"It's Barney, honey!" My mom squeals excitedly; "He's asked me to marry him, and he wants me - he wants us to move to London!"
The bottom drops out then. And I'm just in free-fall as I stare at the boy from those nights five years ago. The boy whose kisses I can still remember, the boy whose hands I can still feel. And I'm putting the horrible little pieces together as the floor starts to sway beneath my feet.
The boy who nearly took my v-card, and then told everyone at school that he did.
The boy who's about to be my new stepbrother.
Oh. My. God.
It's grey, it's fuckin' raining, and it's miserable outside as I scowl and trail my dad through the arrivals terminal at Heathrow. Fuckin, of course it's raining; it's England, land of eternal non-sunshine.
Dad looks at his watch and frowns before glaring up at the arrivals screens, as if it's obviously someone's fault that their plane is all of ten minutes late.
Not that I'm much better; that's ten more minutes of me being here as a participant in this whole fucking train wreck instead of elsewhere. Elsewhere like the restaurant.
"Pop, I need to get back."
"They'll be here in a minute, Ollie."
"Dad, I've got stocks to prep, mis to set up-"
Shit to cut, cook, sear, broil, sous vis; you name it. If it's food and it requires some sort of preparation, it's probably on my to-do list.
"Cool it, boy."
"Shit doesn't cook itself, dad."
He shoots me a look; "This is important, Oliver."
Yeah, to you.
I'm still trying to process this shit, even now when "this shit" is about to land in England and walk right into our lives. The "shit" I'm somehow just learning about within the last week, I might add.
"You were busy with taking over at the restaurant, Oliver, I didn't want to distract you with that."
Give me a fuckin' break. There's what, like twenty million eligible women his age in Great Britain, and dad goes for one from America. And not just any woman, of course.
Nope, he goes for Chloe fucking Caulfield's mom.
Surprise, your old pop is getting married again, and guess who your new stepsister is? I mean it was a long time ago, but it's still too fucking weird.
Okay, so it's also a teeny bit interesting, if I'm being honest.
Chloe Caulfield. I haven't seen her since that senior year exchange trip. Rigid, bookish, uptight, and one might even say bitch if one were being crude. And yet, things sure got interesting back then. Interesting like three days of sleepless nights, three days of sneaking around to make out late into the night. Three days of pressing myself against her, seeing how far she'd let my hands go before pushing them away. Three days and nights of wanting so much more that an uptight virgin like her was going to give, even if I knew it wasn't going to happen.
Well, until it did.
"Ever been properly kissed?"
She darts her eyes to the floor, her cheeks going this flushed red color. "Of course I have."
"Naw, sweetheart, I mean real proper kissed."
She wrinkles her nose, "What, like frenching?"
I have to grin. "If it's 1985, sure."
But whatever, she's here, even if it's apparently only for a few months until she goes back to school. "Taking a break" I think is how my dad phrased it. Yeah, right; heard that one before.
She was a pain in the ass back then, and I can't imagine that's done more than grow in the five years since.
She was also temptation on a fuckin' stick.
I'm suddenly wondering if that's grown too. Four months might not be long, but it's going to be an eternity if we're anything like we were back then. I barely survived four days of that girl before.
Four months? Yikes.
But whatever, I wouldn't have time for this shit even if she wasn't going to be my stepsister. I'm way too busy with the restaurant. Fuckin' ‘ell, I've been "chef" for three weeks and it already feels like forever. Three fuckin' weeks since dad fired Martin and stuck me in his place. Martin of the two stars, and now me with zero of them.
Hey, no pressure.
Every day a fucking battle to make sure they respect that in there. A kitchen is a war zone; it's a military regiment that needs the discipline of a damn army to run efficiently. I'm not talking a burger joint kitchen here either. Jolie is the fucking big leagues. This is 200 quid a head dinners, and that price demands the type of discipline from a kitchen that you rarely find outside of the Queen's guard. And if you're the type of utter idiot like me who wants to be at the top of that? Congratulations, you're the general. Now, act like the toughest motherfucker in a room full of guys who willingly spend the majority of their waking hours in an insanely stressful environment involving sharp knives, open flame, and close quarters for a living.
