Jodi and my dad exchange a glance, a silent negotiation between them. Should you tell her or should I?
My dad loses.
“As you know, Blake’s ah…program…just ended. He needs someplace to live for a little while, while he gets his feet on the ground. And since the house has extra bedrooms and an open-door policy, this is the spot.”
My skin itches, the way they’re talking about me like I’m not here.
McKenna, though, doesn’t play the game. She cuts me a quick, sideways glance, but at least she directs her words at me. “But I thought you were living with…”
A dull pain throbs in my chest. “Not anymore.” My voice comes out thicker than I’d like.
“Oh.” Her eyebrows draw together. “Sorry.”
I clear my throat. “Don’t be.”
McKenna leans back in her chair and wedges her knees against the edge of the table, the restless bouncing stopped at last. She directs her next question at our parents. “So are you guys staying here, too?”
Another exchanged look. This time Jodi speaks up. She spins her wedding band around her finger. Simple gold. Unpretentious. “We’d love to stay longer, but we’re just here to get Blake settled. Grandma’s hip is still healing from surgery, and we need to be there for her. And then there’s the business to take care of.”
“Sure.” McKenna swallows and nods. “The business.”
There was a period of time before we knew who we were supposed to be to each other when McKenna and I were friendly. I’d come down from Rochester for our parents’ wedding, and I saw this girl—younger than me, but gorgeous—all prettied up in a silver dress. It sounds cheesy to say it, but she was glowy and soft, with a wide, open smile and a laugh that made me want to know her more. And, yeah, I might have lobbed a line or two her way, but nothing she didn’t throw right back at me.
Thirty minutes later, my dad sidled up to us and said, “Oh, good, you’ve met,” and everything fell apart. He clapped one huge palm on my shoulder and placed another hand on McKenna’s and said, “Blake, meet your new stepsister. McKenna, meet Blake. We may not live under one roof, but we’re all family now. I hope you treat each other like siblings and know you can always count on me and Jodi.”
Knowing I’d just been hitting on my underage stepsister made my skin start to sweat. My stomach roiled, and I had that hot, queasy feeling of shame like I’d been caught looking at porn. I spent the whole wedding nauseous, with the back of my neck prickling, which was a hell of a way to have to get through best-man duties.
For her part, McKenna clammed up as soon as she found out who I was, like whatever friendship or commiseration I could offer was the poisoned apple from some fairytale. Like I was the Big Bad Wolf. That’s how she’s looking at me now, like she’s anxious about being here with me. Like I’ve sucked all the air out of the room.
What the hell did I ever do to her?
“I’m going to go get my stuff,” I mutter and pull open the sliding glass door. I step through it onto the lofted deck that wraps around three sides of the house, and the ocean air makes my nose sting. The rushing noise of the waves surrounds me, a background sound, no doubt, to every scene this island has witnessed.
When I turn around to shut the door behind me, I catch McKenna’s blue stare, warped through the glass.
She sees me looking and drops her eyes.
Jesus.
I shouldn’t care so much what my little stepsister thinks of me, but I do.
Whatever my parents thought, putting me with McKenna might not be the healthy, uplifting experience they’re hoping for. But it’s my fault, anyway, for calling them in the middle of the afternoon from a gas station in bumfuck New York and spilling my guts about the shitstorm I’d come home to.
What kind of grown man has to call his parents to ask for help?
I’d sat on the curb at the gas station with the sky this weary gray, like it had given up, too.
My chest was a hole.
Still is.
Once my dad suggested the beach house and I’d agreed, he and Jodi made a used car salesman’s amount of effort trying to sell me on the idea—a summer away will be good. Take the time you need. We’re here for you. Hell, you’d be doing us a favor.
Platitudes.
My life is shit. Now McKenna knows it, too.
I slam down the rickety wooden staircase and crunch across the gravel yard to the one bright, shiny thing in this day. My Jeep Wrangler hasn’t failed me. Granted, I’ve only had it for the space of two weeks, but that new-car smell feels like freedom every time I open the door.
