I’ve daydreamed about being a lot of things. A starship high commander. A princess at a school for magical fighting fairy warriors. A sailor girl in a short skirt with bows everywhere and a moon crescent tiara. A world famous author.

One thing I’ve never daydreamed about, though, is the life of a stay-at-home author and soon-to-be stepmom, integrating into her new home.

Riker’s wood-frame house is nice, but my father’s ten-car garage is larger than this entire building.

Yet I’m finding, as I’ve settled in over the past week, that I love this little house more than I could ever love the sterile hallways of Daddy’s sprawling mansion. This feels like a home, a real one, while Daddy's and Milah's extravagant palaces just feel like properties.

It feels like it could be my home, even if I know that’s just a temporary illusion. Something to strive for one day myself, maybe.

Before, I never really noticed how constantly surrounded I am by people. Whether it was Daddy’s aides or just the household staff, cleaners, gardeners, it was never quiet. I was never alone.

There’s something really freeing about just having space, being alone during the day, when Riker’s at work and Emily’s at school. You’d think I’d be afraid being by myself, but the fact that Riker feels safe with me alone in the house, while he keeps up the illusion of normalcy by going to work, says it'll all be okay.

I keep calling him Grumpy or Beast just because the Disney references amuse me, but right now, I feel like Giselle in Enchanted: completely enthralled by the most normal things.

Last night I did laundry for the first time ever. And managed not to screw it up, even if I only washed my own things. I couldn’t risk Riker’s or Em’s.

I'll admit I was picturing the usual rom-com disaster with the helpless rich girl: soap suds everywhere, the washing machine exploding a mess all over the laundry room.

Turns out, if you just read the back of the box, the instructions aren’t that hard.

Maybe I shouldn’t be proud of that, but I am.

And I was proud, this morning, of making breakfast before sending everyone off to their day.

I’m not really the 'little woman' type, but I’m totally here for the functional family unit where everyone pulls their weight. Riker’s been making breakfast so far, but every day I’ve been asking to help with little tasks.

He has this way of looking at me, measuring me, not like he thinks I can’t do it, but like he’s not sure he wants to give up enough control of his life to let someone help.

But then he steps aside. Puts whatever I need in my hands and shows me what I have to do, guiding me sometimes with a light touch to the back of my hand.

I like it.

Maybe more than I should.

And I loved the baffled look on his face today when he came downstairs to find me shaking powdered sugar over perfectly edible French toast with coffee already going in the Moka pot and a steaming plate of cheesy scrambled eggs waiting to be dashed with pepper and divvied up.

You’d think money could've bought me a million times more happinesses than this, but somehow I’m only finding contentment here. Where I'm hiding for my life and figuring out how to crack an egg on a skillet without getting shell bits into the whites.

Right now, though, I’m staring at my notebook, chewing on a pen and figuring out how to fix a plot hole. Turns out writing a book isn’t just splattering random, overexcited words on a page.

Except...

Okay, it is. It totally is. But making those words actually good is hard. Making them fit together into a real, thrilling story instead of just my own random fantasies is harder yet.

Like, I’ve been writing fan fiction for years, but figuring out how to get past an alien's seven-year mating gap is way easier than figuring out whether or not my hero should have some dramatic tearjerker death in the end, or if I want to give them a happily ever after.

I’m not sure if I’m worried what readers will think, or if I’m just not really a fan, right now, of stories that end in death.

I’m leaning toward some last-minute Hail Mary play that will hold readers in thrall until that critical final second...

Then my phone rings in my pocket, pulling me from my all-important staring at the page. The ringtone's one of Milah’s peppier songs, meaning it’s Milah herself and the jingle I set for her.

It's kind of my way of remembering happier times, a happier sister, so that even when I’m dreading another phone call needing me to drag her out of some dive where she’s wound up half-naked and barely-conscious?

I still smile whenever I hear that song.

When I pick up, though, rather than the inebriated slur I’m dreading, Milah’s crisp, calm voice gives me another reason to smile. She’s sober. I know I get frustrated when she backslides, but she’s trying with all her heart and soul, and that's what matters.

