Page 122 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

I don’t know what he means by that, so I make a noncommittal humming noise, which makes him laugh. When the house comes into view, Gibson lets out a low whistle. “This ismuchnicer.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, it’s bigger. I guess I need to see inside before I start making any comparisons.”

Larry’s houseishuge. Sprawling. It’s got all the trappings I associate with homes in the Hamptons. A pool. A tennis court. A lawn with a permanent croquet setup. It’s closer to town than it is to the beach, but Larry’s more of a coffee shop and antiques guy than a beach bum.

“What does Larry do for a living?” Gibson asks.

“Corporate law, I think.”

“And you knew him first or Jeremy?”

“Jeremy. He was staying at The Eastmoor with Babs Connelly for a while back when Drew and Ollie were getting together.” Everyone on the UES knows Babs.

We’ve talked during the drive about my friends—how I met Drew, and when Jericho came into the picture. Everyone knows the story of Olivier and Elodie since they published their society tell-all book about their sham of a marriage, so I helped fill in some details Gibson wasn’t familiar with.

He knows I’m closest to Drew and Jericho, but they’re all closer to each other than I am to any of them—they’re like a family, and I’m like an out of town cousin who stops in from time to time and offers new fodder for them to discuss. Lately, however, I’ve been holding more back. If someone were to ask me why, I’m not sure I’d have an answer ready.

My world outside of them has shrunk to Gibson. The last few weeks, other than the three nights I covered at The Eastmoor, I’ve been with him, save a few hours here and there.

I feel a conversation about us coming, and I thought it might happen on the drive, but it never materialized, even though we don’t ever seem to stop talking unless we’re fucking, and even then…

If he told me right now he never wanted to see me again, I’d have a rough time digesting that. It’s not that I necessarily need more, but I don’t want anything to change, either.

He pulls to a stop behind two other cars in the circular drive in front of the white, Cape Cod style home. Accented with gray shingles and window boxes full of flowers, it’s as welcoming as it is enormous. With eight bedrooms and twelve bathrooms, it’s ridiculously big, but still somehow manages to feel cozy.

Gibson and I get our bags out of his Lexus’s trunk and walk up to the porch. The screen door is closed, but the actual door iswide open, and I hear Mallory’s throaty laugh coming from the direction of the kitchen.

Olivier happens to walk by as I’m reaching for the latch. He smiles—not the usual greeting I get from him, and there’s definitely something shit-eating about his grin. “I knew it,” he says, opening the door.

“Knew what?”

“You’d bring your boss.” He looks up at Gibson. “Drew always calls you Mr. Hayes, so it’s tempting.”

“Please don’t,” I say before Gibson has a chance to respond. “It’s a holiday.”

“What do you call him?” Ollie asks me.

“Gibson,” I say tersely, letting go of my suitcase and taking a look around for some backup.

The entry hall is bisected by a staircase. The view from the front door leads all the way to the back of the house where the pool is visible.

“Nice to see you again,” Gibson says, taking over and shaking Ollie’s hand.

Jeremy appears from the right, dressed in swim trunks and a t-shirt. He gives me a hug and welcomes Gibson warmly, offering to show us to our room. “Orrooms?” he asks leadingly.

“One room is fine,” I tell him, feeling heat lick my cheeks at the awkward acknowledgement that I am in fact actively sleeping with the man who pays my salary. Not that I feel any judgment here, but it’s hard to be proud of. Embarrassing, but just shy of shameful. Gibson is what I’ve decided I need right now, and it is what it is. It’s the reason I asked him to come with me. If he hadn’t wanted to, I wouldn’t be here, either. So we’ll definitely be sharing a room.

Olivier comes upstairs with us as we follow Jeremy, and we catch Drew coming out of one of the bedrooms, shirtless in some of the gayest black swim trunks I’ve ever seen. They’re skin-tightwith detailed stitching around his package to really make it stand out. I meet his eyes and smirk.

A successful model, Drew is the face and body for a line of men’s skin care and fragrance products. He’s covered in tattoos and exudes a raw masculinity that should make a swimsuit like that comical. However—with a perfectly sculpted body and his rugged good looks, he pulls it off down to the mischievous expression on his face when he spots my plus one. “I owe my husband fifty bucks,” he says.

Ollie steps up to him, and Drew slides his arm around his waist. “We’re showing Chris and his employer to their room,” Olivier says.

“Excellent.”

“Lay off,” I say, then add, “He’s very demanding, and he’s always working. It’s better when he has me close by.”

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