I dig my duffle bag out of the trunk and sling it over my shoulder, flinching involuntarily as the strap brushes over my scar. It’s been ages since I had feeling in the skin there, and the movement is a reflex more than anything. An ache over what I’ve lost rather than a physical pain. The lasting kind of hurt.
My foot’s on the second stair back up to the deck when the kids squabbling down the street shut up, and I hear the sliding glass door open upstairs.
I pause, caught halfway between here and there, and my dad calls out, “Blake?”
I clear my throat. “Here, Dad.”
A second later, he pounds down the stairs toward me. He glances at my bag and something close to a frown wrinkles across his face. “Why don’t you leave that here? Let’s go for a walk.”
This should be good.
I nod, feeling a muscle go tight in my jaw, and I drop my duffle on the steps. If someone wants to steal my T-shirts and shorts, more power to them.
Together my dad and I turn and walk in the direction of the crashing waves. It’s a surprisingly short distance down the street to the edge of the dunes, and the sand crunching underfoot the whole way exaggerates my dad’s pensive silence. At last we stop, staring out at the ocean with our feet in the sand. A half-hearted wind whistles in the beach grass, the noise almost drowned out by the ocean’s roar.
“You remember our agreement?” my dad asks.
There it is.
I lift an eyebrow at him and try to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “I stay here and stay out of trouble?”
He nods. “And you keep an eye on McKenna. Take care of her, Blake. We let her live by herself up until now, but it wasn’t our first choice. Your stepsister’s still young, and you being here’s probably for the best.”
I don’t know in what world this situation is best for either of us, but I make myself say, “Okay.” That’s what he wants to hear.
“You’ll let us know if something’s not right, if she’s struggling?”
My dad’s marching orders make me feel a little sick. It’s not fair to McKenna that I stick around and spy on her, but what the hell am I going to say? Our parents don’t need to know if I don’t hold up my end of the bargain.
I swallow hard. “Sure.”
It’s an empty promise. From what I saw inside, McKenna Maycomb doesn’t look so young anymore, and I know for a fact she’s no longer underage. We’re not going to have a kumbaya moment of sibling bonding this summer, but I’m not going to rat her out for living her life, either.
She’s plenty old enough to take care of herself.
3
McKenna
June
I’m in the living room in my bikini top and cut-off shorts, rubbing sunscreen on my chest as a bright, peppy soundtrack blasts from my cell phone, when a strong, male voice rumbles over my shoulder.
“What are you doing there?”
I whirl and give a little yelp when I see a very shirtless Blake standing on the worn, peach carpet. The sight of him makes my skin go hot. I still have one hand on my boob. Oh, lord.
“Sunscreen,” I grind out, dropping my hand. I’m sure my face is scarlet right now.
“Sunscreen.” He gives me a slow, melting smile that makes me feel even worse about my weird freak-out yesterday. I couldn’t help the way my body froze up around him. Shock is all. That’s the story I’m sticking to.
I head to the kitchen sink, mostly to avoid him and also to wash off my hands, and Blake trails across the living room to follow me. He opens the fridge and grunts at whatever he sees in there, then closes the door empty-handed.
I cut my eyes over my shoulder at him while he’s inspecting the photos on the fridge door—a quick look, hoping he won’t notice.
I’ve spent the three years I’ve known Blake Reynolds looking at him out of the corner of my eye, too afraid to look closer and like what I see. It doesn’t matter that my stomach’s doing this crazy dance right now, that his hazel gaze when he saw me with the sunscreen lit my skin on fire. I can’t like him. Not the way I want to.
But now that he’s in my kitchen, I can’t look away.
The muscles that Blake’s shirt only hinted at yesterday are on full display in the pale morning light, thick and firm. His biceps are corded and strong, and tattoos snake over his skin, covering almost his whole left shoulder, with a faint, jagged scar trailing over the right.