“Hey, baby sis,” she says. She sounds breathless, probably from practicing a stage routine. “How are things?”

“I’m good, for now. Working on another dance number?”

“No, just hitting the treadmill. It helps with the –” She stops, but I know what’s left blank. The cravings.

Whatever she needs to cope. Now in the background I can pick up the mechanical sound, the whirring, her feet hitting the track. “I’m in Toronto for the week for several shows and just rented out a villa with a private gym. You sure you're okay down there in dumpsville?”

“I’m good, I swear. I’m trying to get some writing in, and Riker’s taking good care of me.”

“I hope Riker’s less of a stick in the mud than Landon. Total straight-edge bore, that one, but he knows his stuff.” I catch a wet sloshing sound, I think a water bottle, then, “Just sit tight. He’ll take care of everything, and Daddy’s got all the costs covered.”

I don’t have a reply for that. Not one I want to say out loud anyway, when I feel so sick and frustrated inside.

I should just be grateful. Say the right words, tell her how glad I am that she and Daddy are taking care of me, putting me in the hands of people who will wrap everything up nice and tidy while I don’t have to lift a finger.

Instead I just feel like someone else’s problem.

Always someone else’s problem, never part of anyone’s success.

“Liv? You there?” Milah says into the silence, then starts muttering to herself. “This fucking Bluetooth, it never holds a connection –”

“I’m here!” I blurt, then fall silent again. I can’t find words. I love Milah, but we’ve never been up for deep conversations and long soul-searching exchanges.

Finally, I say, “You know, sis...I might stay here, after this is over. In San Francisco, I mean. It’s nice. It’s different.”

She makes a scoffing sound. “Different from what? Don't tell me you're falling for that fog on the Bay and Silicon Valley nerds jogging around.”

“Well,” I hesitate. “Life.” I shake my head, clutching the phone closer. “The life I had at home, the non-life I had at home, I should say. I feel like everyone’s problems are mine and I’m everyone’s problem, but I’m not even enough of a real person to have problems of my own. At home, I can't. There's always somebody ready to come rushing to the rescue.”

I can almost hear Milah’s wince. “Sorry, Liv. I never thought you'd wind up in this. God, I thought I paid those shit-rats...”

“I know,” I say softly. “I know, Milah, I don’t blame you. So you’ve had some things in your past, but they were the ones who took this so far. It’s not your fault, Mimi.”

The childhood nickname chokes a tired, pained laugh from her. “Who knew being good could be so hard? You always made it look so easy.”

“Not sure I was ever good,” I say with a shrug. “I just wasn’t bad. I wasn’t anything.”

“So that's what you’re looking for out there? Your chance to find out if you’re good or bad or somewhere in between without Daddy hovering around and checking your every move?”

“Something like that.” I smile, and it hurts. “I never understood why he watched me so closely.”

“You didn’t? Really?” Her voice gentles. “He was afraid you'd turn into me, Liv. Trouble. I may be his biggest financial success, but I’m his disappointment as a daughter.”

“No way. You’re not,” I say fiercely. “Milah, you’re...you’re my sister and you just need help. You’re not a disappointment. That's crazy talk.”

“You sound like my twelve-step coach.” Her laugh is bitter, and I can feel the subject change coming even before she forges on brightly, “Sooo...how about that walking pile of sexy Daddy issues? Is he part of this sudden need to flex your wings? Baby bird want to fly up that tall gorgeous tree? I tell ya, the older guys, they know a thing or two about how to pry a lock real good and –”

“No!” I splutter, before taking a few deep, shaky breaths and resting my hand over my heart. “It isn't like that.”

I’m amazed I haven’t had a heart attack over the past week with how many times it’s gone off the rails with wild rushing beats, but for once it’s not beating in terror. It’s a light, rainy patter of thrills running through my chest.

“Mmm-hm. Next I guess you'll tell me you've never snuck a second glance? Not even if he steps out of the shower wearing nothing but a freaking towel?”

