Chapter 4
Lily
CLAUDE DEBUSSY — RêVERIE
The second I say his name, I realize my mistake.
Ryder knew me as a little girl, the baby sister of his best friend.
Peter is eight years older than me, but Ryder is a couple years younger than him.
So he’s…twenty-four? Twenty-five? Anyway, we haven’t seen each other since I was about twelve years old, all awkward angles and facial features that were too big.
I’d like to think I’ve grown into my own, but who’s to say he’d recognize me now, especially in this context?
But I’ve seen him again recently, at least on my phone. It was six months ago when I still lived in Silver Lake City. It was a quick glance when Peter was having a rare video chat with the family to discuss the defamation lawsuit and the decision to move me to Brookhaven.
Regardless, I don’t think Ryder has any idea who I am, and now I seem like a complete creeper for knowing his name, as evidenced by the expression on his face. “Uh, yes,” he says slowly, his voice raised over the music that still plays on my speaker. “And you’re not a troll.”
Fabulous. Just fabulous. I cringe, scrambling to turn the music off, then stand and brush myself off. “A what?”
He smirks but doesn’t answer the question. “You’re also not Agatha Stone.”
I shake my head.
“Who…oh.” His eyes widen with realization. “You’re Peter’s baby sister. Lily?”
Baby sister. Ugh. I nod. It’s all I can manage. During that video chat six months ago, I heard him say to my brother, “Your sister is cute.” Which prompted a “Don’t even think about it,” from Peter, and my other brothers nearly lost their minds.
My reaction? Basically the heart-eyed emoji. But I don’t think his passing comment to Peter that I was “cute” meant anything to him—even though it made my heart flutter and gave me some swoon-worthy dreams for weeks after, mostly of the prince rescuing princess variety.
Let’s be real—I don’t get a lot of male attention these days unless it’s from my dad or brothers.
Can you blame me for getting weak in the knees? The man standing in front of me is even more handsome in real life than he was on Adam’s phone screen. Tall, broad-shouldered, clearly in shape—like really in shape—and gray eyes that are fixed in a flirtatious gaze.
Is he flirting with me?
Of course not. He called me Peter’s baby sister. Besides, I’m wearing pajamas—I’m always wearing pajamas. What’s the point of getting dressed these days? Comfort is the name of the game, and when paired with the fluffy bunny slippers my mom loved, I like to feel like I’m being wrapped in a hug.
But there’s no way Ryder would find me attractive or worthy of flirting with.
I won’t be swayed so easily by his gaze and tone, at least not while I’m awake and conscious of how much men can suck.
Looks and charm are what got me in trouble with Tristan.
My heart is racing, but I tell myself it’s from the shock of seeing someone here.
Someone—anyone—other than my family members, the one place where I’m supposed to be safe from harm.
But at least Ryder isn’t a complete stranger.
If someone I’d never met showed up in my tower, now that would be terrifying.
I fold my arms over my chest, determined to be unaffected by his flirtatious eyes and muscles. Not that his muscles are intentionally flirtatious. They can’t help themselves.
Instead, I go on the offensive. “How did you even get up here?”
“I scaled the wall.” He looks pretty proud of himself. “It got hairy there for a minute, but I’ve got training.”
“Training?” I repeat.
He nods. “I’m a stunt man for movies.”
“Ah.” Interesting. That explains the flirtatious muscles.
I didn’t know he was yet another connection to Hollywood, which knocks him down a few pegs in my book.
I want absolutely nothing to do with fame after everything that happened.
But it seems like I can’t avoid Hollywood with the people in my life—Adam and Isabelle, Tristan, now Ryder, too.
I don’t think Ryder and Adam have crossed paths, otherwise they would have said something to each other on that video call. But does he know Tristan?
“And what are you doing up here exactly?” Ryder asks, interrupting my thoughts. “And what’s…” He gestures at the paper piano.
I press my lips together. “I don’t know how much you know about my situation.”
He shakes his head. “Should I?”
“I mean, it’s pretty common knowledge, especially with people who are in Hollywood.”
His eyes harden a smidge. “I don’t really keep up with all of that anymore.”
“Anymore?” I repeat. “But I thought you were a stuntman.”
“Yeah, well…I’m kind of on a break right now.”
“Ah. Which is why you were on vacation with Peter.”
“Exactly.”
