Milk

Lily Baker’s POV

Three days should have been enough time to wake up.

It wasn't.

For seventy-two hours, I lived in a state of aggressive denial, entirely convinced that the disaster in the VIP lounge had been a fever dream brought on by sudden relocation trauma.

Because realistically?

What were the odds?

You accidentally walk into a room and see a completely naked asshole. Then discover said asshole is somehow the beloved hockey star of New York, your mother’s fiancé’s son, and unfortunately—your future stepbrother.

That level of misfortune deserved scientific investigation.

I hadn’t seen Grayson Vance since that night. Not at breakfast. Not in the hallway.

Not once.

The massive, echoing mansion Ethan owned was large enough to swallow people whole, which made it easy to pretend the arrogant, green-eyed hockey god was just a hallucination.

A particularly rude hallucination.

Still, the house unsettled me.

Everything gleamed. Marble floors. Endless windows. Furniture that looked too expensive to actually sit on.

Mom, unfortunately, loved it.

She floated through the mansion looking happier than I’d seen her in years, constantly talking about wedding venues and honeymoon ideas while Ethan followed her around looking painfully in love.

It was disgusting. Actually disgusting.

Every conversation somehow turned into:

“Lily, don’t you think Nantucket sounds beautiful?”

Or:

“Ethan thinks a summer wedding would be perfect.”

Or worse:

“You and Grayson just need time.”

Absolutely not. Time wasn’t fixing anything.

Especially because every time I remembered Grayson, my brain insisted on replaying the absolute humiliation of our first interaction.

The accusations. His stinking attitude. His fucking nerve. And unfortunately, the nudity

Not that I was thinking about that!

Obviously, I was a victim of circumstance. A deeply traumatized victim.

But denial, much like my mother’s taste in men, was a fragile thing.

It shattered at exactly 5:45 AM on the first day of college.

My strategy had been flawless: Wake up before the sun. Raid the kitchen. Escape before Mom or Ethan could trap me in some horrific, cheerful family breakfast.

I desperately needed to avoid the performance of being the supportive future stepdaughter.

Armed with that desperation, I slipped downstairs in leggings, an oversized hoodie, and exhaustion.

The kitchen stretched before me—a space so aggressively large and sterile it felt more like an upscale restaurant than an actual home.

The lights above the marble counters glowed softly against the dim morning shadows. Outside, darkness still clung stubbornly to the windows.

It was silent, empty and perfect. Or so I thought.

I expected solitude. I didn’t expect Grayson.

He was already there.

Leaning lazily against the marble island in a dark hoodie, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug.

My chest tightened as my feet froze against the cold tile. So much for the early bird.

For one horrible second, we just stared at each other.

His expression remained unreadable.

Mine probably looked like I’d just spotted a demon before sunrise.

Every survival instinct screamed at me to turn around and starve.

Pride refused.

I forced my chin up, aiming a cold, blank stare in his direction as I bypassed him entirely, pretending he was nothing more than an expensive piece of furniture.

A very irritating piece of furniture.

The target was the refrigerator—a towering, stainless-steel monolith. I scanned the sleek surface until I spotted the digital opening button.

Naturally, it was positioned way too high.

Apparently this household only catered to people built like professional athletes.

I gritted my teeth, stretching onto my tiptoes.

My fingers barely brushed the edge.

Seriously? Who designed this thing? Giants?

Determined not to embarrass myself further, I stretched again and again. But it was still not enough.

Before I could try a third time, the morning light disappeared.

A sudden shadow fell over me and my spine stiffened.

A clean scent of cedar and mint drifted through the air an instant before a long, pale finger casually pressed the button above my head.

The refrigerator hissed open before my blood boiled.

What the fuck?

I would've eventually reached it. Eventually.

I didn’t need help. Especially not from Grayson.

Turning sharply, I opened my mouth, fully prepared to dismantle whatever smug comment waited on the edge of his tongue.

But the words died.

Grayson wasn’t smirking at me with the arrogance I expected.

He stood entirely too close, green eyes dark and unreadable as he looked down at me.

“Are you okay with this?” he asked quietly.

I blinked and my mind scrambled.

He was asking if I was okay with what exactly? The height? The fridge? His weird, unnecessary intervention?

A defensive prickle crawled beneath my skin; I thought he was mocking me.

“I didn’t need your help, if that’s what you’re asking. I was handling it perfectly fine on my own, but since you’re apparently the self-appointed gatekeeper of refrigeration—”

“Not the fridge, Baker,” he interrupted, his voice dropping as heat flickered behind his eyes.

Before I could step back, his palm slammed against the refrigerator beside my head.

The sound echoed through the quiet kitchen as my breath caught.

Grayson leaned down, jaw tightening into something hard and furious.

“Are you okay with this bullshit our parents are doing?” he gritted out, the venom in his voice caught me completely off guard.

Oh.

Grayson didn't just dislike me. He hated his father getting married. Hated it with a burning intensity that easily rivaled my own.

“Of course I’m not,” I whispered, pulse hammering violently against my ribs.

“I hate it. But what can we even do? They’re adults. They’ve already decided.”

For a second, something unreadable crossed his face. Relief? Satisfaction?

Maybe surprise.

Grayson went entirely still.

His gaze tracked my expression carefully, studying me with an intensity that made breathing unexpectedly difficult.

Slowly, he leaned closer. Too close that his breath brushed my cheek.

"We need to do something,” he whispered.

Immediately, curiosity flared despite every instinct warning me otherwise.

“Like what?” I breathed. “What can we do?”

Grayson didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he leaned closer until his lips hovered inches from my ear.

“You’ll find out,” he murmured, voice dipping into something wicked and mocking.

My stomach did something deeply embarrassing.

Fuck, this closeness was not ideal.

It was not ideal for my sanity, my heart rate, or the very fragile boundaries we were supposed to be establishing.

Because apparently Grayson Vance looked unfairly attractive before sunrise.

Which felt deeply inconsiderate of him.

Squeezing through the narrow gap between his chest and the counter, I slipped out from under his arm.

“I’m buying milk at school,” I muttered breathlessly.

Then, with whatever dignity I had left, I grabbed my bag and practically fled into the morning air.