Damn it, Milah. My brain instantly goes to the image of the great coffee disaster. I got a nice, long look at Riker Woods then. Shirtless, ripped, inked, and magnificently hard.

“Don’t make it weird, Mimi. Riker's a professional. He’s my bodyguard. You’re full of it.”

And so am I, when late at night after everyone’s asleep...

I think about the thick corded strength in his arms, and how they held me so easily.

I think about how hot his hand was curved against my hip, searing me through my thin pajama shorts.

I think about the dark ink branded on his chest, shaping and defining the hard, worn-in ridges of muscle that have been chiseled and chipped into raw power by time, age, woe.

All the weathering of years and pain and wisdom that's made this man incredible.

And I can’t be thinking about these things.

But I can’t get them out of my head, and Milah isn’t helping one bit.

Especially when she lets out another teasing laugh and says, “I am not. He’s almost as gorgeous as Landon. Maybe not my type, but you...” She snickers. “Why not have a little fun? Get some tension out. Riker looks like he could use it, too. You’re both too uptight.”

“That doesn’t mean we need to fix that with each other!”

Milah starts to say something that sounds sly and teasing. I can’t take it when I feel like my head is going to pop from all the blood rushing to it, so I just hang up the call and drop the phone, staring at the little slim rose-gold plated iPhone like it’s going to bite me.

Fun.

With Riker.

I doubt he’d even look my way, but I hate that she put that idea even deeper into my head.

I need to do something to take my mind off this. Anything to get my brain away from the memory of Riker standing in the kitchen in a towel and nothing else, his wet-slicked hair raked back from his brow, that thick, tightly trimmed beard framing the hard, stern set of his mouth.

It’s his mouth that really gets to me. There’s something about it, something commanding, something vicious, and yet sometimes he speaks to me so gently and –

“Oh my God, Liv.” I moan, cutting off my thoughts, and bury my face in my hands. “Stop.”

Dinner. I should make dinner.

Flex my newfound culinary skills and keep helping make Riker’s and Em’s lives easier by pulling my fair share of the weight around here. I unfold myself from the couch and slip into the kitchen, opening the fridge to see if I remembered to put any meat out to thaw this morning. I may or may not want to try a recipe I saw on Julie and Julia, but I’m probably going to mess it up.

Just as I lean in to peer at a saran-wrapped carton of beef, though, a sudden crash reverberates up through the house and right through me, shocking my entire body to the bone.

I freeze. Somehow, I’ve risen up on my toes, like I’m going to take off running but the rest of my body didn’t get the memo.

So I’m just poised there on the balls of my feet, breathing shallowly, my eyes so wide I can feel them drying out while I just listen and hope I’m not about to flirt with death a second time. I already turned that date down once.

Another crash comes rocketing up from downstairs. And another, louder, steadier – almost like someone’s hitting something.

My mind conjures up visions of someone breaking in through the basement storm door, hacking at it with fists or a crowbar or whatever else they can use to get it open.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap.

Taking a shaky breath, I snatch up the giant shallow stir-fry pan I’d just put out on the stove, clutching it by the handle.

I should call 9-11. Get the cops out here as fast as possible while I find a safe place to hide until someone can come.

Come rescue me.

Like some kind of damsel in distress.

Like I’ve been all my life.

Okay. I know this is the dumbest chain of thought I’ve ever had in my life, and the worst time to decide to be brave.

I know I’m about to probably get myself shot or worse, just because my sister had to say something that got me all caught up in my lack of independence.

I know I’m about to be the dumb girl who gets killed in the first scene of every horror movie, and we don’t even find out her name until the end credits and it’s usually “Moron Girl Who Didn’t Run Away.”

But heaven help me, I’m creeping toward the basement stairs anyway, holding the skillet like I’m standing at bat, ready to swing a home run.

The crashing noise is still coming from down there, rhythmic and echoing.

Just a steady, machine-like thud-thud-thud.

If there’s someone trying to break in, they’re having a lot of trouble, I guess. Good.

