Chapter 1
Chapter One
Lila
Of course the drive to Silver Pine Lake in California takes two hours longer than Google Maps promised.
Of course the rental car’s AC wheezes like it’s dying, and of course the afternoon sun shows off by turning the lake into a molten mirror that burns my retinas every time the road curves.
But hey, at least the universe threw me a bone and let me arrive at dusk, when the light has the decency to soften and the resort’s peeling pine sign is mostly hidden in shadow.
I park in the gravel lot, kill the engine, and sit for a solid minute with my hands still on the wheel. The silence after that asthmatic AC feels sacred.
Silver Pine Lake Resort spreads out in front of me—a lodge flanked by cabins, a dock stretching into water so dark it’s almost black, and pine trees crowding the shoreline like they’re guarding a secret.
I don’t give a shit about any of it. The lake could be filled with champagne and the cabins made of solid gold, and I’d still be sitting here, wondering if I can drive back to the airport without anyone noticing I was here at all.
But Mom is already on the porch, waving both arms like she’s guiding in a 747, her hair catching the last of the daylight. So I haul myself out of the car, grab my suitcase from the trunk, and start the walk of obligation up the gravel path.
She meets me halfway, launching into a hug so tight it pushes the air from my lungs.
“There you are, sweetheart,” she gushes. “It’s been forever.”
Her perfume hits me—something floral and expensive that she’s worn since I was a kid—and for a second, I’m fourteen again, standing in the doorway of a house that isn’t mine, watching my life get rearranged by a man I don’t know and a boy who won’t stop staring at me.
“I’m so glad you’re finally coming home,” she whispers into my hair, her voice low enough that the words barely register.
My stomach drops. Coming home. Not visiting, not attending your parents’ vow renewal, but coming home.
She’s the only one who knows I’m giving up on New York and hauling my ass back here for good.
I told her over the phone, drunk on cheap wine and the particular loneliness of a Tuesday night in a city that has too many people to ever feel like it has room for you.
“Yeah, me too,” I lie. Or maybe it’s a lie. I’m not sure how I feel about it yet.
Once we break the hug, I smooth my crop top down over my stomach, run a finger under the waistband of my shorts where they’ve ridden up.
“You look thinner,” she observes, cupping my face with both hands.
“I look exactly the same as I did on FaceTime two days ago.”
“No, you’re definitely thinner,” she argues.
“Mom.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I look like someone who’s been on the road for six hours. That’s it.”
She smiles, and it’s the particular smile that means she’s decided not to push. One of her better qualities, honestly. She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, her fingers lingering on the green streak. “I love this. Very rebellious.”
Then her eyes flick past my shoulder and her smile shifts, brightens.
“Oh! Look who’s here!”
I don’t have to look. I know, with the same certainty I know my own fucking name. My jaw tightens before I’ve even turned around, my molars grinding together hard enough that I can feel it in my temples.
Ace is at the far end of the porch, coming up the pine-lined drive with a duffel slung over one shoulder and an open Hawaiian shirt that shows off his amazing abs. No, not amazing. There’s nothing amazing about my stepbrother. Nothing.
His light brown hair is pushed back from his forehead, mussed in that way that looks accidental.
The air between us goes thick, charged, the way it always does—like the atmosphere is recalibrating to accommodate whatever the hell this is.
Then his mouth pulls into that smirk. That unhurried, easy, infuriating smirk that says he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s going to enjoy every second of it. He lifts his chin, just barely, and the word comes out lazy and warm.
“Hey Li.”
My hand tightens on the suitcase handle. The plastic digs into my palm. “Ace.”
That’s it. One syllable, flat as pavement. I don’t offer more because he doesn’t deserve more, and also because if I open my mouth again I might say something stupid. Or worse, something honest.
Mom beams at us like we’re reuniting war veterans. Dad—Chris, stepdad, whatever—joins her on the porch, clapping his hands together with the enthusiasm of a man who has never once questioned whether his family is actually happy.
“Look at this. The whole gang’s here,” Chris says, throwing an arm around Mom’s shoulders. “Irene, honey, they’re both here. Just like we wanted.”
Just like they wanted. The phrasing makes my skin crawl. As if our presence is a gift they’ve been waiting for, not an obligation we’re fulfilling.
I shift my weight. Just a fraction, just enough to put another inch between me and the general direction of Ace. It’s not conscious. My body does it before my brain has time to veto the move, and I hate that my body is this predictable.
“We should get inside,” Mom says, already herding us toward the lodge doors. “It’s getting chilly, and Glen’s waiting with the keys.”
