At least this day can't get any worse.
Famous last words, I know. Except I can't help but think it, even as I'm limping down the walkway, headed toward the guesthouse and dragging my suitcase behind me.
The suitcase makes a sound that's only slightly less grating than nails on a chalkboard as I drag it over the concrete. It's held together with twine, clothes poking out of the sides every which way, and a giant sticker peeling at the edges that reads, "Notice of Inspection." I'm holding one of the wheels in my hand, because of course as soon as I picked it up at baggage claim, a wheel went rolling off.
The suitcase looks better than I do, actually. You know those romantic comedies where the heroine falls in a fountain or gets caught in a downpour and is supposed to appear bedraggled but instead is breathtakingly gorgeous in spite of her dripping hair and clothes? Yeah, that's pretty much exactly the opposite of what I look like.
I look like I walked off the set of a horror movie. Outside of the airport, I caught my heel in a grate while I was walking and ripped it clean off my brand new designer shoe, crashing onto the sidewalk and skinning my knee. While I was hailing a cab, my umbrella had some kind of seizure, so my hair is plastered to my head; my clothes are soaked; and my black bra is completely visible through my white t-shirt. I know my shirt is transparent, because the cab driver was helpful enough to point it out for me.
I'm hoping I can make it to the guesthouse without any further catastrophe. I didn't even stop at the main house – I want to clean up before seeing anyone I know, and as soon as I glimpsed the cars in the driveway, I knew I had to avoid that place.
I've just flown back to Dallas to start my new job, working in my father's company, Marlowe Oil -- my first professional job out of college. The last thing I need is to show up at the door looking like a hot mess in front of whatever business associates my family is likely entertaining.
Sneaking around to the guesthouse is a much smarter choice in my condition.
Besides, I don't think I even have the mental capacity to make coherent conversation with anyone. All I want is a shower. Actually, make that a bath. I want a bath and a stiff drink.
At least it's not raining anymore. That has to count for something, right?
I push open the door to the guesthouse with my shoulder, trying to wrangle my suitcase through the doorway. I'm making such a commotion that it's only when I turn around, I realize I'm not alone.
In fact, not alone is the understatement of the year.
There are probably twenty people staring at me. I scan the room, taking in their faces, trying to process the scene in my brain. It's some kind of photo shoot, models and makeup artists and clothing hung on racks in the corner of the room. Strategically placed lighting illuminates the set, and a photographer is turned toward the door, paused with his camera in hand, staring at me.
I'm standing here, barefoot and looking like a drowned rat, my gaze coming to rest on the chaise lounge in the middle of the room, where three tall, thin, beautiful blondes with perfectly coiffed hair and flawless makeup and expensive lace lingerie pose around him. The boy I used to know. The boy I last saw four years ago, when we were eighteen.
He's sure as hell not a boy anymore.
He looks right in my eyes, and I swear he can see through me. Then he gives me that cocky, shit-sure of himself, nothing-ever-surprises-me grin, and I'm not certain whether the heat that rushes through me is anger or lust.
Gaige O'Neal.
Motorcycle racer, womanizer, asshole extraordinaire. Four years ago, he was the bane of my existence. And my best friend, my confidant, my first love.
My stepbrother.
Crap. This day just got a hell of a lot worse.