I ran for the stairs as soon as I heard the doorbell. Damn it, I’d planned on being ready and waiting for Declan out front so I could go over every last-minute warning I could think of:

Yes, Elaine is my biological mother, and yes, we’re both incredibly ashamed of that fact. No, Timothy is not my real dad, and no, neither of us would want it any other way. Yes, they’re both elitist assholes and, yes, I grew up thinking most people were beneath me. The only difference was that I was brutally cured of that affliction while in high school, while they’re old and still desperately clinging to their bullshit better-than status despite all evidence to the contrary.

Honestly, that I was a total snob hadn’t been an easy realization for me. It was humiliating to remember how cluelessly arrogant I’d been. But meeting Andi and Emilia—two of the most down-to-earth, amazing people in the world—had taught me how unimportant wealth is if all you use it for is to buy respect.

Sadly, while my friends had given me life lessons about selfishness, kindness, and integrity, they hadn’t managed to hammer in enough honesty to overcome my mother’s influence.

I could feel that changing, though. All because of how open Declan was. Hell, I’d almost come clean with him about what had happened to me after only meeting him three times. Emilia, Andi, and I had been friends for years, and they still didn’t know. I wanted to tell them, but I couldn’t stop wondering if it was too late. That I’d blown my chance by pushing them away for so long.

Over the last year, I’d discovered that there were two different types of friends. The first kind—like Andi and Emilia—believed in you and wanted you to be happy. Sounds horrible, right? Wait for it…

With this kind of friend, making a bad decision made them worry and decide they needed to fix you. Even if you couldn’t—or didn’t want to—be fixed. They wouldn’t give up, even if you begged them to, even if you knew you weren’t ready to accept their help or their love.

The other kind—like Carissa, for example—was much simpler. We went out to drown our feelings in alcohol, loud music, and one-night stands. You never had to worry if this type of friend would judge you. Mostly because she’d done much worse and was planning to do it again just as soon as her hangover was gone. She cared about you but never tried to fix you because that meant you might try to fix her.

Unfortunately, by the time I made it downstairs, Declan was standing in the foyer handing Timothy a bottle of wine. His polite smile morphed into surprise when our eyes met and he mouthed, “Wow.”

My steps slowed as I made my way to him. Timothy being right there quelled my desire to jump into Declan’s arms and kiss him. Instead, he moved the bouquet of white roses he carried into his other arm and kissed me on the cheek.

“Elaine, come out here and meet Declan,” my stepdad called before turning to us. “She’s been in the kitchen for hours.”

“She’s cooking?” That was new. My mom never cooked. She ordered in, went out, or when she was on some health kick, ate those prepackaged, gourmet delivery meals out of biodegradable containers. But actual cooking? Like, food in the oven? Nope, not that I could remember.

“Hope you’re hungry. Elaine has a tendency to overdo things like this.” Timothy led us into the open-concept living room/dining room combo.

“Sounds perfect. Because I’m starved.” Declan leaned close to my ear and whispered, “You look good enough to eat.”

I cleared my throat to cover my laugh and then gestured to the flowers he still carried. “Are those for me?”

“Nope. Your mother gets these, and you get me.” He winked.

“I think I’d rather have the flowers,” I joked.

My mom came out of the swinging door between the kitchen and the dining area, folded her apron neatly, and laid it over the back of a chair.

After saying hello to Declan and thanking him for the flowers, she took them to the wet bar to put them into a vase. While she was there, she asked what everyone wanted to drink and refilled the glass I was sure she’d already refilled a few times this evening. Thankfully, my mom could be the perfect hostess in her sleep. Sometimes I wondered how she’d managed to master all the things in life that didn’t matter—did she take classes, or did it just come naturally?

The four of us sat down in the living room, and I waited for my first date-interrogation since prom night to begin. When Declan took my hand and squeezed, I silently apologized to him for everything he was about to be put through. Although, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t have gotten out of it. I’d given him about fifty of my best excuses to pick from, and he’d refused them all.

Timothy got the ball rolling with a really big shove. “Elaine told me you’re a musician in a band, Declan. Why don’t you tell us more about that?”

I’d never understand why anyone would ask something like that as a question. As if Declan could say, “Because I don’t feel like it.”

But I’d forgotten that Declan probably got asked about the band constantly, and he was used to being interviewed. So, I sat there being uncomfortable for him while he calmly explained how Self Defense got started and what they were doing now.

“And you make money doing that?”

He chuckled at Timothy’s question. “Not enough to retire on, but we do pretty well. Much better than I’d ever imagined we would make as an unsigned band. Plus, along with what we make from the shows, we also get a small percentage of the merchandise and from online clicks and interactions with our fans.”

“You have fans?” my mom asked, dumbfounded.

“Mom,” I whined, feeling defensive. “Of course, they have fans. Tons of them. You have, what?” I asked him. “Two hundred thousand subscribers to your YouTube channel?”

He shifted to face me completely. “Have you been stalking me, Sara?”

