“I know you’re the drummer from Max’s band. I’m Sylvie, and this is my grandma’s house.”
I roll my eyes. Anything to avoid saying she’s my cousin, as if somehow that’s like admitting she’s Hitler’s BFF.
“Nice to meet you.” She extends a hand, annoyingly, like she’s expecting him to kiss it. A typical Sylvie move.
He takes her hand, turning his forearm and pumping it twice. Sylvie lets out a strangled squeak.
But she’ll recover. And then look for a way to fondle his arm or something. Maybe even use a finger to trace the romantic phrase tattooed on it.
“Oops,” Devlin says, looking down at his hand. “Forgot about the marinade. Sorry about that.”
He doesn’t seem particularly penitent. More like he expects Sylvie to fall to her knees because he deigned to touch her.
I try not to laugh. Sylvie hates getting stuff on her hands. Says it covers up her perfume. There’s no way Devlin could know, but still, I like him more for what he did.
She goes over to the table for a napkin and wipes her hand while Devlin washes his in the sink. “It could get sticky,” he says to Sylvie. “Margaret said she added some honey to the marinade.”
I give him a sidelong glance, wondering what he’s up to as I realize he hasn’t apologized for smearing the marinade on her. He’s been so charming to Grandma. Why not with Sylvie?
Most men like her. She’s pretty, by all accounts, and has a nice body and a casually confident sexuality.
When I confronted my cheating boyfriends in high school about why they did it with Sylvie of all girls, they had similar excuses:
She’s just so into me. Couldn’t say no when she was all over me.
She’s just so hot, and I didn’t know what to do about it.
She said I was hot and started touching me and…
And they all ended on the same note: You aren’t like that.
It’s true, I’m not like Sylvie. Apparently, that’s what makes me less worthy than her.
Sylvie comes over to the sink. “You’re right, Devlin. I wouldn’t want my hands all sticky and gross.”
She sticks her chest out as she stands next to Devlin, who moves out of the way and gestures at the sink. “All yours.”
She runs the water to wash her hands. “So, should I call you Dev? Devlin seems a little…distant.”
“Not really.” He comes over and puts his arm around my shoulder. “We aren’t that close yet.” He kisses my temple. “Are we, Becca pie?”
Becca pie?
I stare up at him, unsure what to make of the endearment. And when he decided to come up with it. Then I wonder if he has a cute name for every girl he’s banged. The notion feels like a fish bone stuck in my throat.
The annoyance radiating from Sylvie is palpable. If Devlin weren’t here, she’d probably continue the rant about how I don’t deserve anything nice, and if I get anything nice, it’s through some kind of cheating because there’s no way nice things would ever just happen to me.
“Would you mind getting me a glass of iced tea, Becca?” Sylvie asks sweetly.
My hackles rise. That fake nice tone again. Ugh.
Since I’m the closest to the fridge, I pull away from Devlin and grab a glass. I start to reach for the fridge door, then stop at the show my cousin’s putting on. Sylvie moves close to him until there’s no gap between her body and Devlin’s and rubs her breasts up and down his bare arm. She doesn’t seem to care that I’m watching.
Devlin doesn’t move. Must be enjoying it. A lot.
Bastard. Now I want to toss the tea in his face. And hers, too. That’d make them a matching pair.
“Devlin,” she says in a breathless sigh.