Chapter 1
One
LAN
The first time I met Jaxson, I was an eleven-year-old tyke fresh off the plane from China, complete with a killer cold and jet lag that would’ve knocked out a sumo wrestler.
There we were—Mom, my half brother Wei, and yours truly—landing in New York in the middle of winter, our breath forming little clouds in the frigid air as we huddled together like penguins in a snowstorm.
Then he appeared.
Twenty-year-old Jaxson Sinclair, looking like he’d stepped straight out of a glossy magazine with his dark hair catching the airport fluorescents like something carved from shadow and gold.
He took my hands in his much larger ones—warm despite the biting cold—and hit me with the most heart-stopping smile I’d ever seen.
My eleven-year-old brain short-circuited, and something in my chest did this weird flutter thing that I’d never felt before, and honestly, never quite went away.
“Hello, Lan,” he’d said, all warmth and sunshine while snow swirled outside. “My name is Jaxson. I’ve heard so much about you from Dad, and I’m glad to finally meet you. We’re going to be brothers soon. Isn’t that great? I’m going to take good care of you.”
For a kid who’d grown up in the Chinese countryside where seeing someone with eyes that color—warm amber-gold that seemed to glow in the dim airport light—was about as common as finding a dragon in your backyard, Jaxson was like staring directly into the sun—beautiful, blinding, and impossible to look away from.
Those amber-hazel eyes that seemed to shift colors depending on the light?
That dark hair that fell just so across his forehead?
Complete culture shock. I spent years following him around like a lost puppy, memorizing everything about him—the way he’d ruffle my hair with those strong fingers, how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, even the exact tone of his voice when he called my name across a crowded room. God, I was such a lovesick kid.
I was caught. Hook, line, and sinker. Brothers, he’d said. We were going to be brothers. Back then, everything seemed so simple: Mom, new dad Michael Sinclair, new brothers Jaxson, Colt, Xander, and Nico, plus Wei and me. One big happy family, right?
If only.
That fairy tale lasted five beautiful years before everything changed.
Mom and Stepdad’s accident left a hole in our lives that we’re still trying to fill.
The six of us brothers, we held on to each other like anchors in a storm—and somehow, we made it through.
But for me? Life had another twist in store.
Three years ago, something shifted, and that gorgeous face that used to fill me with childish wonder now belonged in the category of “Things That Should Come With a Warning Label.” What’s worse was that those childhood butterflies never really went away—they mutated into hormone-fueled dragons with X-rated thoughts.
Every smile, every casual touch, every time he walked by…
God, it was like my body was staging a full-blown rebellion against the “brothers” label while my brain’s was losing the civil war.
Usually, I wanted to either jump his bones or jump off a cliff—sometimes both.
“Lan? Wake up! It’s already half past seven.”
Speaking of that face—there it was, attached to that deep voice that had no business being so… everything.
If I were to catalog every possible way to be rudely awakened, Jaxson Sinclair insisting I leave my cozy cocoon of blankets at half past seven would be near the top.
Though if I was being honest, I’d rather stay right here with him hovering over my bed—a thought I immediately tried to strangle in its cradle.
The morning light filtering through my pathetic excuse for curtains caught in his dark hair and lit those amber eyes from within, and I had to physically restrain myself from reaching out to touch it.
I blinked, and my bleary eyes landed on his infuriatingly handsome face—one that could charm birds from trees and has left a long trail of swooning women in its wake. Oh, and apparently, one extremely conflicted younger stepbrother.
Having him this close was doing dangerous things to my sanity—and my libido.
Both of which needed to shut up immediately because this was Jaxson.
My stepbrother. The guy who’d taught me how to ride a bike and helped me with my English homework.
Not someone I should want to keep staring at like he was the eighth wonder of the world.
Not someone whose lips I should be noticing—full and perfectly shaped, curving into that smile that made my stomach perform Olympic-level gymnastics.
My heart stuttered like a teen girl witnessing a boy band, which only annoyed me further.
Really, heart? Now? It was too early for this nonsense.
