Page 11 of Forbidden Vows

Police don’t take kindly to men like me walking down the street with clothes covered in blood.

The attractive woman at the counter helped me clean up, select a new outfit, and discard my soiled ones. She didn’t ask any questions, and her flirty banter was impeccable. Her shift ended just as I pulled out my black Amex to pay.

Lucky coincidence.

I told her I had a hotel on the Upper East Side and a few hours to kill. She was game. Now I’m standing here, naked except for my pants, putting ice cubes in a glass and thinking more about the woman who instigated my trip to Queens than about her.

I love the pants she picked for me, though. She knows her labels. It's too bad I ruined them.

There’s a banging at my door. I’m not expecting anyone, and Tasha took all her things when she left. I think I know who it is. A grin curves on my lips, hoping the guy has grown some courage and brought friends back to try and rough me up.

I’m up for a bit of fun.

I tip the ice into the bucket and head for the door. The banging resumes. “Jesus! Hang on.” You’d think someone would be less eager to get their ass kicked for a second time today.

I throw the door open, prepared for an attack.

A threat stands at my door, though it’s not what I anticipated.

Instead of an angry kid and his group of friends, I encounter something deadly. The most flawless, stunning, and infuriatingly virtuous girl in existence.

The one person in this world who sees right through my bullshit.

We get along, yet we always fight, which doesn’t even make sense.

Cleopatra, teacher, friend, former lover, and for a very short time, my stepsister, now stands in the hallway, arms crossed primly under her chest, pinning the fabric of the patchwork dress to her body.

She cocks her chin at an angle, narrowing her gaze at me.

An involuntary reflex comes over me to angle my half-naked body closer to hers, pose, and give her a little show, lifting my right arm and resting my hand above my head on the door frame. I don’t miss her momentary weakness, the flutter of her gaze stroking my naked chest.

She moves away, her nose wrinkling. “Do you smell like… pee?”

See what I mean? She nails me every time.

“Do I?” I say, stepping back with a whiff. “I shouldn’t. I was about to hop in the shower before you came.”

“I’m a kindergarten teacher. I have a nose for this stuff.” Before I can invite her into my shower with me, she puts on that sexy teacher voice of hers, demanding, “Now let me see your hands.”

“Why?” Lowering my right arm, I slide my hand into the pocket of my pants, avoiding the damp part of the fabric.

She grabs my left hand before I can hide the purplish bruise blooming over my knuckles.

She releases a pent-up sigh she’s probably been holding onto since arriving. “I knew it was you. I didn’t know how. I thought you were in Italy. But when Keith mentioned his apology post—I knew it was you.”

“How?” I pull my hand back.

“I knew you wouldn’t let it go at making him take it down.”

“Damn right I wouldn’t.” I cross my arms over my chest.

Her beautiful eyes lock on mine and I feel that funny sensation in my belly. “Blaze, how often have I told you not to interfere in my life? I know you mean well, but I’m not some little sister you need to take care of?—”

“Aye, aye, aye, little sis. The things we’ve done would have our grandparents rolling over in their graves.”

“We do not share grandparents. And don’t call me ‘little sis.’ It’s gross. How did you find out anyway?”

“I saw it.”

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