Page 1 of My Favorite Lost Cause (The Favorites #2)

MAREN

P ersephone wasn’t a victim.

Sure, she was abducted by Hades. Sure, she had to give up a couple seasons on Earth. But that descent into shadow was necessary; it’s how she found her true self, how she came into her power.

That’s what has happened to Charlie, my stepbrother. He’s descended into shadow—a drunken, noncommunicative shadow that’s kept him from the last four family dinners—but he’ll eventually emerge better than he was.

His dad, Roger, says it’s just a bender, but that I should check anyway.

It’s still unclear to me why I was the one asked to perform this welfare check.

It should have been Roger—they actually share DNA.

Even my younger sister, Kit, would be better—if he refused to let her in, she’d probably kick down his door.

Effective, if nothing else. I agreed because Charlie has a better heart than anyone gives him credit for, and I want to be sure it’s handled with care.

Or perhaps it’s just that I struggle to say no to anything asked of me.

When the driver arrives at Charlie’s building, glinting like a knife in the summer sun, I grab the tray of juice in my lap and tell him not to wait.

This might take a while. Or no time at all if Charlie doesn’t let me upstairs, which is a strong possibility. I’ll risk it.

I greet the doorman and make some inane comment about the weather.

Kit hates my little social niceties. You don’t need to be everyone’s best friend , she’s said a million times.

But I like being liked. And mostly, it works—Charlie is the only person who can’t be swayed.

It’s not that he hates me—it’s just that he doesn’t allow himself to be won over.

So I probably won’t win him over today.

I give the woman at the front desk my name and identify myself as Charlie’s sister, though it’s not technically true.

“Can you tell him it’s urgent?” I add when she calls upstairs. Because he’s very, very likely to send me packing otherwise.

This strategy works. A few moments later, I’m inside the elevator and heading for the tenth floor…without a clue what I’ll say when I arrive.

I already know he’s going to be a dick to me the entire time I’m trying to fix things, but underneath all that…there will be a wound, because Charlie’s real issue is that he cares and doesn’t want to. That he would fight to the death for all of us and can’t stand to let on.

I knock and he opens the door for me, running a hand through his unruly brown hair. His eyes are only half open, he needed a shave a month ago, and he’s in nothing but a pair of boxers.

None of these things should look quite as good as Charlie makes them look.

“To what do I owe this unprompted, incredibly early visit I never agreed to?” he asks, without suggesting I enter.

“It’s noon, Charlie,” I reply. “And you could have at least put on some clothes.”

He raises a brow. “I did put on clothes. ”

I blink. I never took Charlie for a sleeps in the nude kind of guy.

Yuck. Moving on. “Are you going to let me in?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “This really isn’t a good time, Maren. Can I call you later?”

It’s unlike me to push. But Charlie—as debauched as he is—doesn’t typically sleep ’til noon and dodge his father’s calls. Something has gone wrong, and I can’t leave until I know what it is. “I brought you some juice. It’ll help with the hangover.”

He runs a hand through his thick hair until it’s practically standing up straight and plucks the green juice from my hand. “This juice doesn’t even go with vodka.”

“Charles,” I say sternly, “don’t you dare add vodka. Let me in.”

He finally steps aside, and I get my first hint as to why he really didn’t want me here.

This place looks like a frat house at two in the morning.

Pizza boxes, wine bottles, his suits, newspapers…

a broken lamp rests atop a partially collapsed bookshelf.

It’s like the morning-after scene in The Hangover , minus the lion in the bathroom, although, to be honest…

I haven’t gone into the bathroom, so the jury’s out.

“And here I was worried you might have company,” I say faintly.

“I did,” he says with a shrug. “I think she’s gone. If you spy a dead female, give me a small heads-up before you call the police.”

“I’m not sure how I’d spy anything with all the shit on your floor.”

He flops into a leather chair, letting his head fall backward as he closes his eyes, which have dark circles beneath them. “This visit is already so much fun,” he groans. “Why are you here?”

What the hell has gone wrong? Is it a job? Has he finally gotten his heart broken? He’s not ready to tell me, whatever it is.

Charlie acts like a guy whose life is lived entirely on the surface, but I’ve always suspected that almost none of it is. A simple fifteen-minute visit was never going to earn me real answers.

