My Guilty Pleasure. Jamie Denton
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“Amazing how that happens every January.” Joey flashed her sister a saucy grin, then took off for the kitchen. She had the kettle filled and on the stove by the time Brooke joined her.
Joey reached into the cabinet for a teak serving tray, then carefully brought down a pair of delicate china cups and the matching teapot. “Are you coming to dinner next week?”
Brooke shrugged and looked away. “I’m not sure.”
Joey let out a sigh, although she understood her sister’s reluctance to walk inside the lion’s den. “The Admiral keeps asking about you.”
Ever since Brooke had dropped the bomb on her grandparents that she wasn’t a Winfield by birth, her relationship with their grandmother had been strained at best. Joey suspected the tension in their relationship stemmed not so much because of Brooke’s parentage, but because of the scandalous photos of a topless Brooke and Boston’s bad boy, David Carrera, that had shown up in the tabloids. Heaven forbid a Winfield should cause tongues to wag.
“I’ll think about it,” Brooke said, but Joey doubted the subject was usually far from Brooke’s mind. Familial duty had always been high on her elder sister’s list of priorities.
Brooke crossed her arms and leaned back against the ceramic-tiled counter. “So, where were you?”
It was Joey’s turn to shrug. “Nowhere important.” She aimed for nonchalance but ended up closer to high-pitched and guilt-ridden. What was she supposed to say? That she’d spent the night boffing her new boss’s brains out? And enjoying every glorious second of it?
She added tea leaves to the strainer before sliding a quick glance in Brooke’s direction. Her sister gave her one of those looks, the kind only an older sister had the secret password to. The kind that said she knew Joey was full of crap.
Brooke offered one of her more irritating smiles. “So? Who is he?”
Joey concentrated on cutting into the leftover crumb coffee cake she’d pilfered from her grandmother’s cook. “It really doesn’t matter.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
“That all depends on how you might define ‘seeing him again,’” Joey answered cryptically. Technically, she’d be spending a great deal of time with Sebastian, but not in the way Brooke meant.
The teakettle started to whistle. “Saved by the whistle.”
“Bell,” Brooke corrected.
“Whatever. A distraction is a distraction as far as I’m concerned. I’ll take what I can get.”
“You’re not getting off that easy,” Brooke said with a laugh as Joey poured the steaming water into the teapot. “Now I really want details. Who is this guy?”
She refused to make a big deal out of her one-time-only, never-gonna-happen-again night of sexual bliss with Sebastian. What was the point?
“Joey?”
Joey popped the crumb cake slices into the microwave and pressed the reheat button. “You’re not going to let up until I tell you, are you?”
Brooke’s irritating smile widened. “Nope.”
The microwave dinged. Joey arranged the dessert plates on the tray along with the items for tea.
“He’s my boss,” she said in a rush. She picked up the tray and hurried into the cozy living room, as if that would be the end of the conversation. With her sisters, not gonna happen.
A fire burned in the stone fireplace. Molly lay curled on the arm of the chintz chair near the leaded glass window overlooking the winter dormant garden.
Brooke joined her, concern evident in her soft brown eyes. “Define ‘boss.’”
“Oh, no, not any of them.” Joey shuddered, knowing Brooke was thinking of one of the three middle-aged senior partners of the firm. “The new guy they hired to head up the litigation division.” Last night when she’d met her sisters for dinner, she’d mentioned the new guy the partners had recruited from a Miami firm, and how she’d been relegated to second chair in Gilson v. Pierce. One thing sleeping with Sebastian hadn’t changed—her disappointment and irritation over having the lead counsel position on the Gilson matter taken away from her.
Joey shooed Molly from the chair, while Brooke poured tea. “My new boss,” she admitted, taking the teacup Brooke held out for her. “Sebastian Stanhope.”
“Stanhope?” At Joey’s nod, Brooke asked, “Is he any relation to Emerson Stanhope?”
The Stanhopes were one of Boston’s oldest and most prominent families. In fact she was fairly certain Emerson and her father had once had some sort of business dealings. “Uh…” Joey hedged, “I don’t know. That’s a subject that never came up.”
Brooke set her cup on the table. “Joey—”
“Don’t say it.” Joey dropped a sugar cube into her cup and stirred. “It was a one-time thing and trust me, one that won’t be happening again.”
“Did you know who he was before you slept with him?” Brooke asked, adding a splash of cream to her Earl Grey.
Joey scrunched up her nose and nodded. “Not one of my smarter decisions.” But one she wouldn’t apologize for, either. Regardless of the ethics involved, and no matter how plain stupid her choice had been, she simply could not regret making love to Sebastian. Not completely.
“Joey, how did this happen?” There was no accusation or even judgment in Brooke’s tone, only concern.
Joey leaned back and pulled her feet up onto the chair. She recounted how she’d gone to Rosalie’s last night and had been rendered temporarily insane by the instantaneous attraction between her and Sebastian. When she finished, she set her empty teacup on the rosewood side table and let out a sigh. “I plead hormones,” she said. “It’s a valid affirmative defense.”
“I doubt that.” Brooke tapped her fingernail against the side of her cup. “So what happens now?”
“Nothing,” Joey said adamantly. Molly hopped into her lap and rubbed her head against Joey’s hand, demanding affection. She smoothed her hand over the cat’s thick fur. “Monday morning I go into the office and pretend Friday night never happened.”
“For your sake,” Brooke said, “I really do hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I do,” Joey said firmly. She dropped her head against the back of the chair, hoping she was right.
“SO HOW DOES IT feel being back in the old neighborhood?” Hunter McAllister asked around a mouthful of pepperoni pizza.
Sebastian twisted the cap off the bottle of beer and chucked it halfway across the living room into the cardboard box pulling temporary duty as a trash bin. “Cold,” he said to his childhood friend. “I’d forgotten how freaking cold it can get up here.”
He didn’t bother to remind Hunter that the revitalized North End of Boston was hardly the rough South Boston neighborhood where they’d spent their youth. Even though Sebastian had decided to live in the North End, in his heart, they would always be Southies.
Hunter balanced his beer bottle on his knee. “Why you’d give up year-round bathing beauties for Beacon Hill snobs is beyond me.”
“Right,” Sebastian said. “If a woman has a pulse, you’re interested.”
“Hey, is it my fault women have a thing for a man in uniform?”
Sebastian seriously doubted Hunter’s Boston P.D. uniform had anything to do with it. His friend had been a chick magnet for as long as Sebastian could remember.
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