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Chapter Nine

Reed

S he didn’t want me to tell anyone, and she lied to Brooke about us not having sex on the beach that night. Maybe pretending it never happened works for Vivienne, but I’m in agony over here and had to tell someone.

Enter Fabian.

He’s the only one that knows that Viv and I had sex on the beach that night, but he also knows that we did that before I knew who she was.

He doesn’t see the big deal, since we don’t share a parent by blood, and we didn’t grow up together.

Still, he understands our desire to be normal human beings who do not get romantically involved with a step sibling.

He understands we don’t want our parents thinking they created the x-rated Brady Bunch.

Even though that's exactly what we are .

“I think I may need to stay with you for the night.” My knee is bouncing like crazy. “Or the week.”

Fabian barks out a laugh, adding gin to his glass of orange juice. “My dad is in Europe on business until the end of the month and my mom went with him, if you really want to stay, you can.” He sips his drink wearing a smirk that annoys me.

“What?” I question, my knee still bouncing as I shove my hand through my hair, then pull at the back of my neck. I can’t stop fidgeting, because the moment I slow down, she comes to mind and I can’t do anything but fight having a fucking hard on. For my step sister. Who I fucked.

I jump to my feet and begin pacing. “What? What the hell is so funny?”

Fabian opens a bag of bread, sliding two slices into the toaster. “You. This whole charade, it makes me laugh. You make me laugh.”

He retrieves jam from the fridge at the same time his housekeeper wanders in, a pink apron tied at her back. “I’m going out today. Can I pick you up anything?”

Fabian, glass in hand, points my way. “What do you want?”

I shrug. “I don’t care.” I look at his housekeeper and smile. “Anything. Whatever.”

“Anything?” Fabian balks. “Whatever?” He finishes his drink as the toast pops up. “You got it worse than I thought, and I thought you had it bad.”

I let out a groan, one that echoes around the steely kitchen.

“I have been trying like hell to avoid her. But her smell has permeated every fucking surface of the house. And her laugh, it’s so soft and sweet, I swear I can hear it through my headphones.

Like last night, I got home from class and put on music on my system.

Then I started playing Call of Duty, and blasted that.

And even with the shooting and the rock and roll, I could hear her.

Seriously.” I motion to my crotch. “I started to get hard, and I turned down the music and she was laughing. My dick heard her, Fab.”

Fabian turns to his housekeeper as she collects her purse and keys from the counter. “Sorry, Lorna.”

“See? I can’t even think straight.” I turn to Lorna. “I’m sorry, Lorna.”

She rolls her eyes, definitely at her limit with us. Once she leaves, I turn to Fabian. “She made me blow in my pants, Fab. Okay? She made me come in my pants and since then, I’ve rubbed one out thinking about that moment like, fifty times. Seriously.”

He slathers jam on toast, passing me a slice. “Didn’t that happen two weeks back?”

I nod, shoving a hand through my hair. I can’t stop fidgeting, and that is another thing driving me crazy. “Yeah.”

He whistles, shaking his head. “Fifty times in two weeks. Your poor dick.”

I let out a sigh. “And tonight, we’re having a family celebration.”

“For what?” Fabian asks, dunking the edge of his toast straight into the jam jar.

I take a bite of mine, and though I know it’s sweet strawberry, I can hardly taste it.

That’s how much I want her–so much that food has lost flavor, colors are more dull.

She’s infiltrated me like a virus and now I can’t seem to function without her.

Yet, we can’t be together.

I sigh. “Her first week at the Dulce. And she has a friend she’s bringing to dinner.

” I realize then that her friend is probably just a distraction, too.

A buffer, maybe. I look up at Fabian, who is already shaking his head knowingly.

“No, no, no, I’m not joining some Beaumont-Lancaster tension fest. Plus, I go to public school.

It’s like… a conflict of interest or something.

” His brows lift. “Lorna’s making dinner. ”

I roll my eyes. “You’re not the ambassador of public schools, and you’re not running for president.

You can have dinner with us. Lorna can make leftovers–you are having dinner with us,” I tell him, nudging my glasses up my nose.

“I wrote that paper on parasocial relationships for your language arts class, remember? You owe me.”

