The kitchen smells like expensive coffee and impending disaster.
I've been standing in the doorway for approximately thirty seconds, watching Oliver navigate the espresso machine with infuriating competence. He's wearing a grey t-shirt that fits too well and joggers that should be illegal before noon.
Our parents left an hour ago. Something about final venue walkthrough and napkin emergencies. Mum kissed my cheek and chirped about "you two getting to know each other better" like the universe hadn't already arranged that in spectacular fashion.
Oliver turns. His smile is slow, deliberate, devastating.
"Morning, sis."
I want to throw something at his head. Preferably something heavy and expensive. The sugar bowl looks promising.
"We need to talk."
"Coffee first?" He gestures to the machine like a gracious host. "I make an excellent flat white. Among other things."
"The deal is off."
The words come out harder than intended. Oliver's eyebrows rise slightly, but he doesn't look surprised. He looks amused, which is somehow infinitely worse.
"Is it now?"
"Yes. Completely off. Permanently cancelled. Consider it null and void and buried in concrete."
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting puzzle he's in no rush to solve. The medallion catches the morning light. I hate that I notice it. Hate more that I remember how it felt against my collarbone.
"Mind telling me why?"
"Because you're about to become my stepbrother, Oliver. In four days, our parents are getting married. My mother has been single for fifteen years. Fifteen years of failed relationships and broken engagements and crying over wine."
I pace the kitchen, unable to stand still. My hands are doing things I can't control—gesturing wildly, fidgeting with my sleeves.
"She finally found someone who makes her happy. Richard adores her. She adores him. This wedding is the most important thing that's happened to her in decades, possibly ever."
"And?"
"And I'm not risking any of that over some stupid arrangement that wasn't even a real date. It was barely a meeting."
Oliver's expression doesn't change. He simply watches, patient as a predator, while I unload every justification I rehearsed at three in the morning while staring at ceiling cracks.
"What happened at the wine bar was a mistake. A moment of weakness. You caught me at a vulnerable time, post-breakup, phone destroyed, self-esteem in the gutter. I made a poor decision."
"A poor decision," he repeats slowly, tasting the words.
"Yes. One I deeply regret."
"You regret feeling something for the first time in your life?"
Heat floods my cheeks. Damn him and his stupid perfect memory. Damn his entire existence, frankly.
"That's not—I didn't say—"
"You're blushing." He pushes off the counter, taking one step toward me. Just one. "Have you stopped thinking about it yet? What happened under that table?"
My body betrays me instantly. The memory surfaces unbidden—his fingers on my thigh, his breath against my neck, the desperate ache he left behind like a parting gift.
"That's irrelevant."
"Is it? Because you've adjusted your collar six times since walking in here. I've been counting."
I drop my hand from my throat like it's on fire. Mortification tastes like copper.
"Stay away from me, Oliver."
"Alright."
The easy agreement stops me cold. I expected resistance, negotiation, that infuriating confidence he wears like expensive cologne.
"Alright?"
"I'll give you space." He shrugs, so casual it makes my teeth hurt. "Until you change your mind."
"I won't change my mind."
"Then you have nothing to worry about." His smile turns knowing, practically luminous with certainty. "But the offer stands. Whenever you're ready, I'm here. Waiting."
"I will never be ready."
"Never is a strong word. Especially for someone whose pulse is currently visible in her throat."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He picks up his coffee cup, takes a leisurely sip. "You hate that I'm right. Different thing entirely. Important distinction."
I want to scream. I want to grab his stupidly handsome face and shake some humility into it. Instead, I stand there vibrating with fury while he radiates smug satisfaction like a human space heater of arrogance.
"The boy who locked me in cupboards doesn't get to psychoanalyze me."
Something flickers across his features. A shadow, quickly buried beneath the charm.
"I was a terrible kid."
"Yes. You were."
"Children are often cruel. Especially ones processing abandonment poorly."
"Is that supposed to be an apology?"
"Would you accept one?"
I don't have an answer. The question hangs between us, complicated and uncomfortable, sharp-edged.
"Just stay away from me," I repeat, quieter now. "Please."
"As you wish."
He raises his cup in a mock salute and walks past me toward the garden door. Close enough that I catch his scent—clean, warm, entirely too appealing for someone I allegedly despise.
Close enough that my traitorous body remembers exactly what his hands felt like.
Then he's gone, leaving me alone in the kitchen with cold coffee and a burning face and absolutely no idea how to survive this week.
I grip the counter and force myself to breathe.
The universe has a hellish sense of humor. The only man who's ever made my body respond—who awakened something I'd convinced myself didn't exist—is my childhood tormentor. My future stepbrother. A former gigolo with more confidence than should be legal.
He doesn't seem like the cruel boy I remember. The one who laughed at my tears. But people learn to hide things, don't they? Maybe he's just gotten better at the performance.
I'd be happy never seeing him again. Ecstatic, actually. I'd throw a parade.
Except we're about to be family. Forced together at every holiday, every birthday, every awkward family gathering until one of us dies or emigrates to Antarctica.
The garden door opens. I spin around, expecting Oliver's triumphant return, but it's Mum—breezing in with Richard close behind, both flushed with venue-planning excitement.
"Darling! Did you and Oliver have a nice chat?"
"Lovely." The word tastes like battery acid and regret.
"I told you they'd get along!" She beams at Richard. "Didn't I say they would?"
Richard smiles, but something in his eyes suggests he understands more than he's saying. An apologetic flicker, there and gone. A ghost of acknowledgment.
He knows. On some level, he remembers his son's childhood cruelty. But acknowledging it would mean confronting fifteen years of willful blindness, and that's simply not done in polite British society.
"Lottie seems tired," Richard offers mildly. "Perhaps she needs rest before tonight's dinner."
Mum waves this off with characteristic dismissal. "Nonsense! We have so much planning to do! Centerpieces won't arrange themselves!"
She launches into venue details while I stand there, nodding robotically, my face frozen in approximation of enthusiasm.
Richard catches my eye briefly. Almost sympathetic. Almost sorry.
But not sorry enough to actually say anything useful.
My mother chatters about seating charts. Richard agrees with everything she suggests. And somewhere in this house, Oliver is probably doing something infuriatingly attractive while remaining completely certain I'll eventually cave.
I feel like I'm losing my mind.
No—I feel like I've already lost it completely, and everyone else is pretending not to notice the pieces scattered across the kitchen floor.