Chapter 1

Mom’s getting married today. Again. This will be husband number three. The rehearsal dinner last night was the second time I’d met the husband-to-be, Paul, and his son.

And let me just say: I don’t get it. The man is beautiful. I mean, we’re talking godlike gorgeous. He’s blond, has a chiseled-jaw, straight nose, and is Viking kind of handsome. He keeps his hair short and there’s some gray at the edges of his temple, but he’s the kind of mid-forties that women complain about—how it’s not fair that men get better looking as they age.

His son is a mini-me version of him, but I barely even looked at the guy. Frankly, he’s just gotta be a douchebag who screws everything that moves being that good looking at twenty-four years old, right? Plus he’s a doctor. Well, a doctor in training, anyway. On his dad, the gorgeousness has had a chance to age and settle into some fabulous grooves like a fine wine. Much more attractive.

And the man is marrying my mother.

Um. What?

My mother is also in her forties. But where Mr. Winters wears his age like an aforementioned god, Mom wears it like… hmm, how shall we put this? Let’s just say that my Mom’s an aging beauty queen who’s three plastic surgery attempts did little more than twist and pull her leathery, tanning-bed-worshipping ass into a simulacrum of a slightly melted Barbie-doll on meth?

Okay, so she doesn’t do meth.

Coke is her drug of choice.

She’s never been able to hold down an actual job because of it.

See what I’m talking about?

She’s a real winner.

Mr. Winters is the head of an oncology department of a prestigious Boston hospital. So again, what on earth is he doing with Mommy dearest?

“What did you do to that dress?” Mom asks, coming into my dressing room at the church. I know, a church. And she’s wearing white. The ironies of this day will never cease.

I look her up and down. She’s managed to squeeze herself into a lovely Vera Wang dress—she mentioned that it was actual Vera Wang about ten thousand times last night. Completely ignoring the fact that she managed to get an actual Vera Wang because of Mr. Winter’s wealth or maybe Grandpa’s influence. It had nothing to do with anything she did. Being one of the oldest families in Boston does still come with some privileges, even if we’re almost broke.

Well, not anymore that Mom’s marrying Mr. Winters. He’s handsome and wealthy.

Again. What is he doing with Mom?

“I just had it altered a little so it fits better.” I look at Mom in the mirror.

Mom’s eyes narrow. “It fit just the way it was supposed to.”

My brows furrow. “But it was baggy and sagged in the stomach.” Not to mention the high collar that almost choked me.

Mom looks at me like, and?

“So I went and got it tailored to fit.”

She lets out a huff of frustration. “The point of a bridesmaid dress is to be ugly so you don’t upstage the bride. God, don’t you know anything? That’s it,” she declares, throwing her hands up in the air. “There’s no way you can be my maid of honor looking like that. It’s bad enough that I have a nineteen year old daughter.” She shakes her head. “I still say you should have been the fucking flower girl. Anyway. Marla will have to take your place and you can stand at the end of the line.”

I look down at the dress. “It’s still not exactly…” I pause, momentarily at a loss for words, “flattering.”

She chose the most unattractive shade of orange I’ve ever seen, sure to clash with any person’s skin tone, no matter your ethnicity. I’ve gone as natural as possible with my makeup and worn my dark brown hair in an updo, but you just can’t ignore the ugly ass frock covering my body.

Mom clucks her tongue at me. “This is my special day, Sarah Elizabeth, so don’t even start with me.”

I sigh and back down. “Of course, Mom. Whatever you want.” The path of least resistance. I know from long experience it’s the easiest way to approach conflict with Mom.

“Now, go get all the other girls together and tell Marla she’s my new maid of honor. Exchange your flowers for hers and make everyone get in their places.”

I head out.

Within twenty minutes, me and twelve—yes twelve—other bridesmaids, along with corresponding groomsmen are all corralled in the foyer of the church. Or do you call them brides-matrons at this point, considering they’re all Mom’s friends and most of them have been divorced at least once, some several times like Mom?

