Chapter 2: Marie

I feel Drake’s eyes on me even before I look up for Mom. The air between us crackles: too charged, too dangerous. I force myself to act normal, to greet my mother with a neutral expression, but every word, every movement is an act.

My mother smiles at Drake as she answers his question. “Wine club was fabulous. The Johnsons were there with their son.”

I hold my whiskey glass so tight I’m afraid it might shatter in my hand.

Here we go again.

“You know... the one I’ve been trying to set her up with forever.” She jabs a finger toward me, and I slam my free hand to my forehead, digging my nails into my skin.

Fucking exhausting.

“Mom—”

“He’s a nice boy,” she hisses, leaning forward, “Yale graduate, works in finance—” she rattles off his credentials like she’s auctioning off a prized mare, but the blood rushing in my ears drowns her out.

I slam my glass down. “Maybe I don’t want a nice boy.”

Ariana doesn’t notice how Drake’s jaw clenches or how my pulse hammers visibly in my throat. Thank fuck. I was this close to breaking through with him, and as always, she ruins everything. I’ve been desperate to get my stepbrother alone for months.

I’m obsessed with him. He’s razor-sharp, brilliant, and so goddamn hot it hurts. That silver-blonde hair I want to grab in my fists, those muscles I’ve fantasized about pressed against me, those piercing blue eyes that devour me when no one’s looking. Six-foot-two of pure male perfection towering over my five-foot-three frame. We’d be explosive together.

If only he wasn’t my stepbrother.

“Yale graduate in finance,” Drake growls, voice like gravel. “Sounds like a real winner.” He throws back the rest of his whiskey, throat working as he swallows.

His eyes lock with mine, dark and dangerous. “Finance. A desk job.” His glass hits the table with a crack. “Maybe she wants someone who works with their hands.”

Ariana’s smile vanishes. Good.

“What she needs is someone who pays the bills,” Ariana snaps, already retreating toward the dining room, dismissing us like children.

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. My mother has married for money more than once, but I’d rather die. Hunter, Drake’s father, might be fit—even fuckable—for sixty, but watching my forty-year-old mother play trophy wife makes me sick. I want passion that burns everything to the ground, like in the romances I read alone at night, fingers between my legs. That’s why I’m clawing my way through college—so I can take what I want without asking permission from anyone.

“She’s exhausting,” I sigh, standing up from the bar stool. I finish the watered down whiskey, not wincing this time. At least, not from the burn.

“She’s just worried about you,” Drake lies smoothly, sliding off his own bar stool. “Thinks Yale boy equals stability.”

He steps closer, invading my space just enough to be improper. His voice drops. “But you and I both know you’re not looking for stability.”

He brushes a hand over my hip, a brief, possessive touch that makes my breath catch, “You want something real. Something that’ll leave marks.”

He lets go, stepping back. Something pained flashes in his expression and he hurries past me into the dining room.

What the fuck?

A few minutes later, we’re all settled at the dining room table, the takeout Hunter and Ariana brought home scattered across it. Ariana doesn’t cook, and while Hunter usually makes something delicious, tonight they had wine club, so they had to pick something up.

I’m not complaining. It’s Thai food.

“How’s class going, kiddo?” Hunter asks. He looks exactly like Drake, just older, a few more lines and lots more grey. It’s how I know Drake will age beautifully and why I imagine a future for us with lots of happy years.

Irresponsible thought, Marie.

“I did good on my finals, I think. We’ll find out next week when grades come out.” I scoop some Pad Thai onto my plate then pass it to Drake, deliberately brushing his shoulder with mine as I lean over.

“Nice work on finals, kid. Smart and beautiful,” Drake bumps my shoulder again and I get his scent this time: fresh sawdust, expensive whiskey and something uniquely him.

“Don’t forget foul-mouthed,” Ariana hisses, venom dripping from her whisper. My cheeks flare.

Bitch.

She’s right, but still.

I don’t know where I get it from. I can’t blame my real dad, he’s as prim and proper as my mother. Of course, I haven’t seen him in eleven years, so my memories of him are murky scraps. Pressed collars, polished shoes, a voice I half-remember.

My mother married my father for love. A mistake, according to her, one she would never make again. They struggled financially until my mother left him for a rich older man when I was two.