The worst part was how the mattress dipped under his weight when he sat on the edge of my bed, bringing him even closer, making the air between us feel charged with something I desperately tried to ignore.
I grumbled and rolled away from him, burying my face in my pillow to hide the blush I could feel creeping up my neck. “Did I not memo you on the whole ‘no entry’ policy, Jaxson? Or do I need to install a lock the size of Fort Knox on my door? Privacy. It’s a life concept. Ever heard of it?”
But he just laughed, the sound rumbling like a well-tuned engine.
I felt the vibrations of it through the mattress, a sensation that sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
“Sorry, but some habits are stickier than day-old soda. I’m your morning alarm, remember?
” His laugh suggested he found my disheveled state adorable.
Me, Lan, the supposedly mature college student, “adorable”? Spare me.
“You better get up, or you’ll be late for that job of yours,” he pointed out, forever the responsible one.
His hand landed on my shoulder, warm and heavy through my thin sleep shirt, and I had to suppress a pathetic whimper.
His thumb absently traced small circles against my cotton-covered skin, a gesture he probably didn’t even realize he was making, but one that sent electricity shooting through my veins.
“Yeah, I’ll rise and shine the second your face isn’t the first thing I see in the morning,” I shot back, trying to ignore how his touch burned through the fabric.
I prided myself on my cutting wit, especially before the caffeine hit my system.
If only my voice hadn’t cracked embarrassingly on “morning.”
He still took it as a joke. Always the cheerful one, brushing off my snark like it was just a fluff on his shoulder. His fingers moved from my shoulder to my hair, threading through the dark strands in a way that made me want to arch into his touch like a cat.
“You used to love seeing my face first thing in the morning,” he mused, leaning over me while I pretended I was a burrito, though the blanket did nothing to shield me from his presence.
“Remember how you’d sprawl on top of me until I woke up, just so you could stare at my face and be the first to say good morning?
What happened?” he questioned, the picture of innocence, completely oblivious to how his words sent my mind spinning into dangerous territory.
Oh, I don’t know, maybe it had something to do with the minor detail of me spectacularly falling for you. That might just do it. Or maybe it’s because now when I think about sprawling on top of you, it involves a lot less clothing and a lot more moaning.
Muttering into my fortress of bedsheets, I gripped the fabric like it was my lifeline, knuckles turning white with the effort of not reaching for him instead. “People change.”
“What was that, Lan? Did I hear you mumble?” he prodded, his voice taking on that teasing tone that somehow managed to be both irritating and endearing. His weight shifted on the bed, bringing him closer, the heat of his body radiating through my blanket cocoon.
I threw back the covers like they’d offended me and sat up, staring him down, immediately regretting it when I realized how close this brought our faces.
“I said, people change, Jaxson.” From this distance, I could count his eyelashes, see the gold swimming in his amber-hazel eyes, notice the slight stubble on his jaw.
My traitorous gaze dropped to his lips for a fraction of a second before I yanked it back up.
He smiled, the jerk, like he could read every inappropriate thought running through my head.
“There you are. Finally awake.” He had the audacity to ruffle my hair like I was a particularly cute puppy, rather than a grown man with a functioning libido.
His fingers lingered, brushing against the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck, sending shivers cascading down my spine.
“Morning, Lan. Did dreamland treat you well?”
My cheek flushed hotter than July in Death Valley.
Sure, let’s share that I fantasized about you last night, and by fantasized, I mean imagining your hands all over me, pushing me against walls, those perfect lips trailing down my neck, and—God—the things I wanted you to do to me on every flat surface in this house.
The memory of last night’s dream—vivid and explicit—flashed through my mind, and I had to shift subtly to hide the evidence of just how well dreamland had treated me.
I pushed his hand away, trying not to betray the fact that I had been dreaming of doing unspeakably naughty things to him.
Things that would make our brotherly morning routine really, really awkward if he knew half of what went through my head when he looked at me like that.
My fingers brushed against his wrist in the process, and the brief contact with his skin sent a jolt through me that was embarrassingly intense.