Lacrosse, I remind myself. Even though he doesn’t play football or baseball, his body is his job. Blake is a professional athlete. Or, he was.
I almost wish my parents had stayed through breakfast today so I wouldn’t have this lumpy feeling in my throat, like a thousand words I want to say to Blake but can’t.
“So did the parents give you the house rules?” I ask instead of saying anything important. Neutral territory, I hope.
Blake turns from the fridge reaches past me to snag a grape from the bowl I set out yesterday. He brushes so close that his electricity dazzles me, the masculine energy of him making my stomach dip.
I force myself not to yank away, to breathe slowly, but my heart hammers like it’s leading the fucking Fourth of July parade.
Bad McKenna. Very, very bad.
Maybe I’m just a stupid cliché, the good girl attracted to the bad boy, but Blake’s always looked like the kind of guy who could handle himself if he needed to. Like he could take control. Lord knows he’s got a list of issues longer than my arm, but at least he’s human, not like the preppy, overeager guys that my college mass-produces, assembly-line style.
He’s got this roughness about him that reminds me of the way my edges are bumpy, too.
Blake leans his hip against the edge of the kitchen counter and pops a grape into his mouth. “I don’t know what rules you’re talking about,” he says. He’s wary like he might have overheard the other rules my mom whispered to me before she left this morning—We don’t need to tell you to keep alcohol out of the house, right? Her hot, guilty glance away.
“Easy rules,” I tell Blake, brightening my smile.
I lean the hollow of my back against the kitchen counter, prop my right foot on the bend of my left knee. “No brushing your hair in the kitchen.”
“Got it.” He gives me a look and rubs a hand over his short-cut hair to prove a point.
I laugh. “Okay. Number two, no shoes in the house.”
“Fair.” He leans a little closer, and his earthy scent tickles my nose. “Anything else, McKenna?”
“If you’ve been anywhere sandy, you’ve got to wash your feet before you come in the house. You’ve got two options—the hose and the outdoor showers. Did you find them yesterday?”
Blake shakes his head.
Yesterday he and Jim disappeared right after Blake said he was going to grab his things. I assumed the two of them were having a moment, except Jim returned to the house thirty minutes later and Blake only showed up midway through dinner to snag a roll off the table before he disappeared again into the bedroom across from mine. I guess wherever Blake went, it didn’t involve inspecting the property.
“Up for a tour?” I ask.
“Why not?”
“I assume you don’t need to see upstairs since you already slept there.”
He nods. The upstairs, which is technically the third floor of the house, is small but functional—two bedrooms, a hall closet, and a bathroom.
“Then out we go.”
Blake pops another grape into his mouth and follows me through the kitchen door and onto the deck, where I slide on a pair of flip flops. The morning’s already gathering heat, and humidity hangs in the air like a solid thing. I can feel the hair grow damp at the base of my neck, but at least the temperature will make for a good beach day.
At school, I shower in the mornings. At the beach, there’s no point—everything will be hot and dripping and sandy in another five minutes—so I like to shower before bed. Last night I stood under the water, separated from Blake’s bedroom by the thinnest wall, listening. To the water, to my heart. And listening for him.
I wanted a sign that he was really here, that this whole thing wasn’t some weird story my brain concocted. Even when I walked out of the bathroom, I stared at Blake’s closed door for a good five minutes before I went to bed, certain that if I stood there long enough, I’d be able to feel the pulse of his heartbeat behind the door.
But the only sound I could hear was the rushing of the waves.
I point down the block now, in the direction of the ocean. “If the noise didn’t give it away, the beach is that way.”
Blake smirks, and I turn away, walking down the stairs and crunching across the gravel yard.
I turn the corner from the side of the house where my bike is propped to the side of the house that runs perpendicular to the beach. A shiny, black Jeep sits in the driveway, conspicuously out of place next to the faded, salt-weathered blue paint slapped on the side of the building. How can he have such a fancy car if he just got out of rehab?
