Chapter 3

I woke up to sunlight and the sound of someone knocking. Not the polite way of knocking. The I own this property and I'll bang on your door if I want kind of knocking. Loud. Insistent. Three sharp raps that rattled the frame.

"Lucy."

Mason's voice. Rough, like he'd just woken up too. Or maybe he hadn't slept at all.

I sat up too fast, tangling myself in the expensive white sheets. Last night's wine bottle still sat on the counter, untouched.

"Coming," I hollered.

I glanced at myself in the mirror above the dresser and immediately regretted it. My hair was a disaster. Dark circles under my eyes. I looked exactly like someone who'd spent the night crying on a stranger's floor.

Except Mason wasn't a stranger. That was the problem.

I opened the door.

He was leaning against the doorframe, coffee cup in hand, looking so hot. Dark sweatpants hung low on his hips. A white t-shirt stretched across his chest. His hair was messy but actual just-rolled-out-of-bed messy. It shouldn't have been attractive. It was.

"You look terrible," he said.

"Good morning to you too."

He smirked. That infuriating half-smile that probably made blonde girls everywhere weak in the knees. "Sloane's coming by at noon with your stuff. She said something about clothes and a phone."

My chest loosened slightly. "She found my things?"

"No. She's buying you new ones." He took a sip of his coffee, completely unbothered. "Don't argue with her. You know how she gets."

I did know. Sloane had been my best friend since seventh grade, when I'd shown up to middle school with secondhand shoes and a packed lunch that was just bread. She'd never made me feel bad about it. She'd just started bringing extra food, extra clothes, extra everything, like it was completely normal for the richest girl in school to share with the poorest.

I hated it sometimes. The charity. The way everyone looked at me like Sloane's little pet project.

But she was also the only reason I'd survived this long.

"Fine," I said.

Mason nodded and turned to leave. Then stopped.

"Hey." He didn't look back at me. Just stood there, broad shoulders blocking the doorway. "About last night. You heard something."

My face went hot. "I didn't—"

"Save it." His voice was flat. "I don't care if you heard. Just don't mention it to Sloane. She gets weird about my personal life."

Weird about him bringing strange women home at all hours. I'd heard Sloane complain about it more times than I could count. He's going to end up alone, she'd say, and he'll deserve it.

"I won't say anything," I said.

"Good." He glanced back at me then, dark eyes raking over my face. Lingering for a moment too long on my mouth. Then it was gone, replaced by that bored expression he wore like armor. "Sloane will be here at noon. Try to look less dead by then."

He walked away before I could respond.

I stood in the doorway and watched him go.

Sloane arrived at exactly 12:03, arms full of shopping bags and a new phone already activated in her hand.

"You're an angel," I said, taking the phone. "A literal angel. I don't deserve you."

"You definitely don't," she agreed, dropping the bags on the bed. "But I'm stuck with you, so."

Sloane was everything I wasn't. Tall where I was average. Blonde where I was brown. Confident in a way that made people turn their heads when she walked into a room. She had their mother's sharp cheekbones and their father's easy charm, and sometimes I wondered how we'd ever become friends in the first place.

Then she'd look at me with those knowing eyes and I'd remember. She'd chosen me. On the first day of seventh grade, when no one else would sit next to the girl with the bread sandwich, Sloane had dropped her designer backpack on the desk beside mine and said, That lunch looks sad. Want half of my sandwich?

We'd been inseparable ever since.

"Okay," Sloane said, pulling clothes out of bags. "I got you basics. Jeans, sweaters, a couple of dresses in case we go out. Underwear because I know you didn't pack any. And toiletries because Mason's idea of guest amenities is overpriced wine and a single bar of soap."

"Sloane. This is too much."

"It's not. Shut up."

I sat down on the bed and watched her organize everything. My chest ached with something I couldn't name. Gratitude, maybe. Or guilt. Because here she was, buying me clothes and finding me places to stay, and I was secretly in love with her brother.

Her brother who brought home blonde strangers and called me aggressively average and looked at me like I was furniture.

"What's wrong?" Sloane asked, pausing mid-fold.

"Nothing."

"Lucy. I've known you for ten years. Your left eye twitches when you're lying."

I touched my face. My left eye was definitely not twitching. But she was watching me with that look, the one that said she wouldn't let this go, and I couldn't tell her the truth. I couldn't say I'm in love with your brother and living twenty feet away from him is going to destroy me.

"I'm just tired," I said. "Long day yesterday."

Sloane's expression softened. She sat down next to me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. "It's going to be okay. You're going to stay here, get back on your feet, and then you're going to find a cute guy and forget all about this."

I laughed weakly. "A cute guy."

"Someone who isn't my emotionally stunted brother," she added. "Seriously. Don't let him get in your head. He's an asshole to everyone."

Not to everyone, I thought. Just to me.

But I nodded and let her hold me and pretended that was enough.

"""" """"" """"

The afternoon passed slowly. Sloane left around four after making me promise to text her if I needed anything. I spent the next few hours unpacking, organizing, trying to make the pool house feel like mine. It didn't work. The space was too nice, too clean, too Mason.

By seven, I was hungry.

I'd avoided the main house all day. Listened to the sounds of Mason moving around, the clink of dishes, footsteps, sound of music. But I couldn't hide forever. The pool house didn't have a kitchen. Just a microwave and a mini-fridge stocked with nothing but water and that stupid wine.

I needed food.

I found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his phone in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other. He looked up when I walked in, and for a second, something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or annoyance.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Starving."

He gestured toward the stove with his glass. "I ordered Thai. Should be here in ten."

"You ordered food for me?"

"I ordered food for me." He took a sip of whiskey. "There's just probably going to be extra."

Right. Of course.

I stood there awkwardly, not sure what to do with my hands. The kitchen was even intimidating, all gleaming surfaces and professional-grade appliances I wouldn't know how to use. I felt small in it. Out of place.

Mason watched me over the rim of his glass. "You can sit, you know. I don't bite."

I've heard otherwise, I almost said. But that would require acknowledging last night, and I'd promised not to do that.

I sat at the kitchen island, perching on one of the tall stools. Mason stayed where he was, leaned against the counter, phone forgotten in his hand. The silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable.

"So," he said finally. "Sloane tells me you're looking for a job."

"I am."

"What can you do?"

The question felt like a test. "I've worked retail. Food service. Whatever pays the bills."

Mason made a noise, not quite a scoff. "Sloane said you dropped out of community college."

My jaw tightened. "I ran out of money."

"Right." He swirled his whiskey. "And now you're here. In my pool house. With no phone, no wallet, and no plan."

"Is there a point to this?"

He looked at me then. Really looked. Those dark eyes pinned me in place, made me feel like he was seeing past every wall I'd ever built.

"The point," he said slowly, "is that you're going to need more than Sloane's charity to get by. You want a job? I know people. But I need to know you're not going to waste the opportunity."

I stared at him. "You're offering to help me find a job?"

"I'm offering to make a phone call." He shrugged. "What you do with it is up to you."

I didn't trust him. I didn't trust this sudden shift from cold indifference to whatever this was. But I also didn't have any other options.

"Okay," I said quietly. "Thank you."

Mason's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Don't thank me yet. The job's probably terrible."

The doorbell rang. He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with his half-empty glass and the impossible hope blooming in my chest.

Stop it, I told myself. He's just being polite. He doesn't care about you.

But my heart wasn't listening.

And somewhere in the main house, Mason's phone buzzed with a text I wasn't meant to see.