She drifts to the grand piano overlooking the sea, fingers trailing the polished lid. “So… you live here too?”
I shake my head. “Just visiting.”
“From where?”
“Wherever a casting call lands me. Mostly the coast. You?”
“Born in Yorkshire. Now an L.A. girl, for my sins. Mum thinks sunshine will make me less sarcastic.”
“How’s that going?”
“Dismally.”
Her grin kills me. Not flirtatious; just bright, and proud of her own joke. It hits me low in my stomach, so I sip my coffee to cover it and scorch my tongue, spluttering like a total god.
Ally winces sympathetically. “Smooth.”
Clearing my throat, I smile wryly. “I try.”
Her laugh is a quick, ringing thing, and it makes my spine feel…alive.
She’s not the kid I was expecting. There’s something coltish and half-formed about her, budding confidence wrapped in unsteady limbs. The kind of beauty that’s dangerous because it doesn’tknowit is beauty yet.
“So, what’s it like being Mac Woodruff’s son?” she asks, teasing but curious. “I’m guessing weird.”
I grimace. “That’s one word.” And it doesn’t even begin to cover it. He only acknowledged paternity when I was eight, and since then I’ve been in this weird limbo of wanting to spend time with him while simultaneously resenting the gratitude he seems to expect for every hour in his presence. I’m his son. Not his charity case.
She notices. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“It’s fine,” I assure her with a shrug. Lord knows she didn’t intend to wander into the thorny hedge that is my relationship with my bio dad. “We’re still figuring out the whole father-son thing.”
She studies me like she’s reading footnotes. Maybe she hasn’t seen the selfish, careless side of him yet. Maybe she doesn’t realize how different my reality of Mac is from the polished living legend figure he likes to publicize. The man can act, and it’s fair to say that the greatest role of Mac Woodruff’s life is, in fact, Mac Woodruff.
“He talks about you,” she says softly.
My eyebrows rise. “Does he.”
“Mmhmm. Says you’ve got his stubborn streak. But a better ear for Shakespeare.”
An unwilling smile sneaks out. “You’re not making that up?”
“I swear on this holy cowboy museum.”
We’re grinning, standing a shade too close, the sunlight streaming through the bay windows turning the moment warm and unreal. For a heartbeat, we’re just two strangers meeting by chance. I can see myself drifting closer, leaning into inherited charm, nudging her hip, making her laugh…
Mac’s boots thunder the stairs. Reality slams back. I once gave him hell for wife number three trying to Mrs. Robinson me when I was far too young.That’s not what family does,I’d said.
I can’t then turn around and make cow eyes at my stepsister, no matter how hot she is. I’m not a hypocrite.
“Mac’s… impossible not to like,” I allow instead.
She tilts her head. “And you?”
“What about me?”
“Areyouimpossible not to like?”
It’s innocent and lethal all at once. The ground shifts beneath me. The line between us brightens in neon with added alarm bells supporting it.
