The Stepbrother Distraction

Chapter 1

Marshall

The rental car feels like a goddamn toy. I kill the engine and stretch my legs as much as the cramped space allows, which isn’t much. My SUV back home has legroom. This thing has the suggestion of legroom, an optimistic promise that gives up somewhere around my knees.

The AC wheezes out a final breath of cool air. I give it another ten seconds, soaking in the artificial chill before the Italian July heat wins. The drive from Malpensa was only an hour, but I’m still dragging the exhaustion of the flight behind me.

I pop the door open and step out into air that hits me like a wall. It’s dry and hot, the kind of heat that bakes into your skin and settles there. I’m still closing the door when I hear footsteps and look up to see Gabriel on the porch.

It’s been three years since I’ve seen my stepbrother in person, our schedules playing an endless game of near-misses.

He’d visit Philip, Mom, and Audrey for Thanksgiving while I took Christmas.

He’d come in June, I’d show up in August. We’d overlap in family group texts and the occasional phone call that lasted exactly as long as politeness required.

He looks better. That’s my first thought, which is stupid because Gabriel’s always looked good.

But there’s something different now. The whiskey eyes are brighter against his tan, like someone turned up the contrast. His cheekbones and jawline cut sharper, making his mouth stand out more, those full lips he got from his late mother.

I’ve seen photos of her. She was a gorgeous woman.

Somehow Gabriel took her features and came out even more striking, like he refined the blueprint.

His hair is a bit longer than I remember, just to his jawline, the brown streaked with gold, probably from the time spent in the sun.

He’s wearing a linen shirt, the top few buttons undone, exposing his collarbone, tailored dark linen trousers cropped at the ankle, and tan leather sandals worn soft with use.

He descends the porch steps with an easy confidence and pulls me into a hug before I can decide if I’m ready for physical contact.

I’m not ready.

He’s almost my height, and I feel every inch of it as his arms wrap around me, solid and warm.

The scent hits me next: smoked vanilla, black pepper, and warm skin.

My nostrils flare. I don’t mean for them to, but my body decides it needs more of whatever the hell Gabriel’s wearing, and I’m too tired to fight it.

He leans back, hands still on my shoulders, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Marshall. It’s good to see you.”

I nod, forcing my brain to come online. “Yeah. You too.”

“I’m sorry about the divorce.”

Of course he leads with that. I shrug, stepping back so his hands drop. “It’s fine. Should’ve clocked sooner that Rachel was in it for the family money.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I could’ve paid more attention. But at least we don’t have kids to traumatize.”

Gabriel’s mouth quirks. “Small mercies.”

The silence stretches for a beat too long, so I fill it. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.”

He says it too fast and looks away, his gaze skimming past me to the car, the driveway, anywhere but my face.

I catch it, file it away in the part of my brain that catalogs things that don’t add up.

Gabriel’s not a liar, but he’s good at deflecting.

Whatever’s going on with him, he’s not ready to talk about it.

Fair enough. I’m not here to pry.

I head for the trunk and haul out my suitcase. Gabriel turns and heads toward the villa, and I follow, wheels crunching over gravel before hitting the smooth stone path.

It looks the same as I remember: cream-colored stone, terracotta roof tiles, shutters painted a faded green that probably looked charming twenty years ago.

It’s beautiful in the way old things are beautiful, worn in and comfortable.

I haven’t been here for years, but it settles around me like a familiar jacket.

Inside smells like lavender and earth, and underneath it all, cooking. Garlic. Tomato. My stomach growls.

Gabriel glances back over his shoulder, catching me mid-sniff. “You must be exhausted.”

“I’d kill for a shower.”

His mouth twitches. “No need to commit a felony. I’ve prepared the second bedroom for you on the third floor.” He pauses at the base of the staircase, one hand on the banister. “I hope you don’t mind sharing the bathroom with me.”

“I don’t mind.” I heft the suitcase up the first step. “You’re in the other bedroom on that floor?”

“I am.”

So we’ll have bedrooms connected by a bathroom. Adjoining rooms, basically. I feel something flicker in my chest, a weird nervousness that doesn’t make sense. We’re family. We’ve shared space before. This shouldn’t feel like anything.

I dismiss it and keep climbing.

The stairs are narrower than I remember, or maybe I’m just bigger.

My shoulders nearly brush both walls. Gabriel moves ahead of me with the kind of easy grace that makes me feel like a lumbering bear.

He’s always been like that. Elegant. It used to irritate me when we were younger, back when I was still trying to prove something. Now it’s just Gabriel.

The third-floor hallway is dim and cool, two doors set apart along the same wall. Gabriel pushes open the door on the right, and I follow him in.

The room is simple. A bed with white linens, a dresser, a window that looks out over the garden. The shutters are open, letting in slanted golden light that cuts across the floor.

Gabriel stops in the doorway. “I made dinner. Pasta, nothing fancy. Come down when you’re ready.”

“Thanks.”

He nods and leaves, pulling the door halfway closed behind him. I hear his footsteps retreat down the hall, the creak of another door opening and closing.

I drop my suitcase by the dresser and walk to the window.

The garden spreads out below, wild and weathered.

Overgrown hedges, cracked stone paths, a fountain in the center that’s probably dry.

It needs work. That’s why I’m here. Philip, my stepdad, asked me to restore it, said it was a waste to let it fall apart when the family spent so much time here.

I think it was Mom’s idea. Use a beautiful but neglected Italian garden as bait to get me out of the States and under family supervision.

She’s never been subtle about wanting to keep an eye on me, especially after the divorce.

I don’t blame her. I’d probably do the same if I had a kid who just signed papers ending a five-year marriage.

The light outside is starting to soften, golden hour creeping in. I peel off my shirt, then my jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor. The bathroom door is unlocked. I push it open and step inside.

The bathroom is generous for a villa this old.

Clawfoot tub, separate shower with a glass door, double sinks.

One side is clearly Gabriel’s: toothbrush, a slim bottle of cologne, a razor, and a careful lineup of skincare.

I toss my toiletry bag on the other side and turn on the shower, waiting for the water to heat.

Steam fills the space. I step under the spray and let it hit my shoulders, my neck, washing away the grime of travel and recycled air. The water pressure is surprisingly good. I close my eyes and tip my head back, letting the heat work into my muscles.

My thoughts drift.

I don’t know why Gabriel is the first thing my mind lands on, but he is.

The way he looked on the porch, the way he hugged me without hesitation, the smell of him that I can still taste in the back of my throat.

We’re going to be alone in this villa for weeks, just the two of us and a garden that needs saving.

I wonder what that’s going to be like.

I wonder what the hell is wrong with me that I’m even wondering.

I scrub a hand over my face, then reach for the soap. The water runs over me, and I let it, because stopping means getting out and facing the rest of the evening and whatever the next few weeks are going to be.

I don’t think I’m ready for any of it.