“Martina, go get help,” I plead as he starts kissing my neck.
She vanishes for a moment, then reappears and says, “No need for help. Duck, Lilly. I’m gonna save you.”
I can’t believe I listen—but I duck anyway.
I hear a hiss, like aerosol spraying, and Bastien lets go, cursing up a storm.
“Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”
“What did you do?” I ask, still dazed.
“I sprayed shaving cream in his face. Pretty sure it got in his eyes.”
“Oh my God, you’re insane.”
“No. I’m good at improvising.”
Chapter 4
Boston
That Same Night
“No.”
“She’s my sister.”
“She’s a child.”
“For fuck’s sake, Amos, could you be a little less hard-headed and just listen to me? Which part of ‘Lilly has nowhere else to go’ didn’t you understand?”
“Of course she has somewhere to go. She can stay with your mother. Be reasonable. We’re men. Look around. Our place doesn’t exactly scream ‘ready for a nun.’”
I know she’s not technically a nun—but it’s pretty damn close. The girl’s been locked away since she was twelve in one of the most prestigious all-girls boarding schools on the planet, and as far as I know, she’s had very little contact with the outside world.
“She’s not a nun. She went to a Catholic boarding school. Not the same thing.”
I feel like a complete bastard for saying no to him, but honestly, I can only assume he hit his head or something equally stupid.
That’s the only explanation for wanting to bring that blonde angel into our house.
No, little Lilly isn’t a nun. She’s the opposite.
A temptation. My secret craving.
I try to scrub her image from my mind—my best friend’s little sister—but I can’t. The memory of that Christmas night two years ago hits me hard.
My first impression when I was introduced to her was that she looked like a porcelain doll.
Reserved. Flat. Empty of personality.
That impression vanished the second she lifted her eyes and looked at me.
There was a restless spark in those icy-blue eyes, one that didn’t match her demure outfit: a pale dress, a pink cardigan, and pearl earrings as her only jewelry. Her hair, nearly white blonde, was pinned into a low bun, and I had to physically restrain myself from pulling out those pins just to feel it in my hands.
No, I didn’t just want to touch it. I wanted to wrap it around my fist and pull her to me.
Don’t think shit like that about her—not even as a memory,my conscience warns.
