Page 4 of Beautiful Sin
“Ever heard of morning routines?” he called after me as I escaped down the hallway, his voice carrying that mixture of amusement and condescension that was uniquely Colt.
I flipped him off without looking back, ignoring how my skin still tingled where he’d touched it. God, why did he always have to be so aggressive about everything? And why did it sometimes make my pulse race in a way that confused and annoyed me? Colt was nothing like Jaxson—where Jaxson was warmth and gentle teasing, Colt was all sharp edges and challenging stares. Yet something about that intensity occasionally caught me off guard, making me wonder things I shouldn’t.
After escaping his manhandling—and resisting the urge to rub my probably bruised chin—I made a beeline for the bathroom, hoping against hope nobody was conducting a symphony in there. The last thing I needed was to encounter another brother in my current state of dishevelment and emotional confusion.
Luck—or maybe just the absence of constipated brothers—was on my side, and Nico bounded out like a human ray ofsunshine, his perpetual whistle carrying some Top 40s tune. His whole face lit up when he saw me, like I was his favorite person in the world, his smile bright enough to power a small city.
“Morning, grumpy!” he chirped, throwing an arm around my shoulders despite my best impression of a statue. His touch was different from both Jaxson’s and Colt’s—casual, brotherly, without the undercurrents that made my pulse race. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
I nodded, managing a small smile that only Nico could ever coax out of me this early, and locked myself in the tiny tiled sanctuary. The mirror reflected back a face flushed with more than just sleep, eyes a little too bright, hair a disaster zone. I looked exactly like what I was—a mess of inappropriate feelings and confused desires.
Let’s be real, this apartment and all its dysfunctional charm was more a lovable prison than a loving home. Every corner held memories, every room was saturated with the presence of the brothers who had raised me. Especially Jaxson, whose touch lingered on my skin like a ghost I couldn’t exorcise, whose smile haunted my dreams, whose very existence made my heart ache with wanting something I couldn’t have.
I’d had enough. By the end of summer, I made a mental promise to myself—I’d be out of here, brothers’ opinions be damned. Maybe with some distance, I could finally get over these feelings. Maybe in a new place, without Jaxson’s constant presence, I could learn to breathe again without my chest hurting. Maybe, just maybe, I could find a way to stop loving him.
Two
SINCLAIR BROTHERS
Morning light spilled across the cramped living-dining-kitchen, making the chipped paint look almost intentionally distressed rather than just old. Jaxson nursed his coffee, the aroma blending with the mouthwatering scent of Wei’s perfectly seasoned eggs and French toast. Even on a shoestring budget, his Chinese stepbrother managed to turn their bargain-bin ingredients into something that could pass for actual cuisine. A pile of bills peeked from beneath a loaf of store-brand bread, their numbers the only unappetizing thing on the table.
Jaxson found himself straining to hear the telltale sounds of movement from Lan’s converted closet bedroom. The memory of their morning interaction lingered—Lan’s sleep-rumpled appearance, that oversized shirt sliding off one pale shoulder, dark hair tousled in a way that made Jaxson’s fingers itch to run through it. He’d forced himself to leave before he did something stupid, like trace the exposed line of Lan’s collarbone or pull him close and?—
“What’s wrong?” Wei’s voice cut through his inappropriate thoughts. Jaxson looked up to find his stepbrother studying him like he was analyzing a business proposal, those smoky-darkeyes missing nothing. “You’re staring at that hallway like it owes you money.”
“What do you mean?” Jaxson focused on his coffee, pretending he hadn’t been mentally undressing their youngest brother. The ceramic mug suddenly seemed fascinating, its chipped rim a metaphor for… something. Probably his sanity.
“You seem preoccupied.” Wei leaned against the counter, his knowing smirk suggesting he could read every inappropriate thought running through Jaxson’s mind. “Your coffee’s getting cold, and you haven’t even complimented my cooking yet. I’m wounded.”
