Chapter 3: Drake

I drive straight to Garrett’s house. My mind is racing with thoughts of Marie. What she said at dinner, how her mother gives her a hard time.

Sure, Marie’s a little edgy, but I like that about her. Girl’s been through hell. Dad left, two stepfathers before my dad, and one died for fuck’s sake. I don’t even know if Ariana understands what she’s put my Marie through.

Listen to me, my Marie. I’ve got to get it together before tomorrow.

You’re the one that wanted more time with her.

It’s not like that. It can’t be like that. She’s brilliant, beautiful, she’s nice company. That’s all it is. That’s all it can be.

I step into Garrett’s living room, bringing my thoughts back to the present. These nights can get… intense. I plan on leaving before the real festivities begin. I’m not in the mood. I haven’t been since I met…

Fuck.

“Wasn’t expecting you, boss. Have a seat.” Garrett smiles when he sees me. Not everyone would be happy to party with their boss, but me and Garrett have a unique relationship. We understand each other. When we’re at work we get shit done. Work hard, play hard.

Garrett’s my right-hand-man at work. He does all the shit I don’t want to do at my construction company. I’m better at the planning, the executing, the evaluating.

He’s better at the people.

And why wouldn’t he be? His near-permanent smirk is handsome, and so is he. At only a few inches shorter than me, his impressive, muscular body is intimidating and hard.

I drop into the chair, the leather creaking under my weight. I flex my fingers, still tense from clutching Marie’s waist.

“Deal me in,” I grunt, reaching for the whiskey bottle. Fuck, I can still smell her perfume.

Garrett’s smirk widens. “Rough night with the family, boss?”

“Something like that.” I pour three fingers. The burn doesn’t touch the ache in my chest. “My stepsister’s got a light that needs fixing tomorrow.”

Fraser, my accountant, narrows his eyes. Oh god, does he know? “Your stepsister,” he repeats flatly.

“Twenty-one,” I admit, staring at my cards without seeing them. “Sassy. Smart. Off-fucking-limits before either of you say anything.”

Garrett looks at Fraser, “I’ve met her. Total smoke show. I’m talking an eleven out of ten.”

Fraser grunts. He’s the more stoic of my two best friends and confidants. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, people listen.

Garrett, on the other hand, talks all the fucking time.

I run a hand over my face, frustrated and trying to hide my embarrassment. “Dude, come on. That’s my family you’re talking about. Both of us are old enough to be her father.”

“You, maybe. I’m only thirty four, remember?” Garrett’s grin is getting wider. “I bet she’s a virgin. She gives me that vibe.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” I growl, low and dangerous. The possessiveness surprises even me. “She’s not some fucking conquest.”

Garrett’s grin doesn’t falter. Fraser’s watching me like I’m a bomb about to go off.

“Either way, she’s my stepsister,” I repeat, more to myself than them. Virgin. The word sits heavy in my chest. Makes me want to protect her and corrupt her all at once. Makes me sick with myself.

I knock back another drink. “Deal the fucking cards.”

We avoid the topic for a few blessed rounds. But I’ve had more whiskey tonight than I’d planned to. I’m a little tipsy.

Garrett, probably sensing my vulnerability, decides to needle me some more.

“So if she wasn’t your stepsister,” he says, dealing another hand, “you’d be doing more than fixing her light tomorrow?”

I stare at Garrett over my cards, the whiskey burning through my veins and my better judgment. My jaw ticks.

“If she wasn’t my stepsister?” The words come out rough, tasting like ash and regret. “I’d have her bent over that fucking kitchen counter before she finished asking.”

Fraser’s expression doesn’t change. Garrett’s grin turns feral.

I throw my cards down. “But she is. And I’m forty fucking years old, and her mother is married to my father, and I’m the only goddamn adult in this room who seems to understand why that’s a problem.”

“No, no. We get it, it’s complicated.” Garrett concedes, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“We’ve just never seen you so torn up over a girl, boss.” Fraser says, and it gives me serious pause. They’ve noticed? “You’ve been different since she’s come around,” Fraser explains.

He’s not wrong. Before Marie, I’d bring a different girl over for poker night each week. Not literally, of course, there are only so many attractive, single women in our small town. But I’ve never had a serious girlfriend. Never been interested in one. I respect women, but I don’t have the kind of lifestyle and preferences that lend themselves to monogamy.

Yet another reason I should stay away from my perfect stepsister.

I catch my reflection in the dark window. It looks like a man who should know better.

“Different,” I repeat Fraser’s word, tasting it. “She’s... fuck, I don’t know. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

I knock back the last of my whiskey, the burn barely registering now. “She looks at me like she sees past the bullshit. Past the contractor thing, past the age, past the fact that I still live with my dad.” I squeeze the empty glass. “And when she bites her lip...”

I stop. Shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m forty. She’s twenty-one. Her mom is sleeping with my father. This isn’t a midlife crisis—it’s a fucking Greek tragedy.”

Garrett opens his mouth. I cut him off. “And if either of you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll bury you under the foundation of the next site. Understood?”

“Understood,” they say in unison.

———

I stumble through the front door at 1 AM, the whiskey hitting my bloodstream nicely. The house is dark except for Hunter’s study—light still bleeding under the door.

Here we go again.

I try to move silently, but I’m 6’2” and clumsy with drink. The floorboard creaks.

The door opens. Hunter stands there in his robe, eyes sharp despite the hour. “Poker go well?”

He knows. He always knows.

“Won three hundred,” I lie, avoiding his gaze. “Garrett’s getting sloppy.”

“And Marie?” The question lands like a punch. “She’s all you’re thinking about. I can see it.”

I freeze. The guilt slams into me, sobering. “She’s my stepsister.”

“She’s twenty-one,” Hunter says flatly. “And you’re my son. Which means you’re better than this.”

He steps aside, letting me pass. My hand tightens on the banister. Part of me wants to argue—to tell him she’s not really family, that we met as adults, that this feeling can’t be wrong when it feels so goddamn right. But the other part knows he’s right.

Hunter steps back into the hallway, arms folded. “You can’t keep living like this, Drake. Poker nights, whiskey, construction gigs—when are you going to grow up?”

I swallow, heat rising in my cheeks. “I run my own company,” I mutter, knowing how small it sounds.

He shakes his head. “You could’ve been more. I wanted more for you.”

His words sting more than I want to admit. All my life, I’ve been chasing a nod, a word, some proof that I’m not just a disappointment. But tonight, the only thing I want is Marie—and that makes me hate myself even more.

I head to my room, the war inside me making each step heavier than the last. Tomorrow I’ll fix her light and keep my distance. Or maybe I’ll let my fingers brush against hers, just once.