The double doors leading to the balcony are wide open, so I follow my ears into the tower room and peer around the corner.
And what I see is even weirder than I expected.
A tiny young woman, her blonde hair in a long braid—and I mean LONG—is bent over a gigantic piece of white paper on the floor with piano keys drawn on it. She bangs on the keys, unaware of my presence, the music blaring through the room.
“Well, hello there,” I shout over the music.
She freezes, looks over at me with bright blue eyes, and screams.
Her hands fly over her mouth, and then she says, “Ryder?”
CHAPTER 4
Lily
CLAUDE DEBUSSY — RÊVERIE
The second I say his name, I realize my mistake.
Ryder knew me as a little girl, the baby sister of his best friend. Peter is eight years older than me, but Ryder is a couple years younger than him. So he’s…twenty-four? Twenty-five? Anyway, we haven’t seen each other since I was about twelve years old, all awkward angles and facial features that were too big. I’d like to think I’ve grown into my own, but who’s to say he’d recognize me now, especially in this context?
But I’ve seen him again recently, at least on my phone. It was six months ago when I still lived in Silver Lake City. It was a quick glance when Peter was having a rare video chat with the family to discuss the defamation lawsuit and the decision to move me to Brookhaven.
Regardless, I don’t think Ryder has any idea who I am, and now I seem like a complete creeper for knowing his name, as evidenced by the expression on his face. “Uh, yes,” he says slowly, his voice raised over the music that still plays on my speaker. “And you’re not a troll.”
Fabulous. Just fabulous. I cringe, scrambling to turn the music off, then stand and brush myself off. “A what?”
He smirks but doesn’t answer the question. “You’re also not Agatha Stone.”
I shake my head.
“Who…oh.” His eyes widen with realization. “You’re Peter’s baby sister. Lily?”
Baby sister.Ugh. I nod. It’s all I can manage. During that video chat six months ago, I heard him say to my brother, “Your sister is cute.” Which prompted a “Don’t even think about it,” from Peter, and my other brothers nearly lost their minds.
My reaction? Basically the heart-eyed emoji. But I don’t think his passing comment to Peter that I was “cute” meant anything to him—even though it made my heart flutter and gave me some swoon-worthy dreams for weeks after, mostly of the prince rescuing princess variety.
Let’s be real—I don’t get a lot of male attention these days unless it’s from my dad or brothers.
Can you blame me for getting weak in the knees? The man standing in front of me is even more handsome in real life than he was on Adam’s phone screen. Tall, broad-shouldered, clearly in shape—likereallyin shape—and gray eyes that are fixed in a flirtatious gaze.
Ishe flirting with me?
Of course not. He called me Peter’s baby sister. Besides, I’m wearing pajamas—I’m always wearing pajamas. What’s the point of getting dressed these days? Comfort is the name of the game, and when paired with the fluffy bunny slippers my mom loved, I like to feel like I’m being wrapped in a hug.
But there’s no way Ryder would find me attractive or worthy of flirting with.
I won’t be swayed so easily by his gaze and tone, at least not while I’m awake and conscious of how much men can suck. Looks and charm are what got me in trouble with Tristan. My heart is racing, but I tell myself it’s from the shock of seeingsomeone here. Someone—anyone—other than my family members, the one place where I’m supposed to be safe from harm. But at least Ryder isn’t a complete stranger. If someone I’d never met showed up in my tower, nowthatwould be terrifying.
I fold my arms over my chest, determined to be unaffected by his flirtatious eyes and muscles. Not that his muscles are intentionally flirtatious. They can’t help themselves.
Instead, I go on the offensive. “How did you even get up here?”
“I scaled the wall.” He looks pretty proud of himself. “It got hairy there for a minute, but I’ve got training.”
“Training?” I repeat.
He nods. “I’m a stunt man for movies.”