Maybe I can use it to my advantage. Hide behind the storm door. And when they come barging in, brain them with the skillet and then call 9-11 before they can get away.

I think, as I tiptoe down one step at a time, I may be doing things in the wrong order.

But it’s too late to turn back now. I round the corner of the stairwell, peeking out carefully, ready to jerk back before anyone spots me.

Only to come face to face with a shirtless Riker, right before a swinging punching bag slams me in the face.

I don’t know what drops first, me or the skillet. I’m not even sure if the ringing, reverberating crash I hear is my skull, or the pan hitting the floor.

All I know is, one minute I’m staring at rivulets of sweat glistening and pooling in the deep grooves of Riker’s chest, and the next a hundred pounds of hard-packed leather smacks me right between the eyes before everything goes white, then black, then a million colors all at once as I tumble to the floor.

“Liv? Shit, Liv!”

I vaguely hear Riker calling my name.

The throbbing in my head is louder, but suddenly the world leaps into sharp relief as his arms slip around me and he lifts me up. He’s kneeling next to me, I realize fuzzily, and suddenly the powerful lengths of his thighs are underneath me, supporting me, while his arm stretches along my back and he props me against the overwhelming heat of his chest.

I’m awake.

I’m very awake, and Riker smells like the most primal, dizzying thing I’ve ever breathed.

He scowls down at me, lines forming around his eyes as he presses his fingers to my throat, then moves my head from side to side, looking me over critically. “What the hell were you doing? Are you all right?”

“I...ow.” I wince when he touches a tender spot right on the tip of my nose. “I'll live. Nothing’s bleeding. Just a little bump.” Then I scowl right back at him, trying to ignore how I’m in his lap and my entire body feels like it’s made for fluttering. “You couldn’t warn me before you started making all this noise down here?”

“Warn you? It’s just my evening workout routine and – oh.” He looks past me at the skillet on the floor. “You thought someone was breaking in?”

“Maybe. Because someone didn’t tell me he’d be down here banging around when I was trying to make dinner for his sweaty, rude, overprotective butt!”

I’m not sure where the sharp words come from. I’m not even mad at him for being overprotective, really. It’s his job, after all.

But they’re out, and I can’t believe I’m sitting here with his body wrapped around me in all this delicious heat, and all I want to do is shove away from him and cry. Especially when he seems to turn to ice against me.

All that radiant body heat shuts off until he’s just motionless stone, looking down at me without any expression except a tightening of that stern, arresting mouth that seems to say so much more when he’s silent than it ever does when he speaks.

But I almost wish he'd stayed silent when he bites off coldly, “That won’t be necessary. Dinner's my job, Liv. We’ll take care of ourselves.”

Then he lets me go, arms falling away until the only thing keeping me close to him, keeping me in his lap, is gravity and my own will. The message is clear – he’s only giving me a choice to be some kind of gentleman.

I’m not feeling very ladylike.

But I muster strength, pull myself up, and separate from him, standing on shaky feet. The ground feels too far away and my head hurts, my eyes not quite focusing right, and my face burns as much with the impact of the punching bag as it does with mortification and hurt. I square my shoulders, looking for a little dignity. Even one scrap.

“I’ll go lie down then,” I say. “Until I feel better.”

Still, he says nothing.

So I just leave.

I go, dragging myself up the stairs, fighting the urge to run. He’s so frustrating. I can’t figure out what the hell's truly up with him.

And I’m not sure why I want to.

I feel bad when Em comes to get me for dinner and I tell her I’m not hungry, and I just need to rest.

I feel too sick to my stomach. If I’m being honest, it's worse than the fading headache and stinging in my face. More than anything, I’m avoiding the little reminders that I’m not really part of their family and I’m not wanted here.

The way Em’s face falls makes it even worse. I really, really like her, and not just because we’ve taught each other more Klingon vocabulary than we ever knew alone.

Ugh.