Only a couple others had the same idea I did and got the gowns altered. I mean, we all look ridiculous, but the rest of them look absolutely atrocious in the shiny orange sherbet fabric covering their bodies.

“Ready for this?” asks Dominick, my soon to be brother-in-law. He holds out his arm and flashes a brilliant smile at me, golden hair gleaming in the light pouring in from the high, stained glass window. He wears his hair longer than his dad, in a shaggy Cali surfer dude style that sweeps down over his forehead.

Man, this guy is just too slick. I smile back at him, but you know that overused saying, a person smiles but it doesn’t reach their eyes? Yeah, my smile is one of those kinds. Patented, pasted on, and perfectly perfunctory. The kind I always use at these kinds of engagements that I get dragged to occasionally. Mostly because of Grandpa’s ‘old money’ name or Mom’s desperation to still be included in important circles. Having a daughter that she’s ostensibly chaperoning and introducing to Boston society helps cover up some of the stink of being a desperate thrice used-up trophy wife.

But here Mom is, getting to live out her glory days once again. Wife once more, even if her husband is more the trophy than her now. Especially since Mr. Winters actually has a job in addition to being so dang pretty.

The organ music starts up.

“Sorry, I’m not the maid of honor anymore.” I ignore Dominick’s proffered arm and point to Marla, a loud woman with hair dyed a brassy red who I suspect Mom keeps around as a best friend because she makes Mom look comparatively prettier and thinner. “That’s the woman you’re escorting now. Have fun.” My smile gets a touch more genuine at the flash of dismay that crosses Dominick’s face as the groomsmen line up. I head toward an older gentleman at the end of the queue.

The procession starts as soon as Mom makes an appearance a few minutes later. I walk down the aisle, surprised at how packed the church is on both sides. It’s easy to think that Mom’s alienated everyone who she’s ever met. But when I get to the front pew and see Grandpa smiling not at Mom, but me, I remember who all these people are really here for.

Grandpa might not have the fortune he once had, but he’s still a wealthy man. The fact that he cut off his daughter is a well-kept secret, though apparently Mom’s husband-to-be is aware.

How do I know that little tid-bit?

Well, I miiiiiight have taken him aside last night after he sat right beside Mom as she drank flute after flute of champagne all through dinner, his gaze nothing but benevolent as he looked fondly at her.

He excused himself to the bathroom and I followed a few minutes later.

“You know she doesn’t have money?” I asked right after he came out of the bathroom. The hallway was narrow and dark, off the kitchens and not well traveled.

“Excuse me?” he asked, eyebrows arching in surprise. He stood his ground, though, and didn’t brush me off.

I immediately felt like a small child despite my three-inch heels. “Um. My Mom. She doesn’t— I mean…” I gulped, looking down at the floor before gathering my courage to gaze back up at the towering blond Viking god-man. He is the handsomest man I’ve ever. “There’s no money. If that’s why you’re marrying her. Grandpa isn’t even that rich anymore. And he cut us off anyway. So if that’s why you’re doing it.” My whole body was trembling at this point. Oh God, I just needed to get this out and then I could go hide in the coat closet for the rest of the night. “…you shouldn’t. Because you know. There’s none. No m-money.” And with that last stumble of words I turned on my pointy little heels and fled.

And now, here I was at the front of the church. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I finally lift my eyes and there he is.

The Viking god in all his spectacular glory. His barrel chest looks barely constrained in his tuxedo.

I expect his gaze to be focused past me and on my mother. His blushing bride who’s ostensibly standing at the back of the church, about to come walking down the aisle toward him.

But no. His eyes are zeroed in directly on me.

It’s just for a few seconds. A moment where our gazes lock. And hold.

I’m walking down the center aisle of a church, holding flowers.

A man stands there awaiting me. A glint in his eye just for me. Or so it feels.

And then the groomsman holding my arm directs me away to the side and the connection is lost.

It takes everything in me but I don’t look over my shoulder. It would be too desperate.

And wrong.