“Your culinary genius continues to astound me,” Jaxson deadpanned, though his fond smile betrayed him. “Happy now? Or should I write you a five-star review for our poverty-chic kitchen?”
“I’ll settle for you actually drinking your coffee before it becomes a science experiment,” Wei replied, nodding at Jaxson’s untouched mug. His dark eyes held that infuriating gleam that suggested he knew exactly what—or rather who—was occupying Jaxson’s thoughts.
Jaxson lifted the cup to his lips, but his attention drifted back to the hallway. The image of Lan from earlier flashed unbidden in his mind—drowning in Colt’s old shirt, one pale shoulder peeking out like some Renaissance painting come to life. Beautiful. The word had floated through his mind before he could stop it, followed by an inexplicable urge to press his lips against that exposed skin, to feel Lan’s pulse quicken beneath his touch. He shook his head, trying to clear it. This was Lan—his adorable little brother who needed protecting, not fantasizing about. The familiar guilt settled in his stomach, heavy and persistent.
“You’re hovering again,” Wei’s knowing tone pulled him back to reality. A smirk played on his lips as he added, “Though I suppose that protective streak runs deeper than the ocean.”
Jaxson set his mug down with more force than necessary, the ceramic clinking against wood. “I’m his eldest brother. That’s my job.” The words felt rehearsed, like lines he’d been repeating to himself for years. A mantra that was becoming harder to believe with each passing day.
“If our little Celestial Peach wants to test his boss’ patience, let him. Not everyone can rock the ‘fashionably late’ look like Lan.” Wei pushed off from the counter, refilling his cup with their premium coffee—the one luxury he insisted on. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief. “Though I have to say, Jaxson, this whole mother hen routine is getting a bit much. What’s next—heart-shaped notes in his lunch box? Maybe channel some of that nurturing energy into finding a date instead of memorizing our baby brother’s schedule?”
“Watch it,” Jaxson warned, though there wasn’t much heat in it. Maybe because the image of Lan drowning in their hand-me-downs was still too fresh in his mind, the way the fabric had slipped to reveal that smooth expanse of skin that had no business looking so tempting.
Colt chose that moment to stride in, still glistening from his run. Droplets of sweat traced tantalizing paths down his neck and chest, his running shorts clinging to powerful thighs in a way that would have made lesser men self-conscious. He slid into his chair, arranging his napkin just so before serving himself with the kind of meticulous care that made breakfast look like a formal dinner. “Oh, are we finally addressing Jaxson’s terminal case of mother hen syndrome?”
“How about we address your terminal case of bad timing?” Jaxson shot back, grateful for the distraction from his inappropriate thoughts. “Or better yet, your fascinatingrelationship with that running shirt. I think it’s becoming sentient.”
“Deflection through insults.” Wei clicked his tongue, watching Colt methodically section his French toast into perfect triangles. “And here I thought real estate agents were supposed to be smooth talkers. No wonder you’re single.”
“I didn’t realize my love life was today’s breakfast special,” Jaxson retorted. “Though I suppose it’s more entertaining than watching Colt treat breakfast like it’s a formal state dinner.”
“Some of us,” Colt replied primly, “actually appreciate proper dining etiquette. Even at seven in the morning.” Despite his composed exterior, Colt’s eyes kept drifting toward the hallway, as if expecting—or hoping for—someone to appear. Someone with dark hair and a tendency to wear shirts that slipped off his shoulders.
Wei’s smirk turned positively feline. “At least Colt’s relationship with breakfast protocol is more active than your relationship with dating. When was your last date? I think our Little Bodhisattva was still speaking Mandarin exclusively.”
“He still speaks Mandarin,” Jaxson pointed out dryly, ignoring the uncomfortable truth in Wei’s observation. It had been… a while. Not that he was counting the months. Or years.
“Exactly my point.” Wei raised his cup in mock salute. “At this rate, you’ll end up married to your Open House signs. At least they won’t mind your obsession with our baby brother.”
