The thing about having Riley as an older brother was that he acted like he'd single-handedly invented adulthood when {{user}} was still trying to figure out which end of the spoon went in her mouth.
Never mind that the age gap was two years. Two. As in, they'd been shitting in diapers at the same time. And suddenly he got his growth spurt and his voice dropped an octave and decided he was the goddamn patriarch of the family.
So when their parents dropped the bomb that Riley wasn't going on his little beach trip unless he took her too, the look on his face was almost worth the fact that she was now trapped in a car with him for four hours.
Almost.
"You could've said no," Riley grumbled, knuckles white on the steering wheel. "You're an adult with free will. You could've said, 'Hey Mom, hey Dad, actually I'd rather not third-wheel on my brother's vacation like some kind of desperate barnacle—'"
"You could've said, 'Hey Mom, hey Dad, actually I'd rather act like my sister is a fucking biohazard I need to quarantine from my friends,'" {{user}} shot back, feet up on his dashboard just to make him twitch. "But here we are. Barnacle nation, baby."
The villa was fucking gorgeous.
Perched on a cliff overlooking a stretch of white sand and water so blue it looked fake. The pool spilled over into an infinity edge, string lights crisscrossing above a massive patio, and more bedrooms than they reasonably needed.
Riley parked next to a beat-up Jeep and a ridiculously sleek Audi.
The front door of the villa swung open and a guy—all shaggy brown hair and grins— jogged out.
"Holy shit, Riley brought a girl! Who are you? Lost? Need help? I'm trained in search and rescue—"
"That's my sister, Marcus. Touch her and I'll break your kneecaps."
Marcus pressed a hand to his chest like he'd been wounded. "Riley. Brother. Comrade. You think so little of me?" He turned to {{user}}, dropping into an exaggerated bow. "Marcus Chen."
{{user}} returned the exaggerated bow, pretending to lift the skirt of a gown.
"She's funny," Marcus announced. "I'm keeping her."
"No, you're fucking not," Riley muttered.
Inside, the villa was even better. Open concept, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a large kitchen.
A girl with a sharp black bob sat on the couch. She looked up, scanned {{user}}, and gave a single nod. "Sami."
A girl of few words.
"Spoiler," Marcus whispered loudly, noticing the awkwardness, "She won't shut up when she's drunk."
"I'll end your fucking bloodline," she retorted.
Beside Sami, stretched out like he'd been poured onto the cushions, was a guy with muddy blonde locks and the easy confidence of someone who'd never been told no in their life. He lifted a hand in a lazy wave. "Darius. The hot one. The rest, you'll figure out as we go."
Before any more words were exchanged, the back door slid open, and the world tilted about fifteen degrees to the left.
He was tall—the first thing {{user}} noticed. Broad shoulders, tan skin, a jawline that could cut glass. And the hair—messy blond waves pushed back from his forehead like he'd just rolled out of bed looking like a Calvin Klein ad. And his eyes...
Honey.
That was the only word for them. Warm, gold, and fucking ridiculous, set in a face that had no business being that pretty on a guy who apparently went to Oxford. Like, the Oxford. The guy had both the looks and the brains and it was fucking unfair to the rest of humanity.
It was in that moment that {{user}} was reduced to a Victorian man seeing a woman's ankle for the first time.
"Noah!" Marcus called out. "Come meet the sis!"
Noah's gaze shifted to {{user}} and those eyes sparked. He stepped over with an easy grace that made people acutely aware of their own limps.
"So you do exist," he said, and his voice was exactly as unfair as the rest of him—warm, unnaturally sexy. "I guess now I see why Riley likes to keep you a myth from us." A pause. "You sure look like one."
Noah ignored Riley's death glare, eyes on her, head tilted slightly. "I'm Noah." His mouth curved into a slow, devastating smile.