God, what am I doing? This is my mother’s wedding! And I’m hoping that the groom is making eyes at me? A man twice my age. A man that my mother is marrying?

I squeeze my eyes shut and give my head a little shake right after I take my position at the end of the bridesmaid line. Oh my gosh, is it finally happening? I’ve always been terrified that I was doomed to be screwed up after my upbringing with an unstable, drunk and occasional (when she could afford it) cokehead for a mom. Not to mention an absentee dad who took off when I was five because of my aforementioned batshit Mom.

I was the one trying to balance the budget at ten years old. You know, back when we had money before Mom blew straight through it on blowout bashes for her and her friends in the Caribbean.

Grandpa cut us off when I was fourteen, but he made sure I was in the room for the discussion because he wasn’t an idiot. And he didn’t cut us off completely. He continued paying via a grocery app to deliver groceries—stuff that Mom couldn’t return in order to get money for blow. I could come to him if I needed clothes. He paid for Mom to go to rehab a few times. It might stick for a month or two.

But he always stopped short of letting me come live with him. I think he was always conscious of how it would look.

Did that hurt? Sure.

But whatever.

I’m not screwed up by it all.

I’m surviving just fine. I’m going to a great college.

Okay, so I have to live at home and I’m in debt up to my eyeballs in school loans, but I’m not going to get mired down by all my childhood crap.

I’m rising above.

I sneak another look at my mom’s new husband.

God, why does he have to be that good looking?

That thick corded neck leading to his wide jaw. I’m sure he must’ve shaved this morning, but there’s just the barest hint of stubble there. His beard must come in darker than the hair on his head to make such a shadow. Come to think of it, every time I’ve seen him, he always has that shadow on his face. A little shudder works its way down my body at the thought. It just screams such masculinity and…virility.

My cheeks heat at the thought and all sorts of flashing images that accompany it. His broad chest and the dusting of hair that no doubt coats it. I can’t help imagining him crouched over a woman, lowering his body over her. Thrusting—

I jerk my eyes away from Mr. Winters. Only for them to snag on the man standing right beside him.

Dominick.

Maybe my eyes are caught because he’s looking right at me. He’s just blatantly out and out staring.

The easy-going smile he had in the lobby of the church is gone. There’s a different quality or…intensity, if that’s the right word, to the way his lips curl up as he watches me watch him. His eyes drop down ever so slightly.

Wait, is he—

He so is. He’s ogling my cleavage. I mean, there’s not a lot of it with this dress. Or any dress, to be honest. I was flat as a board forever and only just in the last couple years finally developed small little B-cup breasts. But I was aware that the gown was for my mother’s wedding, so I didn’t bother wearing the push-up bra I often wear to enhance my small assets.

But Dominick just stares at my dipping neckline like it can reveal all the mysteries of the universe. Even though he’s about to be my stepbrother for god’s sake.

Like you weren’t just eyeing your stepfather like a hungry ham shank?

Dominick’s mouth curls up even higher.

Oh my God, what is going on? A month ago, I was doing so good at the being-a-normal-girl thing and not getting sucked into Mom’s vortex of crazy. I jerk my gaze away from both Dominick and his father and stare at the floor. There. That’s nice and safe.

I examine the fascinating world of carpet fibers for the rest of the wedding ceremony. And I do not, do not listen to my mother’s cringeworthy ooey gooey vows that she wrote herself about how Mr. Winters is her true, true soulmate and she can’t live without him.

Is that as opposed to Henry, her last husband who was only her true soulmate—with just a single ‘true,’ aka, not her real as in for realsies for realsies soul mate. In fact, I bet if I play back the video of that ceremony that’s on the shelf somewhere, these vows Mom supposedly wrote for today will sound strikingly similar to the ones she did for that wedding. And all of it she probably copied from some wedding ceremony she saw after googling vows online.

My mom does the appearance of sincerity so well.

Gah, I do not need all of this negativity in my brain or my life. Mom is a fake. I know this. Me stewing in her hypocrisy and grossness does nothing but make me feel gross and steeped in bad juju.