Which means I need an excuse to prevent him from ushering me out.

I clear a chair of the suit strewn across it and take a seat. “I’ve come to you with a proposition,” I lie.

He opens one eye. “I’m hoping it’s sexual, but that seems optimistic.”

“We’re stepsiblings, so that’s extremely optimistic.” Think, Maren. Why would you need to stay here when you’ve got a condo twice the size of this apartment, and multiple family members with spacious homes? “I need to stay here for the next few days. My apartment’s being fumigated.”

I’m pretty proud of this one. Maybe I’m not as terrible at lying as I thought.

“That’s even less exciting than I thought it would be, and I knew it would be incredibly unexciting.”

“I’ll be the best roommate,” I wheedle. “Like a wife minus the sex.”

He blows out a breath. “Sex on demand is the only part of having a wife that appeals to me, however.”

“Sex on demand isn’t actually a part of marriage, just so you know. I wouldn’t want you to find out once you’d gotten down the aisle.”

“It would take much more than sex on demand to get me down an aisle,” he replies. “And why the fuck do you need to stay here? Go to your mom’s. Go to Kit’s.”

I anticipated this objection, and he’s absolutely right. My mother lives in a massive, three-floor condo in the best section of town. She has far more space than Charlie does .

“My mother is currently fighting with your dad…you know how that is,” I tell him.

It’s a lie, but it’s the case so often that he won’t even question it.

My mother loves drama, and poor Roger is continually jumping through hoops to make her stay.

“And…Kit moved into Miller’s place, and they’re still in Nepal—not that I’d be willing to sleep on their couch if they weren’t. ”

This one is entirely true. It’s been awkward, having my sister date my ex. Mostly because everyone keeps giving me pitying, uncomfortable looks like Charlie is now.

If Miller had just been a guy I dated a decade ago, that would be one thing.

Unfortunately, I had to be all Maren about him.

I had to pine. I had to go hardcore Taylor Swift-level wistful and claim he was the one who got away.

I tend to do this—to latch onto the idea of someone.

For a long while it was Miller and more recently it was my husband’s friend, Andrew.

It’s not that I want these men in particular—Andrew’s married, and I hadn’t seen Miller in a decade—and it’s not that I’d cheat on my husband.

It’s just that sometimes I need a reminder that there are men in the world who are kind, who’d be good to their wives.

And if I forget, I’ll allow Harvey to be worse to me than he already is.

“Fine, fuck. Whatever. You can sleep in the spare room. But your puppies need to stay somewhere else. Those are the least domesticated animals I’ve ever seen, and I’ve gone on safari twice.

And don’t cockblock me.” His tone is accusatory, as if this is something I do all the time.

“I don’t need you having a long conversation with some girl I’ve brought home. ”

He lazily runs a hand over his flat stomach—I can see a hint of his happy trail and shift in my seat, struggling to refocus. “So don’t suggest to your one-night stand that giving it up for a guy who’s going to kick her out first thing in the morning isn’t her best move.”

He exhales wearily. “Yes, Maren, that is a prime example of the sort of conversation I don’t need you having with someone I am about to fuck.

And don’t befriend anyone afterward either.

I make a lot of effort to ensure that the women I’m seeing don’t get the wrong idea.

Are we clear?” He rises from the chair, his boxers sliding low as his abs flex. I really wish he’d put on some clothes.

“I’m not even sure what we’d talk about anyway, aside from your disastrous decision-making ability.”

“You married Harvey,” he replies, heading back to his room. “So don’t get me started on decision-making ability.”

I guess he might have a point.

When his door shuts, I truly allow myself to take in the disaster that is his apartment.

It’s a tribute to how insanely handsome Charlie is that any woman he’s brought up here for the past few weeks hasn’t run off screaming in terror.

The kitchen is a sea of dishes that never arrived at the sink.

There’s an open pizza box, its contents mummified, and so many partially drunk glasses of wine that I’m surprised he can still find anything to drink out of.

I rise, hunting beneath the kitchen sink for a trash bag, then start throwing stuff away.

What happened to you, Charlie? And how do I fix it when you won’t admit anything happened at all?