See, it wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
For the record, it never would’ve happened this way if my life were a movie. (Preferably a rom-com of some sort with a kickass soundtrack and a happy ending, starring a fabulously-styled version of myself opposite Michiel Huisman. Or Liam Hemsworth. Or Henry Cavill. I could go on, but I won’t.) Point is, I had a plan. A pretty good one — or so I thought until yesterday, before it all went to hell faster than you can say Phoebe-you’re-a-nutcase in Pig-Latin.
Sigh.
This calamity began, as they usually do, because of a boy.
No, not a boy.
A man.
A smoking hot, sexy as sin, older man who just so happens to be my big brother Parker’s best friend — and has been since they were, like, ten and still thought girls were weird and covered in cooties.
Oh, how I wish that phase had lasted.
It would’ve saved me the torture of watching my undying preteen crush work his way through half the girls at the private prep school he and my brother attended. He would’ve worked his way through the other half, too, but he and Parker had a strict rule against going after each other’s girls. (Part of their man-code or whatever.) For that, at least, I could be grateful.
Or, so I thought.
Because a few years later — by which point my binder-doodling, call-and-hang-up, harmless little crush had blossomed into full-on love (or lust depending on the day) — I realized that same man-code which forbade boys from ever stealing each other’s girlfriends also extended to other things.
Specifically, to little sisters.
More specifically, to me.
There I was — BAM! — smack dab in the fine print of their bro bible:
RULE #1:
No dating ex-girlfriends, current girlfriends, or potential future girlfriends.
RULE #2:
Absolutely no touching, fucking, or corrupting little sisters.
RULE #3:
Pizza without meat on it doesn’t count as a meal.
I probably should’ve been flattered that I ranked above pizza when it came to male priorities, but all I could feel was heartbreak that I, Phoebe West, would never be able to call Nathaniel “Nate” Knox my own.
Never feel the weight of his eyes moving over my face with heart-stopping heat.
Never know the touch of his hands, big and rough, gliding across my skin, as I’d envisioned since I was barely old enough to understand my desire for such things.
The closest I’d ever get was a brotherly pat on the back and that same cool, narrow-eyed stare he used on everyone. The cocky, condescending, infuriatingly attractive one that made a tiny crease appear in the space between his eyes and clearly said, Yes, I’m measuring your worth and No, you don’t live up.
Even his blatant indifference wasn’t enough to deter me. Because, well, here’s the thing.
I love him.
I always have.
Falling for Nate wasn’t something I was ever really conscious of doing. It was just something I knew, in the pit of my stomach, in the marrow of my bones, in every dark, secret corner at the back of my mind. Ingrained so deep I wouldn’t know how to begin to overcome it — like my hatred of chocolate in breakfast foods and my love of Old-Fashioneds with top-shelf bourbon.
It’s set in stone.
Unchangeable, no matter how hard I wish I could let him go.
I can’t help it. From that very first day I met him, it was like my body had been programmed to fall head over heels… and my mind had absolutely no say in the matter.