We stare at each other for a moment, me trying to decide exactly how much I need to share. It’s already weird enough that I’m up here in this tower, plus me banging on the paper piano. Should I add seduced by Tristan Jackson and sued for publicizing how he manipulated me to the list?
He’s still waiting for an explanation, so I ask, “Hasn’t Peter said something about…
” My voice trails off, waiting for him to say that Peter told him about everything, or at least something.
But his silence tells me what I expected—Peter hasn’t said anything.
What would Peter have told him when he hardly ever speaks to us?
All right. I’ll just stick to the basics. “Never mind. I’m kind of…hiding out? Until some legal stuff blows over.”
“How long have you been hiding out?”
And there’s the kicker. “Uh…six months?”
His brows shoot up to the hair waving over his forehead. “Six months?!”
“Well, that’s how long I’ve been here. Before that, it was a year in my family’s penthouse in Silver Lake City.”
Ryder shakes his head. “Wait. What exactly does ‘hiding out’ entail?”
“You know, just…” I pause, not sure how this is going to sound to someone who hasn’t been part of our personal family conversations for the last year and a half.
“Hanging out…at home. Baking sourdough. Coloring. Attempting cartwheels—that was a disaster. Oh!” I hold up a finger. “I’m taking college classes online.”
Ryder seems wholly unimpressed. “Do you get to leave your home?”
I press my lips together and shake my head.
“That’s…completely ridiculous.” He furrows his brow at me. “What do they think is going to happen if you go out in public?”
“I’m not one hundred percent sure,” I say slowly.
It’s a great question, and it’s one I’m sure anyone looking at my situation from the outside would ask.
I’m nineteen, almost twenty. I’m an adult.
Why in the world do I listen to my overprotective father and brothers?
“The consultant they hired says keeping me here is important.”
“But if there’s no real threat, why did you go along with it?”
The answer to that is so complicated and layered, and not something I want to explain to an acquaintance.
Because it really stems back to my mother’s death five years ago, when my brothers and father took it upon themselves to protect me at all costs.
At first, it wasn’t that big of a deal. But once I turned seventeen and met Tristan, I wanted to make my own decisions.
And that one decision, the one time I finally did something on my own, was the most epic failure.
After I came home from Vegas with my tail between my legs, I didn’t want to do ANYTHING that would upset my father and brothers.
The look in their eyes was a mixture of pity, anger, disappointment—and not just at Tristan.
At me. For being so naive and stupid. Here I was, the little girl who reminded them all of their mother, and I couldn’t do anything right.
So if they thought I should stay home, I did.
If they wanted to move me to Brookhaven, I did.
Sure, I would tell them I was tired of the restrictions and wanted a way out, but I wouldn’t go so far as to rebel and leave.
Not after the heartache and issues I caused them all for my mistakes.
Now that I’ve been locked away for eighteen months, it’s easier to stay than to make a change. Everyone has gotten used to it, including me.
But I can’t tell all of that to Ryder. When I don’t respond, Ryder runs a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated.
I feel the need to defend my family. “They just want what’s best for me,” I say softly.
He opens his mouth to say something, but I hear Aunt Agatha’s telltale steps on the stone stairs. My eyes widen, and I whisper-shout, “Hide!”
Ryder hasn’t caught on, though. “What?”
“Hide!” I hiss. “Quietly!” I glance around the room, settling on my closet. I rush over to Ryder and try to push him in that direction, but he’s like a wall of muscle. “Move, move!”
He looks down at me with mirth in his eyes, but he finally responds to my prodding. “Where am I going?”
I point at the closet. “In there. Agatha’s coming!”
His face lights up. “Oh, Agatha! I haven’t seen her yet. She loves me.”
“She won’t love you anymore if she sees you in here. Now HIDE!”
Ryder just chuckles. I don’t think he understands that his life is literally hanging in the balance right now. If Agatha finds him, she’ll tell my dad and brothers, and he will be dead. It doesn’t matter that he’s Peter’s best friend. Adam will personally see to his demise.
I slide open the mirrored closet door, push my clothes to the side, and shove Ryder’s shoulder toward the floor, next to the plastic keyboard that mocks me every time I look at it. “Go!”
He looks down at me again. “Seriously? You expect me to fold up in there?”
“Stop questioning me! Just do it!”
He sighs and shakes his head, like I’m SO ridiculous, but he obeys.
And not a moment too soon. Because in waltzes Aunt Agatha, dressed as a cowgirl.