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“I mean, it was already leaking when I got here,” Benjamin goes on hurriedly. “The place was pretty run down when I arrived.”
“And you didn’t think to call a plumber?” I snap, turning to him in irritation. I don’t need yet another person telling me how rundown Rose Manor is.
“I didn’t want anyone to know I was out here,” he says with an apologetic shrug. “It’s happened to me before,” he continues, “I try to hide out somewhere and then some rando, the concierge or the maid or whatever, blows my cover. Next thing I know, boom, paparazzi at the door.”
“Fine. Well, you’re going to have to pack up and get out. And you can start by getting a shirt on.”
I eye Benjamin sternly. The sight of him shirtless is stirring up all kinds of memories of my illicit teen crush. He’s maintained his youthful physique, slim and muscular. The only change? The addition of a mouth-watering six-pack.
“Why do I have to go?” Benjamin asks, picking a t-shirt up out of the pile of laundry and slipping it over his head, mussing up his hair even more.
“Like I said, I’m here to get this place cleaned up. Dad asked me to do the job.”
“So? That means I have to leave?”
He stands before me, quizzical, in his ripped jeans and plain black t-shirt, looking every bit the part of a rock star. I’m so used to only seeing photos of him in the tabloids these days, it’s totally bizarre to see him in the flesh, in our old childhood home, looking like he stepped off the pages ofPeopleorUS Weekly. You can take this rock star off the stage, but he’s still a rock star. Wildly talented and achingly good looking, with his laid-back but edgy style, it’s easy to see why he was namedPeople’s “Sexiest Man Alive” last year.
“I don’t need your help,” I say stubbornly. I had been looking forward to enjoying my alone time here. A distracting step-brother is the last thing I need. “Plus, you’ll have to clear out anyway once they start showing the house.”
“Wait, what? Showing the house?” He asks, a furrow of consternation wrinkling his brow.
“Yeah. Dad wants to sell the place. I’m here to help.”
“Sell it? No way.” Benjamin shakes his head firmly. “Nobody is selling Rose Manor.”
“No way?” I echo his words in disbelief. Clearly, too much time in the spotlight has given him a big head. “Who are you to decide what happens to Rose Manor?”
“I’m living here right now. You can’t sell it,” he replies evenly, his dark eyes flashing with a new intensity. I remember that smoldering look from when we were teenagers. It meant a storm was coming.
“You said you were just staying here for a little bit,” I say evenly, through gritted teeth.
“Well, maybe I fudged the truth a little bit,” Benjamin replies defensively, his eyes snapping.
“You have no right to live here!”
“I have every much as a right as you! It’s my childhood home too.”
“You only lived here for six months!”
“Same for you,” he retorts.
It’s true. After Elliot and Nanette called it quits, dad decided it didn’t make sense to stay in the huge house on the outskirts of Clover Springs. He moved us back to the city, where he could be closer to business. Another failed foray into being a family man.
“Look.” I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. “The bottom line is dad wants to sell the place. He’s the owner. It’s his to sell. I’m here to help him by getting the placed fixed up. So, you’ve… Got. To. Get. Out.” I enunciate my words clearly as I walk towards him. We’re standing mere inches apart from one another, facing off just like we did as teens.
“Make me,” Benjamin hisses back.
“Don’t make me call dad.”
“Oh, what are you gonna do, tell on me?!”
Now, we’ve truly regressed to our teenage years.
But I refuse to take the bait and give into his taunts, instead holding his gaze. I wish I cut a more intimidating figure, but I know there’s nothing scary about me in my oversized white t-shirt, jean shorts, and messy ponytail. On top of that, my glasses are sliding down my nose. I push them up in irritation.
“Look, I—” I’m getting ready to tell Benjamin off, I meanreallylet him have it, but am cut off by a weird sound.
There’s a strange crack from the living room, and then awhooshof water. In horror, I glance at the corner where the pots and pans had been clustered, catching drips of water. A giant hole has ripped in the ceiling, exposing a burst pipe. A rush of water cascades down, overfilling the cookware, and flooding the living room.
