My New Stepbrother

verything in shades of gold that felt nothing like home. Nothing like the cramped apartment in Chicago where Mom and I had spent the last ten years scraping by. Now we were living in a mansion in B

girls like me invisible. Better that way. My plan for senior year was simple: keep my head down, get good grades, and count down the days until college. No drama, no complications, no drawing attention to the fact that I was now living in the most expensive zip code in Los Angeles despite clearly not belonging here. After dinner, I escaped to my room and tried to focus on unpacking, but the silence of the enormous house was deafening. In our old apartment, I could hear Mrs. Peterson's TV through the thin walls and the constant hum of traffic. Here, the only sound was the distant splash of water from the infinity pool outside. Around eleven, I gave up on organizing and headed downstairs for some of those fancy cookies I'd seen in the kitchen. The house was dark except for the soft glow of under-cabinet lighting. I was reaching for the cookie jar when I heard the front door open, followed by footsteps and the soft thud of something dropping. "Shit," a low voice muttered. I froze. Adrian was home. The footsteps moved through the foyer and toward the kitchen. I could slip out through the back door to the pool area, circle around, and sneak back upstairs. Or I could act like a normal human being and just say hello. The footsteps were getting closer. I grabbed a cookie and turned around just as someone walked into the kitchen. And promptly forgot how to breathe. The guy standing in the doorway wasn't just handsome-he was the kind of beautiful that should have been illegal. Dark hair that looked like he'd been running his fingers through it, sharp jawline, and eyes so intensely blue they seemed to glow in the dim lighting. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had the easy confidence that came with knowing you were the best-looking person in any room. This was my stepbrother. We stared at