“Two hundred thousand?” my mom repeated. “That’s incredible, Declan. I had no idea.”

“Neither did I,” he said, laughing.

“Carissa has followed you guys for almost two years. She showed me all your social media pages and about fifteen Google pages of pictures of you.” I turned to my parents. “Part of his job is to give interviews and do photoshoots.” Halfway through my brag, I remembered that my plan had been to stop my mom from being interested in Declan. But here I was, encouraging the exact opposite, and I didn’t even slow down. I told them about the crowd at the show I’d gone to and how big their tour had been.

By the end, even Timothy looked impressed. In fact, the only person who wasn’t smiling was Declan.

“Sara’s just being nice,” he said, squeezing my hand. “It’s really not that big a deal. Even with online success, there’s a bigger chance of not making it onto the big music charts than there is of showing up on one. Besides—” He stopped. “Is something ringing?”

My mom’s eyes widened, and she jumped up. “It’s the timer!” She ran toward the kitchen.

“Can I help with anything?” Declan was up before I could stop him, so I followed him following her, and we all ended up in a kitchen nobody but our housekeeper, Beatrice, ever used. It was expansive, built for entertaining, so the island was a huge slab of granite where caterers could set out their stuff and still have enough room for plates or serving trays to rest until they were ready to go.

My mom came rushing out from the walk-in pantry and started opening and closing each cabinet or drawer one by one.

“What are you looking for, Mom?”

“An oven thingy. To take the chicken out.”

Oh great. Her first experiment in cooking, and she picked the meat most likely to kill us all—or at least give us food poisoning. Good thing this house had five bathrooms.

“Damn it,” she mumbled. “How am I supposed to get it out of the oven? With a fireplace poker?”

I glanced at Declan to see him biting his lower lip to keep from smiling. “There’s a…um…” He pointed at an open cubby under the counter next to the sink, right behind my mom. Matching towels were rolled up in a small basket.

She didn’t hear him, so he went around the island, squeezed behind her, and grabbed two of the towels.

“I can take it out for you.” He looked at the double oven. “Which one is it?”

“Bless your heart, Declan. Thank you. Chicken is in that one.” She pointed to the lower oven. “And the…um…vegetables are in the other.”

I got it as soon as she stumbled over the word—Beatrice had done all the prep work and stuck them in the oven before she went home for the day and just in time for my mom to take all the credit. Thank God.

“What kind of veggies did you make, Mom?”

She shot a glare at me before turning back to Declan and directing him to put the chicken down on the counter. “Don’t worry, hon. It’s one of your favorites.”

Well, that solidified things—my mom had no idea what vegetables I did and didn’t like. But Beatrice did, so at least it wasn’t eggplant—something that had neither the shape, flavor, or color of an egg and tasted like an oily sponge.

Declan and I each carried a dish into the dining room while Mom opened the bottle of wine Declan had brought and poured it into four glasses. Why four? Timothy only drank the hard stuff—never wine.

“Declan, would you mind grabbing the large serving utensils?” my mom asked. “I think I left them on the island. Or they might still be in the drawer next to the stove.”

“Of course.”

He’d already gone through the door when I counted the place settings.

“Who’s the fifth, Mom?” I asked, not holding back on the suspicious tone.

As if on cue, a voice called out from the foyer. “I hope you made enough food for a small army, ’cause I’m starving.”

Oh shit. “Please tell me you didn’t invite him, Mom.”

“This is his home, too, Sara. He has the same right to be here as you do.”

“And because tonight isn’t stressful enough, you thought you’d turn it into a family reunion?”

“Just think of your stepbrother as another mouth to fill any awkward silences,” she said, smiling. “Or to take the pressure off Declan if my interrogation goes on too long, sweetie.” Aaand if I’d ever doubted my mom had a sense of humor, that was proof I should never doubt myself again.

No amount of bad jokes could cover the awkwardness of sitting at a table with Declan, my parents, and the world’s most vile stepbrother. Speak of the devil…

“Hey, sis. Long time, no see.”

I could tell Cal had just done a few lines—probably off the dashboard of his car in the driveway. Somehow, my mom had never wondered why Cal's allergies were just as bad in the winter as they were when the flowers started blooming and why no allergy medication ever worked for him. If Timothy knew the truth, he’d never mentioned it or even given his son a doubtful look.

“Smells great, Mom.”

I hated when he called her Mom. He’d started doing it as soon as our parents got married, and it had annoyed me even then. My real father had left before I could speak, but I would never call anyone else Dad. From the very beginning, Cal knew how to manipulate her—call her Mom, side with her against his father on the little shit so she’d give him whatever he wanted. Or let him get away with whatever he wanted. Or believe him over her own daughter.

Cal shook his dad’s hand and kissed my mom’s cheek. Then, for some unknown reason, he started walking toward me.

Thankfully, he froze as soon as he saw Declan step through the kitchen doorway holding a serving fork in one hand and a huge knife in the other.