Sweetest Temptation

"You're the biggest jerk in the world!"

I raise an eyebrow. Nika's pointed accusation was anticipated, but the accompanying theatrics were excessive, even for her. Her impressive chest rises and falls in the low-cut green dress she purchased with my money. Perhaps she wants me to feel guilty for rejecting her, but all I can think about is how she needs to visit her colorist. Dark roots contrast sharply with her overly bleached platinum hair. And the fake lash over her left eye isn't applied well. Every time she blinks, it droops slightly. Can't she feel that?

Well-dressed diners in designer attire begin to turn discreetly to witness the drama. A woman in a mauve dress drops her napkin and quickly glances at our table while picking it up. These patrons might be wealthy enough to enjoy a fancy restaurant with a menu that doesn't list prices, but they aren't immune to the excitement of watching a captivating scene unfold. And Nika's piercing tone guarantees just that.

"It's not that much money," she adds in a somewhat calmer voice. She knows I dislike drama.

The disappointment from those around us is real. They were wishing "she'd toss the '98 Lafitte my way. But that would be a foolish decision. I'm calm and logical as long as I'm not pressed too hard. However, when I reach my limit, I blow up. Most people don't witness it because my tolerance is quite high. Not even my siblings, except for that one instance in high school.

"I'm not about to throw money at your impulsiveness," I reply evenly.

"It's a business venture."

"With no strategy or financial forecasts."

"It's going to turn a profit, Nikolai. I'm offering you an opportunity to invest early. It's just two million dollars. Essentially pocket change."

That's quite ironic, coming from someone who has maxed out seven credit cards. She hasn't declared bankruptcy only because her hedge fund manager's father is covering the debts. "In that case, just fish it out from between your couch cushions."

She leans in closer. "Your new car is worth half a million."

"That's correct. I wouldn't even spend two million on a car for myself, and I'm certainly not giving that kind of money to your 'business.' I'm not your financial backup."

"I'll repay it."

"A sloth would finish a marathon before you could earn enough to repay the interest-free loan you're asking for."

"Why do you have to be so selfish?" she demands. "I've been relying on your help!"

"Because it's my money, not yours, and I'm not your dad." My phone buzzes. I "look at the screen, which displays a text from my stepsister.

–Mila: Hey, are you in town? If so, can you come to Shots now?

–Me: What's that?

–Mila: A bar. It's Frey's birthday, and she's pretty drunk. And no one can drive her home.

Frey. Milla's best friend and fellow UC Irvine student, who just turned twenty-one today. Everyone she's out with is likely intoxicated, including my stepsister.

–Milla: I'm also not in a state to drive, so I'm going to walk over to Jerry's. But Milla probably wants to go home. Do you remember where our apartment is?

–Me: Of course. I helped you move.

Mainly because I wanted to spend some time with Frey. Otherwise, I would've just hired someone to assist Milla.

–Milla: If you can't, I'll ask someone else. Maybe Leo. I think he said he wasn't going to drink too much.

Leo, huh? Does she think I'm going to trust a tipsy college student with Frey?

–Me: I'll be there. Tell Frey to hold on.

–Milla: Thanks. I knew I could rely on you.

More like I instructed her not to mess around with her or Frey's safety. Although those two came into my life just three years ago, I take their well-being seriously. Milla because she's my stepsister and Frey... Well, because she's simply special. The smile on her face when we first met struck me like Cupid's proverbial arrow, and I haven't quite been able to shake it off even though I know she's too young. I'm eight years older, and we don't share much in common.

But there's something about her that keeps drawing me in. It's hard to articulate, but she makes me feel like I can just... breathe easily and be myself.

"Have you been paying attention to anything I said?" Nika demands. The redness on her face is blotchy and unappealing.

"I already told you no." I catch our waiter's eye and hand him the valet parking ticket. He walks away.

Nika doesn't notice what I'm doing with the waiter. To her, the restaurant staff is irrelevant. Most people seem to be beneath her notice unless they're wealthy or well-connected. I probably shouldn't have gone out with her, even though she does make decent arm candy. But I was attempting to forget my feelings for Frey, and the best option seemed to be seeking someone completely unlike her. A woman my age, with some fancy high-society gloss and... things.