The lodge’s reception area is small and aggressively rustic—exposed beams, a stone fireplace with no fire, a front desk made of wood so dark it’s almost black. A man in a fleece vest stands behind it, his posture so rigid he might have a rod inserted vertically.
His laminated name tag reads ‘GLEN’ in capital letters that feel like they’re shouting at me.
“Welcome to Silver Pine Lake,” Glen says, not sounding particularly welcoming. “I have your reservation pulled up.”
Mom and Dad exchange a look. It’s the kind of look married people develop after years together—a whole conversation compressed into eye contact and a slight tilt of the head. I’ve seen it a thousand times. It usually precedes bad news delivered with a smile.
“So,” Dad says, rubbing his hands together like he’s warming them up for a speech. “There’s been a minor hiccup with the accommodation.”
My stomach sinks. “What kind of hiccup?”
“The two-bedroom cabin we reserved,” Mom says, her voice taking on that apologetic lilt she uses when she’s about to ask me to be understanding about something I will not be understanding about. “There was a booking error. The system double-booked it, and the other party arrived this morning.”
Glen nods, his expression unchanged. “Correct. Unfortunately, the two-bedroom is unavailable. We’ve comped your first night and upgraded you to our premium studio unit.”
“Studio unit,” I squeak.
“So, just one room,” Ace clarifies unhelpfully. “That’s what you’re saying, right?”
“Yes,” Glen confirms, with the detached professionalism of someone reading from a liability waiver. “But it has a queen bed, private bath, and a lake view. And it’s our most requested unit. You’re lucky it’s available.”
“Lucky?” I hiss as I glare at him. “And most requested by whom? Couples on their honeymoon? I’m assuming it’s not usually siblings who request a room like that. Or is that your experience, Glen?”
“Lila,” Mom chides.
Dad claps Ace on the shoulder. The sound is too loud in the quiet room. “You two will make it work. Right, champ? It’s not that big a deal, is it? You can handle sharing a room with your sister for two nights.”
The word sister lands like a brick between my shoulder blades. Ace’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes—fast, there and gone—before his face settles back into that easy mask.
“Sure.” He picks up his duffel from where he’d set it by the desk, slings it back over his shoulder, and waits.
The agreement is worse than if he’d made a joke. Worse than if he’d complained or rolled his eyes or done anything that would give me something to push against.
This calm acceptance, this readiness makes my skin hot and the thought of what that means is enough to make my panties wet. Oh, fuck. I can’t go through this for an entire weekend.
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. There’s nothing I can say that won’t sound like a tantrum. This is for Mom and Dad. Right, yeah, I can do it for them.
Without another word, I follow Glen as he leads us down a narrow hallway toward the back of the lodge.
Glen stops at the last door on the left. Fishes a key from his pocket—an actual metal key, not a card, because apparently this place is committed to the rustic fantasy—and unlocks it.
He pushes the door open, steps aside, and gestures us in with the flourish of a game show host revealing a mediocre prize.
“Here it is,” he says.
Ignoring the instructions he’s babbling, I step inside and the room swallows me. Not because it’s large—it’s the opposite of large. It’s small in a way that feels deliberate, like someone designed it specifically to force intimacy.
If I’m honest, I’m not sure the bed pushed against the sloping back is a queen. Two bedside lamps cast overlapping yellow circles on the rumpled bedspread.
There’s a narrow bathroom through a door that doesn’t fully close, the gap wide enough that I can see the edge of a pedestal sink.
Ace leans in the doorframe. One hand braced on the frame above his head, his body angled so that he’s half in the room, half in the hallway. He takes it all in with that same measured silence.
His expression doesn’t change. No raised eyebrows, no frown, no smile. Just that steady, watchful attention.
I set my suitcase against the wall. The wheels leave a faint track in the carpet dust. “You can have the floor,” I say once Glen’s gone.
Ace smirks and winks. “Sure, Li.”
Then he steps inside and closes the door behind him. Next, he drops his duffel on the bed—right in the center, the bastard—and the mattress dips under the weight.
I stand on my side of the bed. Arms crossed over my chest, my crop top suddenly feeling too thin, too exposed.
Ace hasn’t moved from where he dropped his bag. He’s watching me again, his blue eyes steady in the yellow light.
“One bed,” I sigh.
“One bed,” he agrees.
The fan whirs. The lake is silent beyond the black glass of the window. Somewhere in the lodge, a door closes, and the sound travels through the thin walls like a rumor.
Ace reaches for the zipper on his duffel. “I call the side nearest the bathroom.”
Guess he’s not happy taking the floor. “Fuck you.”
“You first,” he says, and the smile that finally breaks across his face is slow and knowing, and exactly why I left California in the first place.