The smell of coffee and fried batter lures me off the third floor, down the stairs to the bright kitchen with its huge marble counters. Off-white rustic cabinets run the entire length of one side of the long room, with a long counter space breaking up the storage on top and the bottom. In the middle is a center island large enough to hold five barstools. Across are more cabinets and all the fancy chrome appliances that a person would need and then some. At the back of the long slim room, a small nook overlooks the postage-stamp-sized backyard—which, by Manhattan standards, is actually sizable. Jake is ensconced in one of the chairs with the Times spread out in front of him and a plate empty of anything but a few traces of syrup.

A girl is standing in front of a large six-burner stovetop pouring batter into an ancient-looking cast iron pan, which is a perfect snapshot of the townhouse—a blend of new and old but all sturdy, workable items. She must be Sabrina. The similarity in their features is unmistakable.

There are no delicate vases or strange pieces of art that you often see in these more expensive townhouses. I’ve lived in New York for going on six years so I’m well aware of the price tag attached to a place like this. It is in the millions, could even be eight-figure millions.

Oliver and I came from a solid Midwestern background, and while we have both achieved some form of financial success, there is an air of almost disregarded wealth here, as if Jake and his family have been surrounded by this environment for generations.

Jake lifts his head from his paper. His super-soldier hearing, as I put it, must have alerted him to my arrival. He tilts his head in invitation and I trot over to his side without another thought.

“There you are,” he says, stroking the back of my legging-clad thigh under the overlong T-shirt that I’m wearing. It’s his. I found it folded on the top of the tufted dark brown leather chair situated in the corner of the room. It’s mine now, but I haven’t told him that yet. “Like your shirt.”

I lift the collar to my nose and inhale Jake’s scent—a mix of sandalwood aftershave, fresh soap, and clean sweat. My favorite new cologne. “It smells good too.”

His full lips spread into a wide smile. He fists the shirt and drags me down for a long, wet kiss. It’s almost too long and too wet to be having in front of his sister, but I’ve found I’m pretty much unable to resist anything Jake wants. Who am I fooling? I want this too. In fact, I’d like the hand that is now gripping the back of my thigh to be down my leggings. I break away from the kiss before I climb onto his lap and start grinding like a shameless wanton.

At least he’s breathing a little heavily too. “Get some dinner,” he says and squeezes me hard on the ass.

I wander over to Sabrina. She’s taller than I had guessed from her picture, with a willowy body that probably makes everything she buys look amazing. She’s the type who can literally wear a potato sack and still look elegant. Today she’s chosen a pair of skinny jeans and a slouchy knit shirt. Her caramel brown hair is caught up in a high ponytail, and when she turns to greet me good morning, I almost stumble back at the beauty of her unusual blue-gray eyes.

She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow and I give myself an internal slap on the face. Of course she’s beautiful, because Jake is beautiful. Their beauty is different but still the same. They have the same high cheekbones, but where Jake’s jaw is more chiseled, hers is softer. His eyes are a deeper blue and hers are light. But the slope of the cheeks and the full lips mark them clearly as related.

“Hi, I’m Sabrina.” She holds out the hand that’s not gripped around her spatula. “We’re having breakfast for dinner. Is that okay?”

I wipe my sweaty hands on my pants, grateful that I’ve taken diazepam, otherwise I probably wouldn’t be able to do this. Maybe I should be giving the drugs a little more credit.

“It smells amazing and who doesn’t like breakfast?” A familiar uneasiness washes over me and this time my anxiety has nothing to do with my surroundings and everything to do with wanting Jake’s little sister to like me.

“Exactly.”

“Sorry I didn’t come down earlier.” I search for an adequate excuse. I was busy having sex with your brother, and then I got caught up in writing, so in addition to my phobias, I’ll never act like a normal person.

She waves her spatula to indicate she didn’t mind. “Jake told me you were going to be out of it. It’s no big deal. Want a pancake?”

I nod enthusiastically and try not to panic about what Jake might have told his sister. Oh by the way, I’m bringing a fruitcake to stay here. She might break down and start crying if the doorbell rings. Pay no attention to her.

“Jake tells me you’re at Columbia. What’s your major?”

“Business.” She sounds unenthused. “My mom was a lawyer and my dad was a banker. Megan, our sister, took the lawyer position and Jake was supposed to be the banker, except he joined the army. But he owns his own business, so it’s all good now. So I guess I’m going into investment banking.”

She sounds unenthused and resentful.

I glance over my shoulder at the table, where Jake’s head is buried in the newspaper. His left hand is curled around a hot cup of coffee and I watch distractedly as the left arm moves up slowly to his mouth and then down again. I notice then that the markings of this prosthetic are different than he ordinarily wears. The fairings are a dark gray, and the area near the elbow bulges out.

“That’s his DARPA arm,” Sabrina informs me quietly when she notices where my attention is pinned. A quick twist of her wrist and three more perfectly shaped silver-dollar pancakes are poured into the cast iron pan. “It’s more advanced, but it has a lot of bugs, so he wears it only at home where he can shut it down and change it out.”

DARPA is the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. I remember doing research on robotics during my first series and coming across a lot of DARPA-related papers. They were mostly focused on creating super soldiers, but one step toward a super soldier was having amputees test out various devices. Jake would be the perfect subject. He’s very fit and active. Plus if super soldiers looked like him, all they’d have to do to win would be send in a few advance scouts to ladies’ night at the local bar. The women would fall in love and then fight to keep their new lovers in their beds—

“You’re drooling.”

Sabrina’s whisper catches me off guard. Turning away from Jake, I wipe a hand across my mouth. Dry. I give her a mock scowl and she winks back at me.

“I never thought I’d say this, but it’s nice to see you perving over my brother. Some girls are turned off.”

“By what?” I can’t imagine that there’s anything about Jake that’s objectionable. Although Sabrina has known him longer, so maybe she’s privy to some terrible personality flaws. Lowering my voice, I say conspiratorially, “Does he squeeze the toothpaste from the middle of the tube? I would hate that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh no, Jake is precise. He squeezes from the bottom and he’ll go into your bathroom and straighten out your tube from time to time.”

“Oh, so he is constantly invading your privacy?” I nod. “That would really be bothersome for me.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “He doesn’t do that either. And he doesn’t send people to follow me all over town or watch me, like his friend Ian does with his wife, Tiny.” The side of her mouth quirks up as she flips the pancakes.

“Ian? Oh, Ian Kerr?” I’d read about him in the Observer. Everyone in the city knew who he was, and supposedly we were all supposed to mourn that he’d been taken off the market by some down-market girl who rode a bike for a living. I was more intrigued by his bike-messenger girlfriend, or wife, I guess, than I was by some Wall Street billionaire who bought and sold half the city. I didn’t realize that Jake ran with that crowd. I wrinkle my nose.