“Not yet!” She sticks out her tongue as if solving a math problem while dragging the loaded brush across my face.
“You don’t have to cake it on, Gracie. The lighting isn’t good in here. I’m sure there’s plenty on the brush.”
“Gah, trust me, Auntie. One more.”
“Gracie!” Serena calls, “grandma wants you to clear the table off and set it for dinner.”
“One more minute!” She shrieks in my face.
I lift pleading eyes to my sister as she walks into the room and gets a first look at me. It’s then we use our sister telepathy.
How bad is it?
So bad. So very, very, bad.
Draining my second whiskey and coke, I shrug—because who cares—before I attack Gracie and pull her into my arms. “Enough already. I’m sure it’s perfect. We’re done, love. Clear the table and help your grandma.”
“Okay, but don’t take it off until we take a picture.”
“What are you saying? I’m not washing it off. I’m keeping this look all night.”
She beams at me. “Promise?”
“Promise, promise. Now pick something.” I gesture to the pile of makeup.
She sorts through my stash before she confiscates a thirty-dollar highlighter and hugs me. Having no car payment has afforded me a hell of a lot of retail therapy. Priorities will have to change. For now, I enjoy the moment and Gracie’s happiness.
“Thanks, Auntie Whit.”
“Welcome, baby girl.”
Gracie and Serena disappear into the kitchen just as the doorbell rings.
“I’ve got it.” I prance through the living room, my spirits lifted from the booze and making my niece happy. I hear the cursing on the other side of the door just before I open it to see the beet-red face of my brother a second before he steps in the entryway and releases an armful of bags with a thunderous thud.
“Well, that explains why you didn’t use your key. Hey, brother.”
Brenden groans in frustration, eyeing the luggage rack he’s just unloaded at our feet. “Six days, six days, and she packed half the fucking house. This isn’t even a quarter of it.” Brenden is the tallest in the family at six-foot-four and towers above me. He takes more after my father in the looks department. His brown eyes are darker, and he’s the only brunette of the three of us. His glare leaving the luggage, he looks down at me, eyes widening.
“Jesus, what happened to your face?” Without giving me a chance to reply, he pulls me into a bear hug. Though we’re Irish twins and he’s only eleven months older than me, he’s always been the overly opinionated, overbearing older brother who thinks one-syllable words are problem solvers.
“Your niece has decided to be my glam squad for the week.”
“I pity you, and I’ve missed you, sis.”
“Same.”
He reiterates his statement by hugging me a little tighter, and I hug him back, catching the melodic and gently coaxing voice of his wife as she gently doles out orders to my five-year-old niece, Conner.
“It’s good to be here,” Brenden says, some of the tension leaving him before he releases me, and I glance past his shoulder. “So how was the dri—” I freeze, blinking repeatedly. Until this moment, I’d completely forgotten about Brenden’s plus one who just so happens to be walking up the stairs behind him, several bags hanging from his arms, a collapsible high-chair in his grip. Shocked by the sight of the stranger, it takes a few seconds to register when his eyes lift—crystalline blue—his face, so familiar. Brenden turns and grins as the guy comes into full view at the top of the steps, and my jaw goes slack.
“Hey, you,” the voice is smoother, deeper, much deeper, but there’s no mistaking it when he flashes his megawatt smile.
Oh. My. God.
“Eli?”
Brows rising, my brother looks between the two of us. “You two know each other?”
Without hesitation, Eli steps into the house, looking every bit as mouth-watering as he did the first time I laid eyes on him my junior year of college. Well, then he was naked. But it’s him, unmistakably him. Eli Welch.
When my first love steps into the entryway, he towers a full foot taller than me as I greedily drink him in. Thick, wavy, dirty blond hair the color of a halo, but without the brass. Perfectly symmetrical facial features, chiseled cheekbones, a sleek jaw, and lush lips. Further down, a muscular runner’s build is only enhanced by his dress—dark denim, a thin designer sweater, and bomber jacket. The years have been gloriously kind to him. The only signs of age are tiny wrinkles next to his twinkling icy blue eyes. His grin deepens to level sinister—an old but familiar, “I got you”—dancing in his gaze just before he announces to my brother just how well we know each other.