I wait for Riker and Em to split off to do their own separate things before I slink out with my tail tucked between my legs, quiet as a church mouse as I make a sandwich and then exile myself to the back porch with my notebook and plate. I ignore both, though, as I curl up on a faded, floral-patterned chaise and stare up at the sky, watching the stars come out against clouds that turn the broad expanse into a soft blue-purple haze.

I lose myself watching the stars.

It’s easier not to think that way. Easier to just enjoy the quiet and the calm, and the way at night it still feels just as warm as day but the colors of everything turn the temperature down just a few soft, soothing notches.

Slowly, as I let my tension and melancholy bleed out, I start to let my mind drift back to my story. My tortured hero, broken and bruised inside but still so strong, and the heroine who gives up everything to show him love only to lose it all when a car accident takes his life. Or her life, maybe. Nearly. Or not so nearly. Maybe. I still don’t know.

And I feel like I don’t like this girl I’ve written, who only exists to give things to other people and has no dreams for herself.

I want her to want something. To need something. To yearn for something so deeply, and I don’t want it to be something the hero can give her. I want her to reach for it with both hands and grasp it herself, then draw it close and never, ever let it go.

I just don’t know what that thing is.

Too real? Hell yeah.

I’m pulled from my thoughts by a loud creak – the second sound to startle me half out of my skin tonight. I jerk, but this time manage not to injure myself, though my blood feels like it’s going to split out of my veins, it’s roaring so fast.

The back gate is open.

I shoot to my feet, pen clutched in one hand, fingers crumpling my notebook into a near-ball with the other, breath caught in the back of my throat. This time I know it’s not Riker, or Em.

Em’s in the garage practicing, and I can hear Riker in his workroom doing something with an electric saw. I know the gate was closed before, almost invisible under the festooning tangles of closed-up morning glories pouring over the fence, the backyard completely enclosed in a little box of twilight.

But it’s swung open on the narrow swath of grass between the fence and the backyard of the house on the next block, only there’s no one in sight. I scan the yard quickly, darting my gaze left to right – only to scream and clutch my pen and notebook to my chest with a shrill little squeak as someone lets out a calm, quiet “Hi” at my elbow.

I jump.

So does a gangly boy with sandy hair and kind eyes, rawboned with just that hint of muscle that promises he’s going to start growing soon. He stares at me warily. I stare back, only to let out a sharp breath as I realize I’m freaking out over a kid.

I slump, then offer a sheepish smile. “Sorry, a little jumpy.”

“Yeah,” he says, though it’s not hard to tell he’s trying not to laugh and piss off the grown-up. “Might want to take a breath. Um. You’re Em’s mom, right?”

“Soon-to-be stepmom,” I say with a wry smile, hating how easily the lie falls off my tongue. “Are you a friend of hers?”

“I’m Ryan,” he says, then at my blank look, adds, “My dad runs the studio where Em takes lessons? We live in this neighborhood, too. We just moved a few weeks ago.”

“Oh!” It’s easier to smile then, relaxing and tucking my hair back. “Want me to go get Em for y—”

“No need!” Em chirps as she comes rocketing out from the side door to the garage. For someone so shy and reserved, when something catches her attention she’s this wildly animated ball of energy, and that energy is radiating everywhere now as she tumbles toward Ryan, her cheeks flushed.

She doesn’t even look at me. Only him, her eyes glittering, her smile a bit tentative but so broad it’s like she can’t contain it if she wanted to. “Hi.”

He makes a flustered sound, breaking into a smile. “Hi,” he answers, then fidgets and looks away awkwardly, clearing his throat. “I, um, thought you might want to practice. Like, defensive holds or something.”

Em lights up even further, asking “Yeah?” breathlessly, then, “Cool. Let me ask my –”

“Dad says it’s fine.” Riker appears out of nowhere, materializing in the kitchen back door, his chiseled bulk taking up the entire frame.

He’s got a rugged mountain man’s physique, imposing but somehow still lithe, and he seems to define the space around him rather than the space defining him. He wipes his hands on a towel, looking Ryan over, before offering a brief, warm smile to Em. “Just remember to be careful and stay on the mats. You know where the first aid kit is?”

