Page 6 of Father Knows Best (A Family Affair #1)

three

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avery

The Past

Brandon appears in the hallway, his forehead shiny from our hard work, an empty dolly between his hands. “That was the last piece.”

I huff out a long, exhausted breath. “Thank goodness.” Swiping through my iPad, I make sure everything on my checklist has been completed before locking the screen and shoving it into my bag. “We’re all set.”

The back left wheel on the dolly squeaks like it always does as Brandon rolls it to the entry way, where the rest of my stuff is waiting. We stand arm to arm, surveying the completely staged space. “Was this custom or did Geo have a style in mind?” Brandon asks.

Sometimes, the listing agent will know the client they’re trying to sell to, and have me stage the home to fit their specific tastes, regardless of what the home calls for.

A Spanish-style home decorated in vintage antiques?

Makes no sense to me, but we sold a ten million dollar home last year just like that.

Because it’s what the buyer wanted in their prospective home, and Geo knew it.

“Actually, this is Sutt’s listing and he left it up to me.

” I glance around the mid-century style home, one that was built with modern touches and refinements, but is now adorned in Scandinavian style, using natural light and neutral tones, capitalizing on textures like natural wood and white stone.

It’s absolutely gorgeous this way–it’s the same way Sutton’s house looks. I could be partial, I admit.

Brandon bobs his head as he surveys the living space that opens into a large kitchen, complete with a butler’s pantry and chef’s kitchen. “Can you imagine?” he asks, dragging his fingertips along the beveled edge of the trendy stamped concrete counter top.

My brows furrow. “Imagine what?”

He shrugs and nods once, like he isn’t quite sure. “You know, just… waking up in a place like this.” He fingers the leaves of the fig plant on the counter. I put a fig plant in every home I stage–it’s my calling card of sorts, I guess. “How can you have a bad day waking up in a place like this?”

I smile, shoving the last lint roller away in my supply case. “Even people who can afford houses like these have problems, too.” I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Everyone has problems.”

“I don’t know,” he counters, pulling the front doors open for us. “I think if I woke up here, I’d be pretty happy.”

Entering the code to lock the door after pulling them closed, I grab my things and make my first trip to my car.

Usually in homes like these, there’s a service bay out back where people like house cleaners, gardeners and repair men enter the property, but because we were accessing just the front portion of the home today, we used the front door.

“You going into the office?” Brandon asks, sliding the collapsable step ladder into the bed of his MERCER PROPERTIES pickup truck.

When I first started and realized I needed muscle on board to help me get larger pieces where they need to be, I found Brandon in the classified ads.

He had a license, a truck, and no criminal record.

After Mercer made me their full-time in-house stager, Brandon joined, too, getting his first ever company truck.

I shake my head. “This was all I had on my schedule for today.” I pop open my car door. “I’m going to Sutton’s. He’s not showing any properties today so we’re going to work on the wedding plans.”

Brandon’s smile falters a moment, but he replaces it. “See you tomorrow, then. Tell Sutton I said hello.”

I didn’t know anything about wine until I met Sutton. Truthfully, I still don’t know much, but I love watching him educate me about wine. He lifts the device off the neck of the bottle, and pats the back of it, sending the cork to the counter. He shoots me a smirk.

I smile. “Impressive.”

“The first bottle of wine I had with you, do you remember accidentally pushing the cork inside?” he asks, abandoning the bottle and the two waiting stemless glasses on the counter.

He collects me in his arms where I’m sitting atop a barstool, tucked under the kitchen island.

My body melts when Sutton presses kisses to my forehead and hairline.

“I’m so glad you let me open the bottle on the second date. ”

“I’m so glad that picking pieces of cork off your lips didn’t scare you away from a second date,” I laugh, remembering our first date very well. I was still all sweaty from staging a home with Brandon, but Sutton would not take no for an answer.

I became his girlfriend after our third date, and I’ve seen him every single day since. We almost live together. Almost.

He moves back to the wine, filling each glass partially after taking a long, heady pull of the scent.

“Tar and roses,” he says, wrapping his vein-heavy hand around the glass, which looks tiny, completely dwarfed by his size.

