mood, and it seems to work as the three of us burst into laughter. It's a loud, good-hearted belly laugh – I can't remember the last time the three of us laughed this much around the table.

Eventually, our laughter dies down, and my mother slowly turns her eyes to me once more.

“I want to meet him, Sasha,” she says. “This mystery man of yours. Since he lives in the area, I want you to bring him over for dinner.”

“Mom, I don't think –”

“Nonsense,” she cuts me off. “If he can drop you off in the middle of the night, I'm sure he can spare a couple of hours to meet us.”

“He has to spend Thanksgiving with his own family, you know,” I say.

“Then don't bring him over on Thanksgiving,” my mother says. “Bring him over for dinner another time.”

I shoot a withering glance over at my sister, just waiting for her to chime in with her usual snarky commentary. Surprisingly, she remains quiet – but I know she's just biding her time to say something sarcastic or hurtful.

“I don't know, Mom,” I say.

“I do,” she replies forcefully. “I want to meet your boyfriend. I mean, after all, who knows how many more opportunities I’ll have to meet him.”

Here we go again. When she's not getting her way, she doesn't hesitate to use the, “I may be dying card,” and I've been silently wondering when we'd reach this portion of our program. It's like an automatic reflex with her at this point.

I look her in the face and sigh loudly. Sarah looks at me smugly, a condescending smile spreading across her face. She's obviously making a Herculean effort to keep her snark in check.

“Yes, Sasha,” Sarah chirps brightly. “Why not invite your sweetie over for dinner. Say – tonight?”

“I don't know if he'll be able to make it tonight,” I explain.

“Gee, what a surprise,” Sarah says with a snide chuckle. “No really, I’m shocked.”

“Well, you could at least call and ask him,” my mother says. “If he can't, then we can arrange it for another night. I'm not going to let you leave until I meet your boyfriend, Sasha. You're my daughter. I want to know more about your life – including who you're dating.”

I fight to keep from rolling my eyes. Her interest in my life is belated – to say the least. But when my mother is determined to find something out, she typically will. She's relentless. Which means, I need to find a boyfriend really quick. If they find out I lied about that, I'm never going to hear the end of it – especially from Sarah. And I can't stomach the thought of that.

My mind is spinning at a million miles an hour as I contemplate my situation. There are a million questions and zero answers at the moment. All I know is that I need to come up with a boyfriend as soon as possible just to keep them both off my back. And that's when the idea hits me.

I sigh, a bottomless pit of anxiety opening up in my stomach as I realize what I have to do.