Em half rolls her eyes, half smiles. “Over the torque wrench set, where it always is. I do listen sometimes, Daddy.”

“That’s my girl.”

Em grins, then tosses her head at Ryan and takes off for the garage. It’s like the light she brings with her snuffs out the instant they vanish inside, leaving me and Riker alone in a silence filled only with crickets, cicadas, and unspoken words.

I stand there helplessly, just looking at him. He returns my gaze expressionlessly, still wiping his hands on the towel, yet I feel like I’m starting to get a read on him because it seems like he’s just trying to keep his hands busy.

But he’s not walking away.

And I feel like something’s waiting to happen between us, but I don’t know what, and I don’t know how to broach this. So I tear my gaze away, then settle down to sit on the chaise once more, drawing my legs up and tucking my notebook into my lap, staring down at my fingers as I pluck at my pen and turn it over and run my fingertips along the ridges my teeth have left in the plastic.

Riker lets out a rumbling sound, almost reluctant, then mutters, “There’s moo goo gai pan left for you. If you're hungry...”

I gesture weakly at the sandwich resting on the little side table. “I made something for myself.” But I can’t help but bite back, “I could’ve made you more than moo goo gai pan. Something healthier.”

“With your Martha Stewart cookbook?” he fires back.

“Julia Child, thank you, and yes.” I glower at him. “I’m not that helpless, Riker. I can follow simple instructions. I do fine with breakfast, and you ate it right up. So why's dinner such a big deal?”

His jaw tightens subtly. It’s always subtle with him, but every action speaks so loud, and I wonder if it’s because I’m listening so hard or if it’s just because on some deep, strange level, it’s like I feel him, all the things he doesn’t say.

But I’m not sure where he’s going with this as he cuts his gaze toward the garage and asks neutrally, “Do you hear that? Do you hear my daughter laughing?”

It’s hard not to. Em’s laughter is shy but lovely, this bright, unrestrained thing, effusive and sweet, and the boy’s laughter is just as youthful and exuberant, completely unashamed of his happiness, unlike the shame and self-restraint we’re taught as adults. As if being happy is something wrong, and we shouldn’t be too loud or too joyous about it, or else we’ll make other people miserable and angry.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “Yeah, I hear her.”

“Funny. I haven’t heard her laugh that way in years. Fuck, at this age, her life should be nothing but laughter.” There’s something grim in his voice, dark and determined. “This is a job, Liv. You know that. You're a guest in my home, and a client. I don’t want Em to get confused that this means anything else. I don’t want her thinking you'll stay, only to lose the laughter in her life when you go, and she doesn’t understand why someone else had to leave her behind. She’s finally making friends, and that’s not easy for her when bratty high school kids in her advanced courses don’t want to talk to the precocious monster making better grades than all of them combined, or they want to treat her like a pet and a mascot when she’s too proud for that. Finding balance for Em is damn hard. And I don’t want your presence here to tip her in the wrong direction. That's why I said no dinner. Understood?”

I suddenly feel smaller than ever.

Like I'm so ready for a hole to open up under me and pull me under.

Again, I'm someone’s problem. Something to be dealt with, and I shrink down into myself, plucking at the spiral rings of my notebook. Any desire to fight has gone out of me. “It was just dinner. It didn’t have to mean anything else.”

“It’s never ‘just dinner,’” Riker says. “It’s never ‘just’ anything. So I don’t want to have any drama, complications, or misunderstandings. This is strictly business. If my boss even thinks there’s anything inappropriate happening here, it could ruin the entire operation.”

Anything inappropriate? I shake my head. “I still don’t get what’s so inappropriate about me making dinner.”

He just looks at me, the towel stopping between his hands, twisted and curled tight between his knuckles.

Then he turns and walks away, leaving me alone as the first chill of evening starts to sink in, seeping into my bones with a finality as harsh as the kitchen door slamming shut.

I don’t understand what just happened.

And I don’t understand how a man who’s so kind and gentle with his daughter and real in his pain can be such a massive jerk to me.