The Inheritance

The lawyer's words still echo in my head three weeks later: One year of cohabitation with your stepfather, or the entire estate goes to charity.

My mother always did have a twisted sense of humor.

I'm twenty-two years old, a college graduate with a degree in art history and absolutely no idea what to do with my life. And now I'm standing in the kitchen of Grant Mercer's oceanfront home in Malibu, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt and watching him make coffee like it's the most erotic thing I've ever witnessed.

It shouldn't be. He's forty-five. He was married to my mother for four years before she died. He's technically my stepfather, though he never felt like one—we met when I was already nineteen and away at college, visiting only on holidays and summers. No blood relation. No childhood memories. Just this strange, charged awareness that started the moment I walked through his door three weeks ago and hasn't stopped since.

"You're staring," Grant says without turning around.

I feel heat creep up my neck. "I'm waiting for coffee."

"Mm." He turns, and God, he's unfair. Silver threading through dark hair at his temples, jaw that could cut glass, body that speaks of discipline and early morning runs along the beach. He's wearing gray sweatpants and nothing else, and I have to physically stop myself from tracing the lines of his abs with my eyes.

I fail.

"Eyes up, Zara."

My gaze snaps to his face, and I find him watching me with something that looks a lot like hunger barely contained. It's there and gone in a flash, replaced by that controlled expression he wears like armor.

"Sorry," I mutter, though I'm not. Not even a little.

He hands me a mug, and our fingers brush. Neither of us pulls away fast enough.

"We need to talk about boundaries," he says.

"Do we?"

"You know we do." His voice drops, rough around the edges. "The way you've been walking around here—"

"I live here now. Remember? Mom's last wish." I take a sip of coffee, letting the bitterness ground me. "I'm just getting comfortable."

"You're testing me."

I set down the mug and meet his eyes. "Is it working?"

The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. Grant's jaw tightens. I watch a muscle tick beneath his skin, watch his hands grip the counter behind him like he's holding himself back from something.

"This can't happen," he says finally.

"What can't happen?"

"Don't play games with me."

"I'm not playing anything." I step closer, close enough to smell his soap, something woodsy and expensive. "I'm asking a question. What exactly can't...