I’ve hated Ethan since the day our parents shoved us under the same roof four years ago. Not the normal sibling hate—the kind where you steal each other’s snacks or fight over the remote. No, this was deeper. Hotter. The kind that made my skin flush and my thighs clench whenever he walked into a room smirking like he owned the place.
He was twenty-three now, I was twenty. He’d moved back home after dropping out of his second college program—something about “finding himself” while working construction and coming home smelling like sweat and sawdust. Mom and Dad were thrilled. Their golden boy was back under their roof. Me? I was the problem child who’d just finished her associate’s degree and was “figuring things out” by waitressing and saving every penny to get the hell out of this house.
