The rest of the school day drags in a mindless fog. Every class blurs into the next.

Teachers drone on.

And on.

And on.

I pretend to pay attention while my thoughts drift away. I'm not a bad student, per se, but I'm not a good one, either. I do the bare minimum and get by.

When the final dismissal bell rings, I grab my backpack and my board and scramble out the door as fast as my legs will carry me. There's no time to waste. I'm in charge of making dinner tonight since Ron has a late shift at the hospital, Ron's spawn has a soccer game, and Aunt Katrina won't get off work until 6 pm.

Reluctantly, I ended up letting my aunt bully me into this task yesterday. It's usually easier to give in. Resistance, I've learned, is futile. On the surface, Aunt Katrina may look like a softie and a sweetheart with her fair skin and honey-brown hair and big blue eyes, but she has the heart of a bulldozer when it comes to getting her way.

I'm worried about dinner. My talents are limited, cooking definitely isn't one of them, and Ron Recker has never been an easy man to impress. In my defense, I can nuke up Hot Pockets like nobody's business. In fact, it was my job to feed my sister whenever Mom was working late. I also make a mean man and cheese out of the box. But Ron's the type of guy who eats Wagyu steaks and fresh lobsters even when it's not a special occasion.

I won't lie. I think my aunt's fiancé is a pretentious prick. He looks the part, too. You know the type. Elon Musk helmet hair. Permanent golf tan. Always dressed in polos and khakis. I shouldn't complain, though. Pricky, old Ron is the reason why we have a taste of the good life right now.

Still, I wish I didn't have to cook tonight. Aunt Katrina tends to take Ron's side no matter the situation, which means, if this dinner isn't up to his standards, then my aunt's going to be royally pissed at me.

Thirty minutes later, the school bus drops me off near Ron's neighborhood. I skateboard the rest of the way to his house.

As I mentioned before, Aunt Katrina and I moved in with Ron when the two of them got engaged. For the past two months, I've been living in a gated community full of big, beautiful houses with perfectly-kept yards and big, sparkling pools. It's definitely an upgrade from Mom's trailer and Aunt Katrina's apartment, but, every time I walk through the front door, home doesn't feel like home. I know this is Ron's house. Not mine. I see myself as a temporary guest.

As I rush into the kitchen, I'm shocked to find the spawn sitting on one of the barstools. We haven't spoken since he caught me climbing through the second-story window like some kind of fugitive.

For a second, I find myself staring against my will.

The unruly black hair.

The piercing green eyes.

The golden bronze skin.

The tall, lean, and muscular build.

There's no denying it. Cruz Recker is hot. My cheeks grow a bit warm as I ask, "I thought you had a game tonight?"

He eyes me coldly. "Why do you care?"

Rolling my eyes, I assure him, "I don't."

His jaw ticks with annoyance, but, for once, he doesn't snap back.

For weeks, there's been this uncomfortable tension between us. Even though I spend most of my time trying to stay out of the spawn's way, I've still managed to become a thorn in his side. It's no secret that he resents my aunt. The spawn thinks she's a gold digger, but, for some reason, he seems to despise me, too, even though I don't want to be here anymore than he wants me here.

Turning away from him, I start rummaging through the pantry as I look up a recipe for spaghetti and meatballs on my phone.

"What are you doing?" he growls as though I'm a thief sneaking around his kitchen.

Irritation pricks me. I grumble, "Making dinner."

The spawn frowns. "You know how to cook?"

I shrug. "Not really."

He slides off the barstool, unfolding to his full height, and glares down at me. "Why bother if you don't know what you're doing?"

I want to say, Because my aunt is forcing me to make an effort to be a part of our happy little fucked up fam.

But I bite my tongue. The spawn would never believe that my intentions were that simple. Instead, I flash the recipe on my phone, tauntingly, in his face. "Making spaghetti isn't exactly rocket science. I know how to use Google. Dumbass."

He takes another step toward me. "Just don't burn down the house."

The spawn is a good head taller than me, towering over the top of my head, but I refuse to let the bastard intimidate me.

"Why don't you make dinner, then," I huff, "if you're so sure that I'm going to fuck this up?"

Smirking, he breezes past me and pulls out his phone. "I'm gonna order a pizza. You're definitely gonna fuck this up."

As the spawn saunters away from the kitchen, I mutter under my breath, "Asshole!"