But there was no way I could skip the wedding. My participation was required by all involved. I get to live rent free in Boston.

So stop with the bitching, Sarah.

I just have to whisper that to myself about fifty-three more times and voila, the ceremony’s over. Look at that. The power of positive thinking.

Glass half full. That’s totally going to be my outlook from now on. And if all else fails, maybe next semester I’ll be able to afford the dorms?

* * *

Three hours later,my teeth are aching from all the forced smiling, my head is spinning, my feet are killing me in these heels, and repeating my internal mantra about glass half full is losing its effect.

Worst of all?

Somebody spiked the punch.

At a wedding.

How juvenile is that?

I specifically talked to the caterer about having non-alcoholic punch for the, I don’t know, eight people at this wedding of three hundred who were interested in having a nice beverage not chock-full of vodka or Mom’s second best friend, Jack Daniels.

“Embrace the things you cannot control,” I whisper, grabbing onto the wall. Because inspirational sayings always help when you’re seeing double and your stomach feels like it’s about to leap into your throat, right?

“Hey sis,” a voice says and then Mr. Winters is suddenly in front of me. I frown. He looks wrong.

I squint. “Your face isn’t right. Too smooth.” I reach up and touch his head. “And your hair’s long.”

He laughs. “It’s Dominick, not Paul.”

“Paul?”

“Whoa.” He pulls back from me. “Somebody has been sampling the punch. Hello vodka.”

“No!” I grab his arm in alarm. “I don’t drink.” I shake my head vehemently. “Never. It’s evil. Evil stuff. Never. Never ever ever.”

“Okay. Got it. Whoa, careful there!” He grabs me by the waist when I topple forward. I was shaking my head so hard I lost my balance.

“Oh. Sorry.” I put my hands against his chest as I right myself and stand up straight again.

“It’s okay.” He moves his grip from my waist to my shoulders now that I’m steadier. “I’m here to get you for the Father-Daughter Dance. Do you think you’re up for that or do you just want to turn in? I can take you back to the house now if you want.”

I stare up at him. The ballroom is dark, lit only by lanterns and twinkly lights overhead. Everything is so nice and swirly. “You’re really pretty,” I confess, reaching up to touch his smooth cheek. No shadow of a beard there. “And sweet. I’m sorry I thought you were a douchebag.”

His bark of laughter is so loud it makes me jump. But it’s a nice sound too. “Good to know. Here, let’s get you to Dad.”

I nod and sink against him as he puts a hand to my back and leads me across the ballroom floor.

His father is standing by the bar chatting with the bartender as we approach. I freeze up just seeing him.

“Wait.” My feet scrabble against the floor as I resist Dominick’s forward motion. He finally stops too. I look up into his face, so like his father’s, but not at the same time.

“He intim— inmimi—” I break off in frustration. My tongue’s not working right. “’Milimat—” I open my mouth and stretch my tongue to try to make it work better.

“Intimidates you?” Dominick supplies.

“Yes! That.” I point at him and nod. “Exactly.”

“Don’t worry,” Dominick starts moving us toward his father again. “He won’t bite.” Then he leans in and whispers, “Unless you ask him to.”

I whip my head around. “What?”

But we’re already to Mr. Winters.

“Sarah, so good to see you finally.” Mr. Winters takes my hand as Dominick delivers it over to him. I look back but Dominick almost immediately disappears into the crowd. My mouth dries at his quick exit.

I’m all alone. With Mr. Winters. Paul. His first name pings like a bell through my head.

Though of course we’re far from alone. There are three hundred of Mr. Winters’s, my mother’s, and Grandfather’s closest friends and associates all around us.

So why do I feel like Mr. Winters is looking at me like I’m the only woman in the room?

Um, girlish fantasies, an overactive imagination, and unresolved daddy issues much?

I groan internally even as I paste on a smile and pull my hand back.

“Where’s Mom?” I look around.