And now I find myself with this dramatic banshee, who's shouting, "I said if you're going to be so stingy about it, at least take me to your father's birthday party!"

"More heads turn in our direction.

"No," I say calmly but have to suppress an inward shudder. As a general rule, I avoid taking dates to Dad's birthday parties. They're always cringeworthy, although he calls them "fun," and naturally, everyone in his circle concurs. You don't disagree with Lance Vinz, the Hollywood icon who's produced nothing but mega-hit movies over his decades-long career. Even I admit his filmography is impressive. I drop a few hundred-dollar bills on the table. "I need to leave."

"What? You can't do that!"

I stand up.

"If you walk out, we're finished!" She slams the table hard enough to make the silverware rattle.

"Okay." I start moving away.

"What? Nikolai! No, wait!" Her chair scrapes the floor with a screech as she jumps to her feet.

But I get out before she does-my strides are longer, I have a lead, and she's in unsteady heels.

The valet and I exchange cash and the fob. I slip into my Aston Martin.

"You can't leave me here! I'm your girlfriend!" Nika yells.

Girlfriend? Is she serious? I lower the window on the passenger side about two inches. "I thought we were done. You broke up with me just now, don't you remember?"

I begin my drive down I-5 towards Irvine.

Shots are situated close to the campus and have the vibe of a standard college bar. Bright lights and a lot of neon text on shiny black surfaces promise low-priced drinks and even cheaper food.

"I pull into a parking spot and get out. A couple of girls walk by, and one of them exclaims, "Wow." A few guys openly gawk at the car, but I ignore them and roll my shoulders. The full moon hangs in the sky, larger and brighter than usual.

It's beautiful. The sight helps ease my irritation from dinner. The moon shines in the same manner, regardless of your location... or your emotions. It doesn't shine as aggressively or dazzlingly as the sun. Instead, it has a certain quiet consistency that I find reassuring.

Shots are more crowded than a box of doughnuts. I'm dressed too formally in my Armani suit and Gucci loafers. The place is dimly lit, and terrible music blares in the background. The lyrics consist mainly of curse words. Her friends should have taken Frey somewhere more upscale. At least somewhere with better drinks that would justify a hangover.

I finally catch sight of Frey and Milla at the back. My stepsister's eyes are narrowed, and she has a tight expression as some guy next to her speaks. Frey is next to Milla, sipping on a beer. Judging by the way she sways, I can tell she's had several.

I approach and place a hand on Frey's shoulder. "Hey."

She looks at me. "Hey, Nikolai." She slurs her greeting and beams at me with a bright smile, but her green eyes are decidedly glassy. "I'm twenty-one now!"

"Right, I'm aware. I sent you a birthday text this morning, remember?" I also sent her what Milla calls "book money" so I don't come off as a "creepy guy with too much cash." Milla boosts my confidence.

"Oh, you did." Frey laughs. "Are you here to buy me a drink?"

"Yeah... not sure if that's a wise idea. I'm here to take you home."

Milla swivels her head. "Oh hey, you made it."

"Yep." My gaze shifts to the guy next to her.

"This is Jerry," Georgia introduces. "Jerry, meet my stepbrother Nicholas."

Jerry appears athletic, like a big tennis player. I nod in acknowledgment and approval. At least Frey has someone to walk with. I don't care what college officials say about the safety of the area. I won't allow my stepsister to become a statistic. "Make sure she gets home safely, alright?"

I glance at Frey. "It's time to get you home now."

"Are you going to drive me back?" she asks.

"Absolutely. Tonight, I'm your chauffeur," I say, helping her to her feet.

"Oh, that's great." She sways a bit and then leans against me. Her curves press into my side, and I feel a dryness in my mouth. She's a bit sweaty and has the scent of alcohol. Yet, she fits snugly against me, and her softness indicates she's not a child.

