The Disastrous Love Lives of the Delaney Family

1.2 Alea Iacta Est

My mother's family have a tradition. It's unique amongst all the other traditions we have. Maybe because it came from the Irish side, rather than the French side. Although, I don't think you can call it a tradition. It most likely started as a rite of passage but because so many of them 'graduated' it became a tradition. I digress.

The tradition is that you have to get arrested, and bonus kudos if you spend some time in custody. 

Almost everyone in the family has completed this feat. Most did it one fail swoop when they were in America, and that fiasco ended with Sophie and Daniel becoming engaged for the first time. I can count on one hand those who haven't broken the law. 

The reason I'm telling you this is because you have to remember that there are worse things that I could have done when I tell you this: the penthouse at the Eighth at the Galliard is beautiful. I know this because I went there. Last night. After dinner with Léa. To meet Evander. 

The shame I feel at having gone there drowns me the second I step foot out the lift, the fear of running into Evander making me sweat through my silk shirt. The only thing I fear more than bumping into Evander the morning after is running into Daniel. As my favourite uncle, and the one I'm closest to in the madhouse of my family, he can read me like a book. I'm pretty sure, with one look, he'll know that I've been less than wholesome. 

Not that I had sex with Evander. 

He wanted to, and I wanted to. I mean, we even got halfway to the bedroom, semi-clothed having already made it to third base. If his phone didn't ring at the most inopportune time, then I'm almost certain that we'd have gone all the way. Even after his phone rang, I was so entranced by Evander that I was willing to keep going. 

I want to blame it on alcohol. As my sister taught me, nothing good ever comes from having drunk too much (my conception being the exception to the rule), but I'd only had a glass or two of wine over dinner, and a few measures of whisky on ice once I was at the Eighth. See, I have this innate ability to make very poor romantic decisions with very little need for intoxication. I can't blame the booze. 

I can only blame myself. It was a minute of weakness. Nothing more. I was caught up in the moment. It was the mood lights. The sensual music. The way Evander's eyes narrowed seductively when I first entered the room. The way his hand caressed my cheek. The way his fingers gripped my thighs. The way his tongue circled my cleavage. The gruff moan he gave when I gripped the bottom of his shirt and tugged it from his trousers. The laugh which started from the back of his throat when I tickled the skin just above his belt buckle. The sigh that echoed in my ear when he flung my bra across the room. 

Oh, God, it was all that and more. Hot, sweaty, messy... and so much fun. 

Too much fun. Way too much fun with one of the partners at the firm. With a man possibly old enough to be my father.