“I’m not sure.” Mr. Winters doesn’t take his eyes off me to search the crowd for Mom, though. His focus stays zeroed in on me. “Around somewhere I’m sure. She was excited about this event. She seemed quite motivated to make it the largest to-do of the social calendar this season.” Then he leans in, his eyebrows furrowed in understanding, “Though she may have gotten overwhelmed by it and be stalled out drunk in one of the side rooms somewhere.”

His words startle me. I don’t get the feeling he says it maliciously. Merely that he’s sharing a fact he knows I understand well.

“So…why?” I abandon all attempts at social niceties. I drop the sweet smile and take up last night’s query. “Why did you do all this? Why marry her?”

The intimidation I felt last night and even moments before is absent. Liquid courage, that’s what they call it, right? I hate the lack of control I have over my faculties right now, hate that I imbibed alcohol when I swore on my life I’d never touch a drop of the stuff because of what it’s done to Mom—but hey, embrace every path life takes you on, right?

And I really want an answer to this question.

Mr. Winters just reaches out and takes my hand. A zing runs through me from the tips of my fingers and all throughout my body. It’s the first time we’ve ever touched. My eyes shoot up to his.

They’re so green. Bright. Fathomless.

Then he nods beyond me. “It’s important to your grandfather that you and I get along.”

I look behind me and see Grandpa watching the two of us. He nods to me, then to Mr. Winters.

“Time for the Father-Daughter Dance,” Mr. Winters says.

I blink, confused even as my hand tingles at the continued contact of his hand on mine as he draws me out through the dancing couples to the middle of the dance floor.

Was that an answer to my question?

Did he marry Mom because of Grandpa? Because even though Mom’s broke and a disgrace, Grandpa still has power, influence, and prestige? He even has influence among several important lobbies in Washington, from what I understand.

I coudn’t care less about politics. I mean, I care as much as the normal concerned citizen. You know, I watch the news and my Facebook feed and am generally as disgusted with the whole process as everyone else. I don’t know and I don’t want to know the specifics of what Grandpa does.

I look back at Grandpa before we’re swallowed up in the couples on the dance floor.

“Don’t worry about that,” Mr. Winters says. “Just dance with me.”

This seems like a good idea, especially since as he puts a hand on my waist, lifts my right hand in the air, and we start swaying back and forth, the world starts spinning topsy-turvy again. I grab hold of his lapel at first to try to calm my seesawing stomach before he shakes his head with a gentle laugh. “Sarah, have you ever danced with a man before?”

I’m about to respond that, ‘Of course I have.’ But then I realize that no, the only time I ever danced with anyone like this was at my high school prom. And Jason was most definitely a boy and not a man. He was my first and only real boyfriend—and believe me, one was enough to put me off them for the rest of high school. They spiked the punch at prom too but at least then I knew to be on the lookout for it and only drank from a bottled water I’d brought with me. Jason proceeded to get sloshed and I spent the night pushing off his handsy, drunken advances.

Such fun.

“No, I haven’t.” I shake my head.

“Good.” Mr. Winters grins at me and for a second he looks more wolf than Viking god.

I blink. What does that mean? This man is my Mom’s new husband. We’re dancing a father-daughter dance. What is going on? I’m so confused. The world is so spinny.

Mr. Winters takes my other hand and places it on his broad shoulder. I stumble, which causes me to lean in to his chest.

He smells sooooooooo good. The cool, crisp smell of his cologne mixed with him and God, his chest just radiates heat.

My head feels heavy, so I lay it down. The material of his tuxedo is soft against my cheek.

He laughs and I feel the deep rumble of it through his chest. And his heartbeat. It’s so strong and steady. I like that.

And he’s warm. Did I mention that? He’s really warm.

I yawn. The music feels like it’s coming through water, a background noise to his heartbeat drumming out. Percussion. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump—

Back and forth swaying.

“I think it’s time for Cinderella to get to sleep.” I hear the rumbled whisper like I’m in a dream. It’s such a nice dream.

Until the sourness in my stomach twists and turns in on itself.

