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Then I realized Ciaran was frowning. What’d the fucker have to frown about?
Ciaran was built like a swimmer. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, thin hips, and powerful thighs.
His dark wash jeans, while loose, and his dark blue shirt, which clung to him, did nothing to hide his physique. Local teen girls were going to eat him alive.
There was something intriguing about Ciaran, though what it was, I couldn’t pinpoint. Ciaran looked too intelligent to bully or knock him off my scent—he’d see my actions for what they were, misdirection.
A smirk played on my lips as I thought through this. Dad was kissing Theresa like the rest of the world didn’t exist.
By way of greeting I said, “I sincerely hope you’re not expecting the same kind of welcome from me.”
The glare Ciaran gave me told me he hoped I withered and died.
I needed Ciaran out of my life or else he’d get too close, which might ruin everything. Might ruin me.
I’ll be nice tonight, I thought, but starting tomorrow, when our parents were out of the picture, I’d make Ciaran wish he never set foot in Malibu.
10
CIARAN
Um what? Why the hell would that be the first thing you said to someone upon meeting them? In that instant I knew I would not get along with Matthias Vaulteneau.
I took him in.
Leaning against one of the turret pillars, with his legs crossed, arms folded over his chest, he looked like he was posing for a magazine shoot. He reminded me of a model in a cologne commercial—dark, alluring, mysterious, though today he wasn’t as dressed up like he was in the photos from last night.
He was casually dressed in jeans that hung at his waist, with a loosely tucked-in, faded concert T-shirt, flip-flops, and sunglasses. He was solidly built. A bronze god. Wide span shoulders, slim waist, ropey arms. Everything about him said swimmer as well as surfer.
His dark brown hair was on the longer side, blowing in the warm breeze. On anyone else I’d say he was in need of a haircut, but he wore it well. His facial features were chiseled from a masterpiece. Strong, perfect brows. A Grecian nose. High cheekbones and a masculine jaw.
In short, he was Trouble with a capital T.
Matthias wasn’t smiling, but then again, neither was I as we inspected each other like fighters entering a ring.
“Were you under the impression you thought I’d want you to kiss me like that?” I asked Matthias as casually as possible because now all I could think about was him kissing me. It was stupid and completely his fault.
Though, to be fair, our parents were kissing each other like we did not exist.
It was a beautiful kiss between two people who clearly loved one another. There was no other way to describe the way Stefon kissed my mother. It was like a scene from the movie Notorious when Cary Grant passionately kissed Ingrid Bergman.
My mom’s new husband looked like a man who owned the world and wasn’t afraid to let you know it. Stefon was trim and confident in a dark gray suit. Mom said he wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense, and he wasn’t, but there was something magnetic about him. Instinctively, I knew I had nothing to worry about. Mom made the right choice for her, for us, by marrying Stefon. If nothing else, I knew deep in my soul that the man was nuts about her.
I could forgive two people madly in love who forgot about their offspring. It was somewhat humorous when they slipped inside the mansion without making proper introductions.
Matthias’s hooded eyes watched me.
“Of course not,” he said. A smug smile tugged on his lips and I sensed I’d been judged and found lacking. What an arrogant asshole. Then he straightened as if he remembered he was supposed to at least pretend to be a gracious host. He grumbled out, “I’m Matthias.”
“Yeah. I kinda figured that one out on my own. I’m Ciaran.”
He just rolled his eyes as if that were obvious, and I guess it was.
“Follow me, Ciaran,” he ordered in a voice that didn’t invite questions. “Dad informed me that you’ll be staying in the guesthouse.”
The guesthouse? That told me what my mom’s husband thought of me.
“Banished to the guesthouse already?” I asked, studying Matthias’s broad back, watching his muscles move beneath the shirt. One shoulder was lower than the other, like maybe he’d hurt it, but otherwise he walked like a prince. Confident, carefree, cocky. Though it was a surprise that he managed to pronounce my name correctly. “Afraid I might steal the silver or guzzle the fancy cognac?”