Fabian rolls his eyes. “There’s a party at the CVC tonight, remember? I thought we were going to that?”

I take a bite of toast as Fabian digs out his phone, swiping a few times before he slides it across the marble counter. On his screen is the event page for Clear View Country Club, boasting tonight as their Young Entrepreneur party. “You guys are coming,” he says of our friend group.

Last year, my last year of high school, I attended the same party at the club, and it was a great time.

While our parents typically roam and rule Clear View, a few times a year the club hosts events for the younger members, and this is one of them.

Going out with my friends and having a good time could be just the thing I need to take my focus off of Vivienne.

“That sounds great. I forgot, admittedly,” I tell Fabian, which lands on his ears as no surprise because I’m not a big Clear View guy.

In fact, I may be one of the only children in Bipal that doesn’t pride themselves on spending their parents money.

My parents raised me to appreciate and work hard, as if the money didn’t exist. And after my dad’s passing, I had even less desire to engage in stupid social clubs where people talk more about you behind your back than to your face.

Time and again, though, I please my mother and attend events with her.

Fundraisers, galas, mixers–when she needed a date, I’d be in my tux and on her arm.

But I hate the type of people who frequent the Club, because they’re the type who think having money makes them better. Maribel Lancaster may be a member, but my mother is not the typical millionaire.

She’s awesome.

And… Elijah, for that matter, is awesome too.

And now I’m thinking about Vivienne, and how she’s unlike everyone.

“But you’re still coming to dinner. It’s at 6, and I know you don’t show up at Clear View until after 8. There’s time for both.” I point at him. “You’re going.”

He licks jam off his thumb, smirking. “Fine. But that means you have to cut the fuck loose tonight at the Club. No uptight Harrison,” he says, using a nerd voice that I guess is representative of me.

To be fair, my hobbies have my friends accusing me of nerdom, but when I got glasses at age 13, they really ramped it up.

It’s stuck, but I’m fine with it. I’m smart, and if being smart makes me a nerd, that’s fine.

Beautiful women like smart men. Glasses and computer classes aside, I’ve had zero problem finding beautiful women to date.

Truth is, within reason, I could probably have anyone I want.

Mostly because of my name being Lancaster, then because I was born into handsome facial features with a strong build, and whatever percentage is left up to fate is captured by my brains.

Help her figure out why her laptop is going slow, show her where her downloads folder is, and teach her about social media algorithms–instant putty.

Except when it comes to Vivienne Beaumont.

She doesn’t give a shit about my money, because now that our parents are married, I’m pretty sure it’s her money, too.

She wasn’t raised by some dunce, either.

She’s not on the hunt to find a mother figure–Elijah did one hell of a job.

She loves my mother, I can tell, but she’s strong.

Elijah has raised her level-headed and powerful, and I’m pretty sure Viv could take the world on alone if she had to.

And her looks? Vivienne is a knockout. A jaw dropper.

As a senior in high school, she could easily pass for a mature twenty-two years old, and with a body like that, eyes as intoxicating as hers, she could have anyone.

She could have anyone my age or anyone in the corporate world, of that I have no doubt.

Add to that her education. Primo education for years, just like myself–and like me, she actually utilized it. Appreciated it. Got the most out of it.

She doesn’t need me to hook up her external monitor and split the desktop image between two screens, she doesn’t need me to backup her files or check her disk space.

She doesn’t need me at all.

And all of those reasons pour gasoline on the flames of my desire for her. The less she needs me and the more I realize it’s wrong, the more I obsess. The more I need.

“Oh don’t worry,” I tell Fabian, absolutely stressed from the current situation. “It’s Friday. I don’t have class until Tuesday morning. Tonight, I’m forgetting Vivienne. I’m forgetting my name for that matter.”

Fab raises a hand, and I slap mine against his before we bump our elbows together. “Alright, that’s what I’m talking about. Have fun at Clear View the way you always should. Indulge,” he says, tightening the knot at his waist, still wearing his bathrobe.

“I plan to,” I tell him, though my mind is already on dinner, and seeing Vivienne. Then, thank God, I have hours without her, time to put her out of my mind, and the opportunity to rot my brain with booze, my buddies and beautiful women.

Exactly what I need.