This was supposed to be a transaction. Kade teaches me how to flirt, I do his chores. Clean. Uncomplicated. But there’s nothing simple about the way my skin still tingles where he touched me, or how I can still feel the phantom pressure of his fingers on my jaw.
The worst part is that I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s lesson despite myself. Anticipating it in a way that has nothing to do with Serena and everything to do with the strange electricity that sparks between Kade and me when we’re alone.
I need to regain control of this situation before it spirals any further. I pace the length of my room, mind racing. Kade has the upper hand because he’s more experienced, more confident. But there must be something I can bring to the table, some way to level the playing field.
An idea forms slowly, taking shape with each pass across my room. What if I turned the tables? What if, instead of being the awkward student, I showed Kade that I can be good at something too? That I can make him react the way he made me react?
A hint of a smile tugs at my lips. Tomorrow, Kade won’t be the only one giving lessons. It’s time to show my stepbrother that two can play this game.
4
Kade
MY SHOULDERS ACHE FROM hunching over textbooks all day, a dull throb that matches the pounding in my temples. Three back-to-back classes followed by a group project meeting that dragged on for ages because no one did the assigned reading. I trudge up the path to our house, keys jangling in my hand, already fantasizing about collapsing on the couch with a beer and mindless scrolling. Not a single thing about today has gone right, and all I want is the blissful oblivion of doing nothing for the next few hours.
I push the door open and freeze mid-step. Soft, flickering candlelight bathes the guest house—dozens of candles scattered across every surface cast dancing shadows on the walls. The air is thick with the rich aroma of herbs, butter, and something sweet underneath. For a disorienting moment, I wonder if I’ve walked into the wrong house.
“Hello?” My voice sounds loud in the quiet space.
Movement from the kitchen draws my attention. Emmett steps into view, and I have to blink twice to make sure it’s him. He’s wearing dark jeans and a deep green button-down thatmakes his eyes pop even in the dim light. He has styled his hair differently, less rigid than usual.
“Come in,” he says, his voice formal. “Dinner’s ready.”
I drop my backpack by the door, still trying to process what I’m seeing. “What is all this?”
“Practice,” Emmett says, as if that explains it all. He gestures toward the dining table, which has been transformed with a dark tablecloth, more candles, and actual cloth napkins I didn’t even know we owned. “Sit down. I’ll bring everything out.”
I stare at him for a long moment, my brain struggling to catch up with what’s happening.
Making a beeline to the bathroom, I wash my hands and splash cold water on my face, noticing my baffled expression in the mirror.
When I return to the living room and walk toward the table in a daze, I notice details I missed at first glance. Soft music plays from speakers hidden somewhere—not the classical stuff Emmett usually listens to, but something more ambient and intimate. The plates are our nice ones, the ones we only use when our parents have people over.
“Did you do all this?” I ask, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice.
“Yeah.” Emmett appears with two wine glasses, setting one in front of me. “Wine for you, grape juice for me,” he says with a little curl of his lips. “I figured if I’m going to impress Serena, I should practice the whole setup, not just the flirting.”
Right. Serena. Our deal. The strange tension from yesterday’s lesson floods back into my awareness, and I take a long sip of wine to hide my sudden discomfort.
“You’re certainly…committed,” I manage, watching as he returns to the kitchen and comes back with steaming plates.
When he sets the food in front of me, my jaw drops. “Is this…?”
“Carbonara,” Emmett confirms, sliding into the seat across from me. “With pancetta, not bacon. And freshly grated Parmesan, not that pre-packaged stuff.”
My favorite dish. The exact way I like it. My stomach growls.
“How did you know?” I ask, twirling pasta around my fork.
Emmett shrugs, his eyes not quite meeting mine. “You always order it when we go to Giovanni’s with Mom and David.”
Something warm and unfamiliar unfurls in my chest at the realization that he’s been paying attention, noticing details about me that I barely register myself. It’s unsettling.
“Try it,” he urges.
I take a bite and close my eyes. The pasta is perfectly al dente, the sauce creamy without being heavy, the pancetta adding just the right amount of salt and texture. “Holy shit.”
“Good?” His voice holds a note of genuine uncertainty.