She's just twenty-one. I'm nearly thirty. I shouldn't be feeling these intense feelings coursing through my body. Milla would never have asked me to take her best friend home if she "knew the inappropriate thoughts swirling in my head."

As we leave the bar, she calls out, "Good night!" to a group of people she passes. They all seem to want hugs and confused goodbyes as she departs. They likely came here to celebrate her birthday but are too intoxicated now to recall it.

At last, we step outside. The cool night air feels incredible. Frey sways beside me, her petite form pressed against my side. Quietly reciting the Lord's Prayer-which isn't distracting me-I assist her into the car before taking my place in the driver's seat. She blinks a few times.

"This is a nice car," she comments, tracing her fingers along the leather seats and dashboard. "Aren't you worried I might throw up?"

"Do you feel that ill?" Concern sharpens my voice. "Do you need a doctor or something?"

She chuckles. "No. I'm fine."

We'll see. I ought to keep an eye on her. I'll never forget that incident in college when a group of juniors overindulged. I turn on the engine.

"Do you know where I live?"

Sigh. "Of course. I assisted Milla with the move, remember?" I also carried a ton of boxes for Frey because she was moving by herself. Her father was somehow always unavailable to help. At first, she was quite apologetic but then expressed her gratitude profusely. She treated me and Milla to a quick chicken and veggie stir-fry for dinner. I can't recall the last occasion someone cooked for me. It was the best meal I've had in ages. Frey's home-cooked food will always surpass a three-star Michelin restaurant.

She yawns and stretches. "I thought maybe you'd forgotten."

I remember everything about you. Memories build up. Each one stands apart, but they all bring a smile to my face.

She emits a soft sound and closes her eyes.

"Tell me if you start feeling unwell," I say, navigating the car smoothly through the traffic.

"Don't worry. I won't throw up in your car. I can't afford a cleaning."

"It doesn't matter about the car. I'm concerned about you."

She appears to have drifted off. "I expected to feel different turning twenty-one, but it's pretty much the same," she murmurs.

"Really? What were you hoping to feel?"

"More... I don't know. Adult? With a clear understanding of how to get what I want?"

"What do you want?" Maybe I can help her get it.

She falls silent again. "I wish my mom were here."

A mix of confusion and sympathy washes over me-Frey lost her mom when she was just a child.

"But she's not, so..." she sighs. "I wish I had someone who loves me as I am," she mumbles, more to herself than to me.

"Everyone loves you for who you are." I dislike the defeat in her tone. Normally bright, Frey would never show me a hint of her vulnerability if she were sober.

"Really?" Her voice conveys disbelief.

"Yep."

"It's so strange. Aren't you supposed to be cynical?"

"Me? Why is that?"

"Because you're wealthy? Don't people ask you for money and things? So you're just naturally like, 'Oh my God, I hate people.'"

I reflect on the unpleasant dinner I had with Nika. Then I glance at Frey, who clings to the seatbelt as if it's what's keeping her steady. I recall how flustered she felt when I gifted her a modest garnet anklet for her birthday three years ago. It was too pricey-a gift she felt she couldn't accept. "Well, sometimes. But not everyone is terrible."

"You know what? It's perfectly fine for you to be wealthy," she says, trying to sound wise, despite her inebriation.

"Why? Do you want my money as well?" I grin.

She gasps in response. "No! I'd never be that superficial. I'm attracted to you for your body."

A warmth ignites within me, but her drunken laugh quickly cools it down.

"I'm fond of your eyes." She adjusts herself slightly to see me better. "They radiate kindness." Her gentle voice is sincere. "You possess a rare ability to make people feel important just by looking at them."

She tilts her head and gazes at me while the city lights flicker outside. But she is the one with the talent to make someone feel valued. She regards me as though I'm flawless merely for being myself, not for my wealth or my father's status. She has never asked me for anything, nor does she expect anything in return. If I lost all my riches, she would still treat me the same way.

She offers me a lovely smile that sends a shiver through my heart, then leans back against the seat, shutting her eyes.

She doesn't stir until I carry her into her apartment.