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“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Just admiring the gorgeous boyfriend I have. Do you have a problem with that?” I ask, pressing a tender kiss to his pec, followed by another, and then another.

“Enough of that,” he warns, though the amusement in his voice tells me he’s anything but serious. “Don’t want you getting any ideas now.”

“Too late.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Come on, sweetheart. Get dressed. Like I said, I don’t want to piss your dad off any more than I probably already have.”

“Please. Who could ever be pissed at you?”

“I can think of a few people.”

My mind immediately goes to Peyton. Judging by the way his smile disappears and his lips press into a thin line, his thoughts have gone in the same direction.

“And how is the spawn of Satan doing these days?”

“Still sulking and making everyone’s life in the house miserable.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault she can’t take a hint.”

I tilt my head, studying him. “I feel like there’s a story somewhere in there.”

“The only story I’m interested in is ours.” He bends forward to give me a quick kiss. “Speaking of stories, what are you working on now?”

“Smooth, Fletcher. Distracting me with my writing so I forget all about that pest of a stepsister of yours. You really do know how to handle me.”

“I try.” He winks before leaning in for another kiss.

I last all of thirty seconds before giving in and telling him about my latest story, one I’ve been writing for months. For the first time, I can’t shake the feeling that it might actually have potential.

I tell him everything—the characters, the plot, and every little twist I’ve been obsessing over. He listens with the kind of attention that makes me feel like I’m discussing the next great American novel, not a manuscript that’s barely halfway finished.

“You got a title for it yet?” he asks once I’ve finished giving him the highlights.

“I’m thinking Beauty Marks.”

“Catchy.”

“You think?” I ask, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice.

“I know.” He gives me that confident smile of his. “It’s going to be amazing.”

I practically preen under the praise, crawling up his body to kiss him long and hard.

“Do we really have to go downstairs?” I ask when I feel him hardening under me.

“Just for a little bit,” he retorts, sticking to his guns.

Unlike me, Milo has the restraint of a saint.

“Fine,” I grumble, although I make absolutely no effort to hide my disappointment.

After getting dressed and stealing a few more kisses, we finally manage to leave my room. We head downstairs hand in hand, and find Dad exactly where I left him earlier, sprawled in his recliner, his attention glued to some fishing show on television. Milo leads me over to the couch and sits down, tugging me down beside him.

“So, what are we watching?” I ask, sounding a little too cheerful.