I grab at my middle with both hands. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Aha,” Mr. Winters says, one hand still on my waist. “That definitely means an end to the ball.”

I blink and look around me, rousing out of my foggy state. Oh God, I feel miserable and I’m in a room of veritable strangers. None of these people are my friends.

The ugly truth?

I don’t have any friends. Lots of acquaintances. No real friends.

I’m alone in the world.

I stumble away from Mr. Winters toward what I hope is the edge of the dance floor.

Uber.

Yeah. That’s what I need.

Get an Uber.

Just need phone.

I reach for my pocket.

Except this dress doesn’t have any pockets. Crap. Stupid dress.

I hate dresses. I never wear them.

How do I get Uber without my phone?

Why do the lights keep spinning? I sway on my feet, still clutching at my stomach as I take another stumbling step forward through the crowd.

“Whoa, Cinderella.” Strong arms come around me from behind.

Warmth. Such lovely warmth at my back. His deep rumbly voice is there again and immediately the anxious stress and confusion I felt just moments ago melts away.

“Where do you think you’re going? Why don’t you let Dominick and I help you get home?”

“But—” I look back. Dominick stands behind his father. They have mirrored looks of concern on their chiseled, handsome faces. I look back and forth between them, struck dumb for a moment. But then I remember my objections.

“The party.” I frown. “It’s for you. Just need my phone. An Uber.” I blink and look up into Mr. Winter’s green eyes. “I’ll be f-fine. I always am.”

His eyebrows draw together at that. Immediately I want to shrink away. He looks upset by what I said. Have I disappointed him somehow?

Of course you have, Sarah.You’ve just gotten embarrassingly drunk at the man’s wedding and no doubt you’re making a huge scene right now.

I glance around to see who’s watching us. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking to the floor, completely horrified. Oh God, I really am my mother’s daughter.

“Stop it.” A large hand comes underneath my chin and gently urges my face up. Even in my muddled state, the point of connection where Mr. Winters touches me lights me up inside. “No more of that nonsense. Now, we’re going to get you home safe and sound.”

Dominick nods where he stands beside his father, his face resolute. “I’ve got her purse and wrap. We’re good to go.”

Mr. Winters nods and takes my arm. “Just hold onto me and keep your head high as you can. None of these people matter, but you always keep your head high. You’re a queen. Remember that, sweet girl.”

I swallow hard, but do as he says even as I clutch at his arm like a lifeline. Dominick walks on the other side of me. With the two of them continuing to flank me on either side as we exit the ballroom, shielding me from any accusatory or judging eyes, I do manage to hold my head up. I try to walk as normally as possible and only stumble once. Mr. Winters holds me steady so that by the next step, we’re continuing to glide forward so smoothly I’ll pretend to myself it was hardly noticeable to anyone watching.

And before I know it, we’re outside. The cool air of the night breeze is so welcome on my overheated cheeks. I breathe it in deep, but only manage a couple of breaths before my churning stomach makes me groan and grab at my middle.

“I think I’m gonna—” That’s all I manage to get out before bending over and heaving into the bushes that line the hotel walkway.

Both Dominick and his father immediately spring to action. One of them holds me up and the other gathers my hair and pulls it back from my face.

Another deep heave wracks my body and my body expels even more of the poison. I collapse to my knees. Or would have if Mr. Winters didn’t have most of my weight and guide me down gently to the concrete sidewalk. It’s Dominick holding my hair back, I note miserably before I’m heaving some more.

It’s a good five minutes before it finally seems to be done.

Dominick produces a handkerchief. I hate to ruin it, but at the same time I’m eager to clean up. I wipe my mouth and they help me back to my feet. Mr. Winters pulls me to his body. I have no energy to argue that I must be a mess of makeup and tears. I just collapse against his chest. When he runs his fingers through my hair that’s long fallen out of its loose updo, it feels like heaven.

One of them must have called the car around, because we only have to walk a few steps to a waiting limousine that pulls up on the curb.

