5. Nora #2
I should put on the one-piece. The sensible black one that covers everything and makes me look like I'm training for the Olympics. I should wrap a towel around myself and walk out there like a reasonable adult who doesn't let tattooed stepbrothers dare her into things.
I put on the turquoise bikini.
The mirror on the closet door reflects back someone I don't quite recognize.
The top ties around my neck and back, pushing everything up and together in a way that makes my breasts look...
good. Fuller. Rounder. The freckles scattered across my chest stand out against the turquoise fabric.
The bottoms sit low on my hips, tied at the sides, and they cover approximately nothing.
There's a lot of skin showing. A lot of curves. A lot of me.
I wait for the panic. The voice in my head that says this is too much, too revealing, too everything. The instinct to cover up, to change, to pick something safer.
It doesn't come.
My hands aren't shaking.
Huh.
I turn slightly, checking the back. The bottoms are cheeky. That's the word, right? Cheeky. Like they're winking at you with my ass.
Dina would lose her mind if she could see this.
I grab my phone, snap a photo, and send it before I can overthink.
Me: You're a terrible influence.
Three dots appear immediately.
Dina: OH MY GOD
Dina: BABE
Dina: YOU LOOK INSANE
Dina: WHERE ARE YOU WEARING THAT
Me: Pool.
Dina: WITH THE STEPbrOTHERS???
Me: ...Yes.
Dina: ALL THREE OF THEM
Me: Yes.
Dina: I NEED DETAILS IMMEDIATELY
Dina: NORA GRACE MERCER YOU CALL ME TONIGHT OR I SWEAR TO GOD
I smile at the screen, a real one that pulls at my cheeks. Toss the phone onto the bed.
Then I look at myself one more time.
The girl in the mirror doesn't look scared.
She looks... something else. Something new.
Her chin is higher. Her shoulders are back.
She's not hiding behind loose cotton or self-deprecating humor or the instinct to make herself smaller.
The sunlight catches on the tiny freckles across her collarbone, and for once, she's not thinking about covering them. She's just there. Present. Visible.
I grab a towel — not to cover myself, just to carry — and walk out of the room.
The sliding glass doors are open wide, and the sound reaches me first. Music drifts through the villa, something upbeat and ridiculous that has Jude written all over it — too loud, too fun, the kind of song that makes you want to dance even if you can't.
Then I smell it: chlorine and salt air and something sweet, maybe coconut sunscreen. The breeze moves through the open doors, warm against my bare stomach.
I can see them on the pool deck before they see me.
Jude's already in the water, floating on his back like he doesn't have a care in the world, arms spread wide.
Rhett's sitting on the edge near the shallow end, feet dangling in, shoulders relaxed.
Cade's in one of the lounge chairs, shirtless, arms crossed over his chest, face tipped toward the sun.
I step through the doors.
The sun hits me first — warm and bright and perfect, soaking into my skin. Then the music, louder now, bass thumping through the outdoor speakers. Then their eyes.
All three of them stop.
Jude straightens in the water, no longer floating. His arms drop. His mouth opens slightly, and for once, he doesn't say a word.
Rhett goes still. Completely still. His hands stop moving on the edge of the pool. His gaze moves from my face down to my chest, my stomach, my hips, my legs, and back up. Slow. Deliberate. Like he's cataloging every inch of exposed skin, every curve, every freckle. His jaw tightens.
Cade doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just looks at me with that steady, unreadable intensity that makes my skin feel too tight and my pulse kick up in my throat. His eyes are dark. Focused. Like I'm the only thing that exists.
I don't cover myself. Don't cross my arms or tug at the bikini strings or blurt out some stupid joke to deflect the weight of their attention. I just stand there in the sunlight and let them look.
Because I want them to.
The realization hits quiet and sure, settling into my chest like something I've always known but never said out loud.
I want them to see me. I want to be looked at like this — like I'm the only woman in the world, like nothing else matters except the way this bikini fits my body and the way I'm standing here in the sunlight and the fact that I walked out here instead of hiding in my room.
I want their eyes on me. I want to feel the heat of their stares on my skin, the way my stomach tightens under the weight of it, the way my breath catches when Cade's gaze drops to my mouth.
I want this.
Jude recovers first. "Holy shit."
His voice cracks slightly on the second word. He's staring at me like I just appeared out of thin air, like his brain is still trying to catch up with what his eyes are seeing.
Rhett doesn't say anything. Just keeps looking, gray eyes locked on me, unblinking. His knuckles are white where they grip the edge of the pool.
Cade stands. The lounge chair creaks as he moves, slow and deliberate.
He walks toward me, barefoot on the hot stone, and stops close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his chest, smell the faint scent of his skin — clean and warm and male.
"Sweet stepsister," he says, voice low and rough. "You're going to kill us."
My pulse stutters. My mouth curves, and I hear myself say it before I can second-guess the words.
"Challenge accepted."
I walk past him, brushing close enough that my arm grazes his, and head straight for the pool.
The stone is warm under my feet. The sun is hot on my shoulders. I can feel their eyes on me with every step — Jude's wide-eyed stare, Rhett's silent intensity, Cade's dark focus burning into my back.
And I don't falter. Don't rush. I walk like I belong here. Like this body is mine and I'm not apologizing for it.
So this is what it's like being wanted.
I could get used to this.