Chapter 1: Wrong Door, Right View
The floorboard groaned under her foot, a sharp protest in the silent, opulent hallway. Celeste froze, wincing. The sound was too loud in this museum of a house. Everything here was polished, pristine, and whispered of money she’d never touched. The air smelled of lemon polish and old wood, undercut by something else—something muskier, out of place.
She’d gotten turned around. Her new room was supposed to be past the second landing, but all the gilded doors looked identical. This one, slightly ajar, spilled a sliver of warm, low light into the dark corridor. Maybe it was a library. A map. Anything to get her bearings in this cavernous monument to her mother’s shocking engagement.
She pushed the door open another inch.
The smell hit her first. Sex. Sweat, a tangy feminine perfume, and the rich, acrid bite of cigar smoke. It was a physical wave, dense and intimate.
Her brain processed the scene in shattered fragments.
The room was huge, dominated by a massive four-poster bed. Clothes were strewn across a leather armchair—a black lace bra, a crumpled dress. And on the bed, a tangle of limbs and pale skin.
Xander.
He was laid back against a mountain of pillows, completely naked, one arm draped behind his head. The hard planes of his chest and abdomen were on full display, a landscape of defined muscle. A cigar was clamped between his teeth, a slow curl of smoke rising toward the ceiling. His other hand was buried in a cascade of sleek, platinum blonde hair.
Sophia from the tennis club, Celeste’s mind supplied numbly. Of course it was.
Sophia was between his legs, her back a pale arch, her head moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm. A low, wet, sucking sound filled the space. Xander’s hips gave a subtle, rolling lift off the mattress, meeting the motion. His eyes, those piercing, stupidly blue eyes, were open. And they were locked directly on Celeste.
He didn’t startle. He didn’t cover himself. A slow, wicked smirk formed around the cigar. He took it from his mouth, the ember glowing.
“Well,” he said, his voice a low rasp of amusement. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Sophia made a muffled, questioning sound but didn’t stop. Her moan vibrated around him, a filthy, intimate noise. Xander’s gaze never left Celeste’s face. He watched her with a predator’s calm, enjoying the view of her shock.
Celeste felt the heat explode in her cheeks, rushing down her neck. Her feet were rooted to the ornate rug. She saw everything—the dark trail of hair leading down from his navel, the thick, veined length of him sliding in and out between Sophia’s glossy, perfect lips. She saw the way his abs clenched. Her own stomach tightened, a jolt of something hot and shameful shooting through her.
“Sorry,” she choked out, the word brittle and absurd. “Wrong door.”
She wrenched herself backward, fumbling for the handle. His low laugh followed her out into the hall.
“Anytime, stepsis.”
The door slammed shut. She stood there, trembling, her back pressed against the cool wallpaper. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. She could still smell the cigar smoke on her clothes. She could still hear that sound.
“Bastard,” she whispered into the empty corridor. “Smug, entitled bastard.”
She forced her legs to move, striding blindly away from his door. Her plan, her careful, hard-won plan of scholarships and escape, felt laughably small here. This house, that boy with his naked arrogance, it was a different universe. One where people didn’t just study and work; they lounged naked in beds while other people serviced them, and they smirked at intruders.
She found her room three doors down. It was a beautiful, cold space. She locked the door and leaned against it, sliding down to the floor. She needed a drink. She needed to scrub the image from her brain.
The ensuite bathroom was marble and chrome. She splashed cold water on her face, but it didn’t help. Her reflection showed wide, hazel eyes, still stunned. She yanked open the small fridge stocked by some unseen staff and pulled out a tiny bottle of vodka. She cracked it, drinking it straight. The burn was a clean, punishing focus.
A knock at her door made her jump.
“Celeste? You in there?” Her mother’s voice, light and worried.
“Yeah, Mom. Just jet-lagged.”
“Okay, honey. Sleep well. Big brunch tomorrow with the Kings!”
Celeste finished the vodka, tossing the bottle into the gilt trash can. She changed into a tank top and shorts, the silken sheets feeling alien against her skin. She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it. The smoke. The smirk. The obscene, confident motion.
She heard a door down the hall open and close. Muffled, giggling footsteps—Sophia’s heels, probably. Then silence.
Her blood was still humming. With outrage, yes. But with something else, too. A treacherous, unwelcome curiosity. A recognition of the raw, power-drenched tableau. He’d seen her see him, and he hadn’t flinched. He’d owned it.
Sleep was impossible. The silence of the mansion was oppressive. She got up, padding barefoot to her door. She needed water. Or another drink. Something to quiet the noise in her head.
She inched the door open. The hallway was dark now, lit only by faint sconces. She crept toward the grand staircase, avoiding the known creaky board.
As she passed his door, it opened.
Xander stood there, silhouetted by the low light from his room. He’d pulled on a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants, but his chest was still bare. He smelled of shower steam and that same expensive cologne.
They stared at each other. The air crackled.
“Lost again?” he asked, his voice quiet. All traces of the smirk were gone. His expression was unreadable.
“No,” she said, hating how small her voice sounded.
He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, his eyes traveling over her—the thin tank top, her bare legs. The appraisal was slow, deliberate. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Why would you care?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Just making conversation. We’re going to be living under the same roof. Might as well be civil.”
“Civil,” she repeated flatly. “Is that what you call what I walked in on?”
A ghost of the smirk returned. “That was private. You’re the one who barged in. I was just… being hospitable.” He took a step forward, into the hallway. He was too close. She could feel the heat coming off his skin. “See something you liked?”
Her hand shot out before she could think. A sharp, stinging slap cracked through the quiet.
His head snapped to the side. He touched his jaw, then looked back at her. His blue eyes were dark, intense. Not angry. Fascinated.
“Feel better?” he murmured.
“Stay away from me,” she hissed, every word trembling.
“Or what?” He took another step, crowding her against the opposite wall. The mahogany panels were cold through her thin top. He braced one hand on the wall beside her head, caging her in. “You’re not in your little library study room now, Vargas. This is my house. My rules.”
“It’s my mother’s house too.”
“For now.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “You think you’re so much better than everyone here. Than me. I see you looking down that perfect nose. But you watched. You didn’t look away.”
She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling. She wanted to knee him. She wanted to scream. But a treacherous part of her was paralyzed, thrilling at the danger of him, at the pure, unmasked possession in his stance.
“Fuck you,” she breathed.
“That,” he said, leaning in so his lips were almost at her ear, his voice a low vibration she felt in her bones, “is the general idea.”
He pushed off the wall, leaving her there, her back pressed to the wood. He gave her one last, lingering look, then turned and disappeared back into his room. The door clicked shut softly.
Celeste slid down the wall, sitting on the cold floor, arms wrapped around her knees. The silence returned, thicker than before. The ghost of his scent, his heat, his words, clung to her.
She had come here with a plan. It had not accounted for Xander King. It had not accounted for the feeling, chilling and electric, that her carefully ordered world had just been cracked open. She sat in the dark for a long time, listening to the quiet creaks of the mansion, knowing he was just on the other side of that wall.
It was going to be a long summer.