I’m so exhausted I only barely question the fact that Mr. Winters slides into the long seat along with Dominick and I.

Oh no, his wedding…!

But he closes the door and it’s obvious he means to go with his son to take me home. Again, the two men flank me on either side.

A Sarah sandwich. The stupid thought makes me giggle.

Mr. Winters flashes his hundred-watt grin at me. “After all that, what’s making you laugh, sweet girl?”

I put a hand over my mouth, mortified. “Nothing,” I whisper, then fumble for my seatbelt. Do limos have seatbelts? My fingers feel dumb as I reach blindly over the seat. I’m in the middle, so where—

“Here you go, sweets,” Dominick says, reaching across my lap and pulling a strap across me. He’s taken off his tuxedo jacket and his scent assaults me.

Holy crap.

He smells really good. It’s a different cologne than his dad wears. But really… just, yum. I’m shocked that anything can smell good to me with how nauseated I was a few minutes ago. But damn, that boy smells edible. My eyes track him as he pulls back and buckles me in.

Then I lean back against the plush leather seat and close my eyes. God, my thoughts are all over the place. I need to let this horrible alcohol wear off and get out of my system. Then I can be my normal, in-control self again.

Yes, I’ll just rest a little bit.

The limo starts up. The darkened glass between the driver and the back seat is up so I can’t see him. It’s like a quiet little room all our own back here. Quiet and isolated and safe from all the world. Dominick and his father are so warm beside me.

I feel so warm…and safe…and…

* * *

“Wake up sleeping beauty.”The low rumbled whisper is soft, it’s easy to pretend it’s just part of my dream. A handsome Viking knight has come to save me from the wicked, wicked Queen Mother, who has locked me up in a high tower. The knight has the blondest hair and the greenest eyes—wise eyes full of bright intensity. When he looks at me, I feel like he’s piercing straight down to my center. He can see all my desires, even the dark ones that I want to hide from all the world.

I turn and nestle into my warm mattress.

“I think she’s happy where she is, Dad.”

The voice is familiar. I’m in one of those dreams where I’m aware I’m dreaming but I don’t want to come out of it yet. I look up and there, beside the first Viking knight is a second knight, equally handsome as the first, but younger. Where the first gives off an aura of wisdom and the feeling that he’d fight the whole world to keep me safe, the second is all fire and lust. He stares at me with open want, longsword flashing in the light.

Together they race forward and free me from the chains the Queen Mother tied me to the bed with. And then, in turn, they grab my face and drop their lips to mine, one after the other—

My eyes fly open, a hand going to my stomach.

“Are you feeling sick again?” I look up into Mr. Winters’s concerned eyes. Which is when I realize my head is in his lap.

That’s right. Somehow during the limo ride, I’ve managed to lay out on the seat—my head in Mr. Winters’s lap and my thighs thrown over Dominick’s legs. Mr. Winters’s left hand lays casually on my head, his hand playing with a lock of my auburn hair right below my ear.

I jerk upright, pulling away from both of them.

“You all right?” I register Mr. Winters’s question through my mortification.

“I’m fine.” I wince. Actually, I feel like hell. “Or, I will be. I just need some sleep.” Then I feel my cheeks flame. “In my bed,” I clarify, then I feel stupid. Because obviously that’s where I should be sleeping. Not nestling up against these two men who are still basically strangers to me.

Dominick apparently reads something of what I’m feeling on my face because he rubs my shoulder. “We’re family now. This is what family does. We help each other out. It’s okay.” His other hand joins the first until he’s giving me a gentle back rub that does feel divine. I have to fight the urge to relax back against him.

“I should go inside,” I say, looking back to Mr. Winters. “And you should be getting back to the party.” Suddenly my brain catches up and I realize all the implications of what my little stunt has interrupted. “Oh my God.” My hand flies up to cover my mouth. “Your wedding night!” I all but stumble to get to the limo door and shove it open. “Let me just—”

Both Mr. Winters’s and Dominick’s sudden laughter cuts my panicked movements short.

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.