Aleksei was his name. He was—like Hunter—sixty. My mother was twenty-three then, though. Aleksei was such a nice guy, but he died when I was twelve, traumatizing me forever. That was a few years after my real dad left for good, so it left me pretty messed up.

Maybe that’s how I wound up so… intense.

Mom would marry a couple more times, but eventually she found Hunter and nothing would stop her from snagging the hand-sculpted billionaire: not his then wife, not her then husband. She claims she loves him; I think she loves the chase.

I have nothing against age gaps, but I have plenty against cheating. Hunter and Ariana were together for years before they both divorced their then-spouses and got together. They only fell into each other’s arms after betraying someone else—and I sympathize with every victim.

I made sure Drake didn’t have a girlfriend the first time I met him. Before I ever looked at him through my lashes. Before I started buying little dresses to fuck with him. I made sure he wasn’t taken. I still fear any moment he’ll be snagged up, but so far, so good.

And now he’s coming to my apartment. The thought brings a smile to my face as I tune back into the dinner conversation. It fades when I remember he’s my stepbrother so nothing can happen. I need to get my shit together.

“How’s work treating you, Dad?” Drake asks, avoiding my eyes. He’s so hot and cold.

Hunter offers a wry smile. “It’s good, son. Though my partners are still pushing me to retire early.” Hunter says, a small smile on his face, “I suppose I could. But then what would I do all day?”

“You’d be bored senseless,” Mom says, not looking at any of us, and I know its because she doesn’t want Hunter around more.

“If you can retire early, you should,” I force a chirp, “You only get one life. Aleksei taught me that.”

The table gets quiet.

“Aleksei sounds like a smart man,” Drake says confidently. “Knew how to live.”

Hunter’s eyes narrow slightly at Drake. So do mine, what’s he talking about?

Drake turns to look at me, picking up his whiskey in a mock toast, “Life’s short,” he continues, “Too short to let other people decide what you want.”

I swallow and heat begins pooling low in my stomach. Us. He’s talking about us. I drag my eyes away from his, unable to take his stare any longer or I’ll blush.

“Aleksei was great,” I deflect, “I miss him.”

“Me too,” Mom admits, and Hunter has his features schooled neutral. It’s a rare, true thing she’s said, and the table falls silent again.

The rest of dinner limps along under a suffocating quiet. We chat a little, but until we’re clearing the plates, the conversation doesn’t come easy. After dinner, I load the dishwasher in the kitchen. Hunter has a housekeeper, but I do it anyway.

“Walk me to my car, kid?” A gruff voice from behind me calls.

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.

“Of course,” I say, not turning, “Just give me a sec to finish up.” I finish with the dishes then I spin, aiming my warm grin at Drake and sauntering over to him.

We walk at a lazy pace to his car. The silence between us feels dangerous, like we’re both holding lit matches near gasoline. Part of me hopes he’ll apologize for crossing that line at the bar, make this simple again. Another part—the part I hate admitting exists—hopes he won’t.

“Your mom’s going to keep pushing that Yale guy until you break,” he finally says as we pass through the garage. “Tell her no.”

“Telling my mom no? My specialty.” We both laugh, but it sounds hollow.

We reach Drake’s car, a ridiculous orange sports car. He’s such a bachelor.

“Where you headed anyway?” I ask, hating how much I care about the answer. “It’s Sunday night, shouldn’t you be staying home?”

“Poker game. Garrett’s place.” He pauses, eyes darkening. “One day, I’ll take you with me.” The offer stuns me into silence for a heartbeat.

I should say no. I should walk away. Instead, I smile. “I’d like that.”

And God help me, I would—even as I know exactly how wrong this is, how many people we’d hurt. Garrett’s hot, sure, but it’s Drake who makes my heart race with equal parts desire and dread.

You know what? Fuck it.

I pull Drake into a crushing hug. It’s innocent, but I press my petite chest against his hard abs.

Drake’s hands hover above me for a moment, then they land on my waist. Not my upper back, my waist. Yes!

No.

I release him slowly, forgetting how to breathe. “See you tomorrow.” I force a smile.

“Tomorrow,” he grins. “I’ll be there.”

Then he’s off into the night. As his taillights disappear, I hug myself, fighting the urge to go after him. I shouldn’t want him, but every goodbye leaves me aching for more. Tomorrow can’t come fast enough—and God, I hope I’m strong enough when it does.