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“So, how is it having a new stepsister?” Arden asks.
His tone is knowing and fucking obnoxious because he knows as well as I do that no matter what happens between her mom and my dad, I’ll never see Parker as anything like a sister.
“Fantastic,” I say sarcastically, tipping back my beer bottle and taking a swig. “For me, not so much for her.”
Arden smirks. “I’ll bet. She’s got a lot of sass. Needs someone to show her how to use that mouth.”
My eyes flash and I slide him a dark look. “Watch it, fucker.”
He holds up his hands in mocking surrender. “Hey, I wasn’t volunteering for the job.”
Sure he fucking wasn’t.
It’s not like it would matter if he did. Even if he didn’t slightly fear me and he could pull out all the stops going after her, Parker would never give that asshole the time of day. He’s not her type.
Not that there’s any way of knowing what her type is, I guess.
The truth is, it doesn’t matter.
Her type is me, whether she likes it or not.
The reminder of Aladdin surfaces unpleasantly, and not for the first time since that fucking dinner, I look toward the road, my thoughts on heading back to the country club to finish what I started.
Of course, my dad warned me to stay away unless I was there with them—and to be on my best behavior, in that case—but he knows I won’t fucking listen, and the truth is, he doesn’t care. He’s only making this powerful show of wanting to parent me all of a sudden because he thinks Gemma’s into it.
And, annoyingly, he’s right.
He couldn’t have just picked up some generic bimbo who didn’t give a fuck, could he? What’s wrong with him? Doesn’t he know he’s supposed to date someone half his age who cares more about purses and grabbing cocktails with the girls than his relationship with his son from a previous marriage? What kind of man at his age with his bank account picks an actual adult woman with a teenage daughter of her own for his second chance at a happy little family?
It’s sick, that’s what it is.
He never does anything right.
Well, I guess he’s the one who convinced Parker to live under the same roof as me.
Fine, one thing.
I smirk, draining the last of the beer in my bottle as I remember the way she used to hide from me when we only went to school together.
Little fucking coward.
Which is ironic since she’s an emerald.
The house of the courageous—except when it comes to me.
I run my hand along the sleek curve of my emerald green Jaguar, then I glance up toward the house. It’s late. I’m sure she and Hannah are fast asleep, dreaming of rainbows and unicorns or whatever the fuck girls like them dream about.
I’m gonna wake her up.
I want company.
Sure, I have these fuckers out here, but they’re not the company I want.
“What are you doing?” Malek asks as my self-appointed playground monitor, watching me drop into the driver’s seat. “You are not driving that fucking thing. The last thing I need is—”
He’s a pain in my ass, so I smirk at his annoyance as I fire up the engine, the noisy-ass motor cutting him off so I don’t have to.
My attention drifts away from him and I focus instead on the dark windows on the top floor of the house. I don’t expect Parker will turn on any lights. It’s late, and she’s too considerate for her own good, so she won’t want to wake anyone up.
