Page 12 of Four Stepbrothers for Christmas

Caught in the moment, caught in that smile, I felt myself leaning toward him, almost involuntarily. My lips parted, my eyes met his, and for a few heart-stopping seconds, it seemed like he was considering leaning down those extra inches to close the gap between us, to do what I suddenly realized I very much wanted him to do.

My heart pounded in my chest, its rhythm drowning out all the other sounds—the simmer of the sauce on the stove, the distant chatter of other people in the house, the rational part of my brain telling me I was playing with fire. But right now, all I wanted was to get burned. And by the look in his eyes, by the way his gaze flicked down to my lips and then back up to my eyes, it seemed like maybe he did too.

Just when I thought the universe might actually be conspiring in my favor for once, a loud bang echoed from the living room. It jolted me back to reality, like a cold splash of water on a sleepy face. I stepped back, pulling my hand from his, and immediately felt an inexplicable sense of loss. But I couldn't let that show, not when my boss and I had just tiptoed to the edge of something professionally dangerous.

"Sounds like the Gallos are up to no good. You've got five minutes to get to the dinner table," I said, winking cheekily to defuse the thick tension still lingering in the air.

That damned smile was back, causing my knees to feel like they were made of something far less solid than bone. "I'll be there," he promised.

"See that you are," I shot back, attempting nonchalance but suspecting I was fooling no one, least of all myself.

As I turned back to the meal I was preparing, my heart was racing and my thoughts were a scrambled mess. How in the name of Julia Child was I supposed to maintain any semblance of professionalism when my boss looked like that, smiled like that, and held my hand like that?

As if that weren't enough to disrupt my usually unflappable demeanor, let's not forget I worked for three other equally arresting men. Isaac may be the stoic, business-minded one, but the Gallos? Each of them brought their own brand of allure into the mix, making my work environment feel like the set of some unrealistically cast TV drama.

I decided it was high time for something stronger than workplace banter. I poured myself a modest glass of bourbon, justifying the mid-work libation by the fact that dinner was plated, desserts were safely tucked away in the fridge, and I was, for all intents and purposes, off the clock.

I took my glass and stepped onto one of the heated patios. The landscape stretched out before me, a tapestry of natural beauty that seemed almost surreal in its quiet majesty. This place was a sanctuary, a luxurious escape from the chaotic grind of city life. For a moment, as I sipped the smokey liquid, I allowed myself to simply exist in this pocket of serenity, letting the warmth from the bourbon settle my frazzled nerves.

But even bourbon couldn't fully drown out the nagging thoughts that had lodged themselves in the forefront of my mind. This job was too important, too good to mess up. Getting romantically tangled with one of my bosses—or God forbid, all four—was a one-way ticket to a very uncomfortable HR meeting, and likely unemployment.

"So what, Becca? You gonna trade in your dream job just because your bosses look like they've walked off the pages of GQ?" I asked myself, letting the biting chill of the air punctuate the point. "Yeah, that'll look great on a resume: Reason for leaving last job? Got caught up in a penthouse fantasy."

It was a dirty but undeniably intriguing thought, the kind better suited to private musings and absolutely not for workplace conduct. But that's all it could be—a thought, a fleeting temptation to be locked away in the fantasy vault of my mind, never to see the light of day.

I finished my bourbon, relishing the last drops as they rolled over my tongue and burned a comforting path down my throat. Then I glanced at my phone. Five minutes had passed since I told Isaac to have everyone in the dining room.

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the crisp mountain air, and steadied myself. With my empty glass in hand, I walked back inside, ready to serve dinner, ready to put on the performance of composed, professional Becca.

But as I set my glass on the counter, I couldn't shake the image of Isaac's smile, the feel of his hand enveloping mine, and the almost-kiss that still tingled on my not-yet-touched lips. And so, as I entered the dining room, my steps confident and my face the picture of composure, I carried with me a pocketful of 'what-ifs,' carefully tucked away but burning hotter than ever.

Chapter 8

Archer

Iwatched her from the head of the table, her eyes still holding that glint of mischief that had sparked in our earlier conversation. She had a natural charisma about her, a blend of warmth and wit that drew people in, myself included. And I didn't like being drawn in.

"Becca, please, join us for dinner," I said, my voice carrying the non-negotiable weight of a command rather than a request.

She looked up, her eyes meeting mine, clearly weighing the balance between professionalism and the casual intimacy of a shared meal. "I usually eat later," she began, but Vinnie and Luke were already chiming in.

"Nonsense. You should join us," Vinnie grinned.

"Absolutely," Luke added, his casual endorsement settling the matter.

Isaac finalized it with a soft but firm tone. "Breakfast and lunch are your call, but dinner should be a group affair. Please, join us each evening.”

She laughed, her eyes dancing with a light that seemed to make the room a little brighter. "Well, when you put it like that, how could I refuse? Dining with you four is certainly a step up from eating alone in the kitchen."

As she detailed the evening's menu, her passion for food was evident. "We have roasted chicken, seasoned with rosemary and thyme. It's accompanied by garlic mashed potatoes and sautéed vegetables with almonds. And for dessert, we'll have apple crisp topped with vanilla ice cream."

I reached for the wine bottle and poured her a glass, my eyes never leaving hers. The liquid splashed like a momentary whirlpool of choices and consequences. For both of us.

"This is a particularly fine vintage," I began, my eyes still locked on hers. "It's a blend, mostly Cabernet Sauvignon, with a bit of Merlot and a touch of Cabernet Franc. You'll find it's well-balanced yet complex. The nose is rich, filled with notes of blackcurrant, cedar, and a subtle hint of anise. On the palate, it's bold but not overbearing, with layers of fruit, earth, and spice, all culminating in a long, elegant finish."

She looked at me, then at the wine, then back at me again. Her eyes widened for a moment before she broke into a grin. "You know, it's always a trip to see a man who looks like he could bench press a Buick talk about wine with the finesse of a sommelier."

I chuckled, the sound deeper than I'd intended. "Appearances can be deceiving. Just because someone excels in one world doesn't mean they can't appreciate the finer things in another. We all have our layers."

---