“It doesn’t sound appealing, but I swear to Christ, I love the smell of Barolo.

” He sips some, then pours a little more.

“Did you know that Barolo vineyards have to grow under special conditions?”

I know this is a lesson, and that the question is rhetorical, but still, I shake my head.

He comes to my side of the kitchen island again, and takes another drink, but instead of swallowing, he presses his lips to mine.

With his thumb pinned on my chin, he tugs my mouth open ever so slightly, kissing me, letting the bright red wine trickle from his mouth into mine.

After, he nudges my lips closed as our gazes collide.

“The first note is sharp, but by the time you swallow, it’s smooth. ”

Right there on the barstool, I think about the singular time that Sutton came in my mouth.

He was drunk, we’d been out celebrating one of his biggest sales to date—a historical property in the Pacific Heights.

Sutton’s always been great at capping himself at three to four drinks, where he’s still warm and buzzy but not obliterated.

That particular night, though, he got completely drunk.

I was drunk, too, and it resulted in me going down on him in the back of our town car on the drive home.

When his thighs tensed beneath my fingertips, and he made that little noise in the back of his throat that he always makes right before he comes— I took him deeper.

And he let me.

And he came so hard, and I swallowed what I could, then swirled the rest of it around in my mouth, tasting, absorbing, memorizing.

It was so hot, and so personal. I may have had him come inside me a hundred times, but the intimacy of tasting his cum, feeling him erupt in my mouth–being aware of every little twitch and pulse of desire—I came, too.

And that’s one of my favorite memories to go back to when I’m using the detachable showerhead in my apartment.

He strokes his thumb over my lips, his body heat radiating down on me. “Well?” The singular word and electric graze of his finger snaps me back to the present.

My pulse hammers in my throat. My hands, slick with sweat, cling to the barstool’s edge, the only thing keeping me upright.

I flick my tongue over my lips, chasing the ghost of his wine-flavored kiss.

“I like it,” I murmur, my voice barely audible, my brain scrambled from his proximity—his heat, his scent, the way his eyes lock onto mine.

He’s never done this before, never slipped into this kind of playful intimacy– passing wine through a kiss.

It sets my nerves on fire, and desire surges through my veins.

As we plan the wedding, maybe Sutton will slowly unravel like this more often?

Maybe there will be more town car back seat moments the closer I am to becoming legally his?

Maybe he’ll slowly unravel and begin to give and show me more of him, which is all I want.

The thought sends a thrill skittering through me, half hope, half hunger.

“The grapes have to be grown on a hillside, not in a valley, and not facing the north. And then they require a 36-month aging process after harvest.” He brings my glass to me, and places it in my hand.

We sip together, eyes locked, and I want nothing more than Sutton to wonder aloud what Barolo might taste like off of my body, particularly if he licked it from the place between my legs.

“Anyway,” he says, flipping open the leather folder sitting in the center of the counter. “We won’t serve this at the wedding. It’s far too informal.”

I can’t help but smirk as he pours more wine into each of our glasses.

The way he looks stretched over the counter, bicep torqued, hand flexed—I had no clue how innocuous, harmless movement could be sexy until I met Sutton.

I find myself staring at him when he gets dressed, listening to him when he showers, watching him when he loads the groceries into the car.

Everything he does, he looks so handsome and sexy, and I’ve never been so blindly, massively, unyieldingly attracted to someone before in my life.

Whenever I let myself think about how beautiful and perfect Sutton is, my heart beats a little faster, and electric, crimson flares beneath my skin.

I shift on my barstool, hit by a normal wave of awe that I have for the love of my life, and smile.

“I feel so lucky to be marrying you, even if you’re a pretentious, uppity wine snob. ”

He waggles his brows. “I’ll make you a Mercer first, then I’ll turn you into a pretentious, uppity wine snob.”

I look down at the large piece of architecture paper strewn out in front of me. “Speaking of snobs,” I say, tapping my sharpened pencil on the stretch of paper. “Do you think I could put your dad next to my friend Amelie?”

Sutton snorts. “Amelie is not a snob.”

I raise an eyebrow and go for a sip of the Barolo. “Not compared to you, maybe,” I tease, which earns me a sultry little wink.