Page 4 of Taming Her Temptations

But I need a moment so I don’t start crying, so I get up and pour another ladle of punch into my mug. Our family tends to make light of things. It’s a survival mechanism that I think started not long after our mom passed away when we were in high school. So I try to honor our unspoken agreement and not get too heavy, even though all I want to do is curl into a ball on the floor and feel sorry for myself.

I look at the bowl and think about how many times I’ve thought about passing it on to my daughter or son one day. Even as a kid, our mom always made sure I knew it was mine. It’s a silly-looking thing, but it reminds me of her and how she appreciated joy above all else. Enough so that our house was full of items that kids would delight in rather than the more sophisticated choices that filled my friends’ houses. It’s something that I’ve grown to appreciate as I’ve gotten older and wish I could thank her for.

A sick shameful feeling twists my stomach, thinking about how I kept the punchbowl in storage for the first Easter that Steve and I hosted at our house. He looked at it disapprovingly when I brought it out and I realized it was not the type of thing his parents would appreciate. All of that compromise for him, year after year. And for what?

“Steven wants to be a dad after all.” I finally say, biting my cheek to keep my emotions in check. “Just not with me. He and Madison are having a baby due in August.”

“I’ll kill him,” Ryan says in a low voice.

“He got her pregnant when he was still with you?” Jessica says, putting the pieces together quickly.

I nod. I can’t bear to look my dad in the eyes because it will destroy the last thread I have of self-control. And once I start crying, it won’t stop. He walks over to me and pulls me in for a hug. His small and bony frame is comforting as I bury my head in his shoulder.

“You dodged a bullet, my gem. I always knew you were destined for someone better than Steven.” He whispers into our embrace.

“Thanks, Dad.” I sniffle, fighting to hold back the floodgates. A few tears escape, but I take a deep breath. “But I really don’t want to sob right now, so if we could just change the subject.”

“I’ll do you one better,” he grins. “The annual Rivers Easter Egg Hunt is ready to commence! All hunters are requested to be on the hunting green in five minutes.”

I laugh and wipe my wet mascara out from under my eyes. Daisy already had her Easter egg hunt, so I figured that my dad’s tradition of having us participate, even as adults, was probably finally over. It would be reasonable since Ryan, Jessica, and I are all in our early thirties. It’s probably well past time to break with this tradition, but my dad has other plans.

“Don’t think I’m going to take pity on you.” Ryan tousles my hair.

My competitive spirit floods me. Yep, alcohol and competition are probably the two best things in the world to distract me from my pity party.

“Victory wouldn’t be as sweet if you did.” I shoot back.

I scan the grounds, looking for pops of color. Our childhood home is a tiny cottage near the road. It served as the former gatekeeper’s cottage to Rosewood Manor, an estate built in the early 20th century. The owner of the estate has always let us use their grounds since we moved here, as our house is essentially on their land.

As a kid, it was confusing living in the smallest house in all of Greenfield, Connecticut, while having the luxury of some of the most beautiful grounds imaginable. I was never sure if we were poor or rich until I got older and realized that it was a miracle we could afford to live in Greenfield at all. My dad is a sculptor which doesn’t exactly fit the demographic of the rest of the town. Greenfield is one of the richest towns in the entire United States. This place is filled with the kind of old money that is bigger than some countries’ entire economies. Growing up, we were always the quirky family that lived in the small stone house with the funky sculptures surrounding it. We were the poor kids who were only notable for the double R’s in our name, while our peers were notable because their last names were some of the most important names in the world.

“Bingo,” I whisper to myself as I spot a trove of eggs under the hedges.

“Unless I can get there first.” Ryan looks sideways at me.

Our dad is counting backward from thirty to build anticipation, but all it’s done is make me realize I’ve drunk way too much punch as the hedges start spinning.

“Go!” He finally yells.

Ryan and I push at each other, both going for the trove I spotted. He’s barely a year older than me, so we’ve always been intensely competitive. We even look similar, with the matching brown hair and brown eyes that we inherited from Mom and our slight stature that we can thank our dad for.

I land a solid shove on his shoulder just enough to send him stumbling, and I slide into the hedge. The ground is wet and my flats slide in the mud.

“Crap,” I curse. These flats are way too expensive to be covered in mud. Old me wouldn’t care, but new me is living on a budget and these are the only nice shoes I have because I literally walked away in them.

I try wiping some of the mud off, but I see Ryan approaching. Fine, I’ll sacrifice the damn shoes. I change gears and scoop up as many eggs into my basket as I can before Ryan catches up. When he finally gets to the hedge, I notice him spotting something. I follow his gaze and immediately see it.

The infamous big golden egg is hidden deep under the prickly shrub. This isn’t like the other eggs filled with coins or chocolate. This egg is powerful. Inside its golden layer is a coupon book full of tasks that we can make our family members complete. If anyone needs this egg, it’s me.

I fully commit and dive wildly for it, my liquid courage making me fearless.

I hear the thud of our heads hitting against each other before I feel it.

“Ryan!” I exclaim as I fall back on the ground, clutching my head.

“That was all you, drunky.” He says with a wince, running his fingers over his forehead to check the damage.

I suddenly become aware of how utterly ridiculous I must look. I imagine Steven witnessing this and how absolutely appalled he would be if he were here. He always went through the motions and pretended to look for eggs, but didn’t hide his disdain for the tradition. Now here I am, mud all over my Gucci ballerina flats he got me for my birthday and a goose egg forming on my head.

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