And I have to run that with an iron fist.
So like I said, I'm a tad busy, and a touch high-strung at the moment, and hanging around Heathrow waiting for the girl I don't want here anyways is pushing all my buttons.
But whatever, at least I'll be so busy with Jolie the next few months that I'll probably never see her anyways.
"Dad," I glance at my watch, "I'm seriously pushing it on time. I've gotta get back. Look I'll just take my own taxi or the Piccadilly train or something."
"Oy, cool it boy-o, they'll be fine at the kitchen. We're closed Mondays anyways."
"No, they won't be, and I've still got shit to do, you know."
"Ah!" He says cheerily, completely ignoring me. He points to the gate flashing their plane's call numbers. "Looks like they're here!"
Wonderful.
He turns to me, "Besides, you ought to wait for Chloe anyways before you go back."
I groan, checking my watch and wondering how fast I can bribe a taxi driver to go on the M4 today; "Why?"
The gate opens, and suddenly, there they are. I can see Mrs. Caulfield - Laura - beaming as she sees my dad. And he's grinning too as he starts to move towards her.
God, ‘Mrs. Caulfield'? Fuck, do I have to call her step-mum now?
The throng of travelers and loved ones milling around the exit ramp begins to part, and then there she is.
And she's staring right at me.
Our eyes meet across the crowd of people reuniting. All around people are hugging and kissing and shaking hands and generally glad to see each other. Which puts us distinctly out of place, because one look at each other and it's clear neither of us is glad to see the other.
But fuckin' hell, any hope I had of her losing her hair or putting on eight-hundred pounds or something since the last time I saw goes fluttering away the second my eyes land on her.
Shit.
She's wearing jeans, a long-sleeve t-shirt, and rain-boots, but she might as well be in a fuckin' red-carpet gown. Or fuck, lingerie or something.
Because, fuck me sideways, she's even hotter than I remember. Those searing blue eyes like cold rain, that dark brown hair like a wave of silk down over her shoulder, that defiant way she's holding her head up high and her shoulders back.
That perfect rack and an ass that gets my cock hard right there standing in the middle of Heathrow Airport.
This is going to be bloody problem.
Whatever, I tell myself. You'll barely see her. She can deal with this whole situation however she wants to.
But suddenly, the last thing my dad said to me pings and resonates inside my head.
"Dad," I grab his coat before he takes another step through the crowd; "What do you mean I should ‘wait for her'."
I narrow my eyes at him as he turns back and throws me a quick questioning look. "Oh, bugger, didn't I tell you?" He's smiling away, as if none of this is at all blowing apart my whole world.
"Tell me what?"
They're getting closer now as they push their way through the crowd; the smiling bride-to-be and her scowling, sexy as fuckin' sin daughter. My dad shakes his head, "Must've slipped my mind with all this happening so fast. She's a baker you know."
"So?"
Oh, fuck.
And instantly, I'm seeing where this is going, and I'm slowly shaking my head even before my dad can open his mouth.
"I hired her. She's your new pastry cook."
And then they're right in front of us, and my dad and Mrs. Caulfield are laughing and hugging, and I'm just standing there, staring at Chloe with our eyes locked.
Yeah, this is going to be a right bloody fuckin' problem.
I moan, feeling the shudder of new feelings - dangerous new feelings - roar through my inexperienced body as the boy kisses me. He presses me against the back wall of the garage in my backyard, his hands sliding up to my waist and slipping beneath the hem of my t-shirt.
It's then that I freeze, stopping his hands and pulling back from his perfect, wonderful lips to look worriedly up into his eyes. "I- I'm not sure that we should be doing this."