Chapter 2

I left him to sulk and asked Mr. Whitaker to show me to my room.

My stuff had already been moved in. Whoever unpacked it had even set up my desk exactly the way I'd had it in my old apartment.

Rich people. I could get used to this.

I flopped onto the giant bed, fully planning to take a nap.

A nap. In the middle of the afternoon. For most of my life, a free hour meant an hour to study. Rest was something I'd get to later, once I had the degree, the job, the savings. When there's nobody to fall back on, you don't get to slow down.

And now here I was, getting paid to lie around.

Life is weird.

I'd barely closed my eyes when someone pounded on the door.

"How is this ugly?" Tessa demanded. "You don't know anything. This is literally what everyone's wearing."

She shoved past me, spotted the designer clothes hanging in my closet, and pointed.

"That's ugly. All those logos? You look like you just won the lottery."

I pushed her finger out of my face.

"One, your dad picked those. Take it up with him. Two, your outfit's still ugly. Like, really ugly."

She opened her mouth.

"If you picked it yourself, your taste needs help. If your friends picked it…"

I let that hang.

She couldn't stand it. "If they did, what?"

"Look, I'm not trying to start drama. But a friend who gets you dressing like that? She's probably jealous. You're in middle school, and she's got you dressed like you're twenty-five. Your teachers hate it. Your family hates it. And I bet half your class talks about you behind your back."

She looked away.

"Meanwhile, she gets to be the one person who 'really gets you.' Honestly, it's a smart move. She makes you look bad, and you thank her for it."

Tessa had heard every lecture about her clothes.

Dress code. Inappropriate. What will people think?

Her teachers said her friends were a bad influence. Her grandparents said she had no self-respect. After every single lecture, she went home and found something shorter.

But nobody had ever told her a friend might be jealous of her.

Jealous of what? Her family had money. That was it. That was the only special thing about her.

Still. Her friends did have a lot of opinions about how she should look. And they always loved it when she made the grown-ups mad.

Her face went hot. She stomped her foot.

"It's my body and my choice! You're all just old-fashioned. And if people talk about me, it's because they're jealous."

"Totally." I nodded, very seriously. "Freedom means less fabric. Your friends get you. They're amazing. Tomorrow, how about a bikini? I'll help you pick a color."

I said it slowly, with a big, bright smile. She couldn't possibly miss the sarcasm.

She kicked the door on her way out.

So much for my nap.

Owen was leaning against the wall at the end of the hall, hands in his pockets. He'd watched the whole thing.

He pushed up his glasses and smiled.

"Wow, Stepmom. Smooth."

"Eh. I've done better."

His smile froze, then came back twice as wide. He strolled over.

"So, could we get a homemade breakfast tomorrow? Made by you, I mean. We're all kind of sick of the chef's cooking. And taking care of us is your job now, right?"

Seriously? That was the oldest trick in the book.

"Sure thing. Go to bed early. I'll be waking you up at six."

His smile disappeared completely.

He was a high schooler. Five extra minutes of sleep meant everything to him.

Getting up early was nothing. In high school, I'd lived on two or three hours of sleep a night for months. Exhausted, foggy, and still up before my alarm.

And cooking? I'd been dying to cook.

There was never much good food around when I was a kid, and it left me with a serious appetite. I just never had the time. Now I had all the time in the world, plus a five-star chef downstairs whose tricks I fully intended to steal.

When the boys came down the next morning, the table looked like a hotel brunch buffet. Waffles, buttermilk pancakes, eggs Benedict, crispy bacon, sausage links, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, a fruit platter, a pitcher of fresh orange juice, and a tray of cinnamon rolls still warm from the oven.

Milo's jaw dropped.

"Are you trying to make us explode?"

They were used to tiny, pretty portions. I'd cooked like the whole carpool was staying for breakfast.

I pulled off my apron and let out a long, happy breath. Now that was a workout. When you use your brain all day, sometimes you just want to cook for an army.

"Dig in."

Milo looked at the food. Then at me. Then back at the food, like he was checking for poison.

Owen tucked a napkin into his collar and tried a little of everything. He went back for seconds on the hash browns. Then he set down his fork.

"It's fine, I guess."

Nobody tells a cook "fine, I guess." Nobody.

I rested my chin on my hand and gave him a sympathetic look.

"Picky eater."

He smiled like it didn't bother him one bit.

I shook my head sadly. "No wonder you're short."

"I'm five eleven!"

I wagged a finger.

"Five ten and a half. I read your last physical."

He went red to the tips of his ears. He grabbed his backpack and stormed out.

On the way to school, he spotted a convenience store.

"Pull over."

He came back with five bottles of milk. He hated milk. He glared at the first bottle like it had personally insulted him, then twisted off the cap.

He was getting that half inch back if it killed him.

Milo couldn't eat much, but for some reason he didn't want to leave the table.

"Get me some lunch boxes," he told Mr. Whitaker.

"But you get lunch at school. It'll be cold by then. You might get a stomachache."

"Just get them!"

He wouldn't say why. He just looked grumpy.

I knew why.

I packed a few containers for him and ruffled his hair.

"Here. Tell your friends your mom made it."

His mouth fell open. He turned bright red and ran.

Uh-oh. This stepmom might actually be kind of nice.