What if love isn’t something you’re born knowing? What if it’s something youchoose—on purpose, every messy, terrifying day?
When I wake up,Caleb’s gone.
Of course he is. He slipped out before dawn like some reverse Cinderella—no glass slipper, just the smell of his skin still on my pillow and the ghost of his weight pressed into the mattress.
I press my palm into the dip he left behind.
Still warm.
Hewashere. I didn’t dream it. He reallydidhold me all night.
Now I’m awake and very much in hell, because reality’s barging in with a migraine the size of Texas. Sox is passed out at the foot of the bed.
Um. Last night’s pretty fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure I accidentally told my stepbrother that I’m falling for him. Worse—I think I meant it.
My stomach heaves.
That’s not gonna make anything awkward this morning.No, it’s totally cool. I can still just play this super cool.
I sit up and catch sight of myself in the mirror across the room. My hair looks like I got in a fight with a raccoon and lost. Pillow lines are tattooed into my cheek, and mascara is gooped beneath my eyes.
Cool cool cool.
Voices drift up from downstairs. Laughter. Cups clinking. Helen’s soft murmur. Dad’s scratchy bark of a laugh. And then—Caleb’s voice. Low. Warm. Saying something that makes them both chuckle.
My stomach heaves again, and I barely make it to the toilet in time to empty my guts.
“Ugh,” I groan, but feel better after I puke. I brush my teeth and swish mouthwash, then splash cold water on my face and wash it with my cherry blossom scrub. After I’m clean, water drips down my chin as I grip the sink and look in the mirror.
“Okay, Tucker. Get it together. Be cool. Casual. Emotionally detached.”
My reflection raises an unimpressed eyebrow. I flip her off and wince at the daylight.
I mean, please. I eat emotionally detached for breakfast. It won’t be a problem to hide my feelings.
At least I think so until I walk into the kitchen.
Caleb’s there, slouched at the island like some domestic fantasy—in rumpled gray pajama pants low on his hips and a white T-shirt riding up to flash golden skin. His hair’s all messy, and my fingers are itching to dive into it.
He looks like everything I want and nothing I’m allowed to have.
He looks up—and time hiccups.
In one second, I see it all in a flash. Last night. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t damaged goods.
And the part where he pinned me with those intense blue eyes of his and said he’s falling for me, too.
Ohfuck. Right.That part.
He wasn’t drunk or high, and he said he’s falling for me.
“Morning,” he says, calm as hell. Except I hear it—that tiny crack under the surface.
“Morning,” I squeak back, two octaves too high.
Dad and Helen are doing the coffee-and-bliss routine, so I plaster on my best “normal human” face. It’s harder than it sounds when you’ve been emotionally flayed open less than twelve hours before. Jesus, are my eyes still bloodshot?
Helen slides me a plate of pancakes with a sweet smile. “How are you feeling, honey? Caleb said you weren’t feeling well yesterday.”