“That’s the hose?” Blake points to where it’s curled like a snake next to the garage doors.
The question snaps me out of my funk, and I shove a hand into my back pocket. Not my business.
“It is indeed.”
We follow the brick path that my grandfather laid back when he was still alive from the hose to around another corner.
“Ta-da.” I sweep my hands at the outdoor shower stall. The wooden sides start at mid-calf, and an opaque roof keeps some semblance of privacy from the deck above while letting in the sun. Showering here is like getting washed in the rain.
“Looks like fun,” Blake says.
“It might be my favorite part of the whole beach experience.”
He nods as he considers it, and I blush.
“So what’s your story?” Blake asks. “How’d you get this whole arrangement for the summer?”
I look at him in surprise. “The parents didn’t tell you about me?”
“Why, did they tell you about me?”
I pull my eyes away.
“Ah,” he says. “Never mind. I’m sure they gave you a story.”
I shrug and walk to the edge of the yard, where a border of beach rocks and shells holds back the garden’s thick, dark soil. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I like to form my own opinions.” I reach for the petals of a rose, soft and fragrant under my fingertips. “Actually, that’s why I’m here.”
“Oh?”
When I look over my shoulder, Blake’s standing in the sunlight, arms crossed over his broad chest, a look of curiosity on his face.
I turn back to the rose and prune a dry leaf from its stem. It’s easier not to watch the muscles in Blake’s forearms ripple. I don’t blame him for being shirtless, because it’s hot, but damn, it’s hard to stand here and not react to him. It’s okay to find someone attractive, but that’s not the same as being attracted to him. And with Blake, I’m walking a dangerous line.
“I told my mom I wanted to drop out of Pre-Med. Drop out of college entirely, actually, and she made me a trade. Stay the summer here and reconsider before I do anything rash.”
Blake snorts. “Sounds familiar.”
I fold a smile between my teeth and give a non-committal hum. Sure, Blake’s crashing my one-woman party—the long, languid summer that promised the solitude I craved—but in another way, we’re also in the same boat.
“So wh
at do you want to do, if not Pre-Med?” Blake asks.
It feels really nice for someone to ask and not sound like they’re judging me, so I give him a piece of the answer.
I gesture out at the garden. “I want to have my own flower shop one day. Be a florist.”
“You did the flowers for the wedding, right?”
I nod, remembering the day our parents got married. I’d gone to the farmer’s market that morning, then spent hours arranging flowers for the reception and making the bouquets and boutonnieres, content to be doing what I loved.
After my mom put on her dress and we had a minute to drink champagne, I slipped out of the bridal suite to deliver the boutonnieres for the guys.
Blake was the one who opened the door, only I didn’t know it was him yet. I thought it was just some hot guy, one of Jim’s friends or coworkers or something, framed in the doorway like this picture of the perfect man.
“Who is it?” someone asked from further inside the room.
Blake leaned a forearm on the doorframe. “Who should I say it is?” he asked conspiratorially.
My heart danced. “The florist.” It felt so good to be able to say that and have it be true.
“The florist,” he called back. He returned his gaze to mine. “Well, florist, how can I help?”
“You can take these, for starters.”
He wore a sharp navy suit, the lines crisp on his body, and his hair was damp from a shower. He smelled clean and enticing, and when he reached forward to take the box of flowers from my hands, he offered me an excruciatingly sexy smile.
“That’s quite a handful,” he said.
“I am,” I teased back.
He broke into a startled laugh. “I’m going to have to watch out for you, aren’t I?”
I smiled back at him. “As long as you keep my designs safe, we’ll be just fine.”
He nodded, humor in his eyes. “Pinky swear,” he said, which made me laugh. Yeah, he was definitely hot. Too bad it all came crashing down by the end of the night.
“Florist is a pretty big difference from Pre-Med,” Blake says now. His voice is so surprisingly kind that I can’t help myself, and I look back to catch his reaction. His smile stretches warm and genuine.
Step Summer Page 2
