9. Matthias

9

MATTHIAS

W hen my assistant Franky shook me awake, I was rolled up in my covers, still wearing my Tom Ford suit. I remembered taking the muscle relaxer but apparently I hadn't even bothered to undress. The wrinkles in the fabric were as bad as a wadded-up piece of paper.

"Hey sleepyhead," Franky said in a sing-song voice. "Long night?"

I could smell hints of dark roast coffee and a warm breakfast.

"Long day and night," I corrected, knowing nothing would surprise her at this point.

Franky had seen me in every state of dress and undress, usually if I was drunk. A few times, she helped get me to bed, while once or twice she had to forcefully put me in the shower.

She was twenty-five and cute, with medium-length reddish-blond hair and hazel eyes. She had about a million freckles, a wide mouth, and crooked teeth.

Paparazzi went nuts when they saw us together, snapping photos left and right, thinking we were an item. Matty Vaulteneau's assistant or latest fling? Story on page three, type of headlines. Now that Zoey was in the picture, some of the headlines made it seem like I cheating on my assistant.

I hired Franky last year. She took care of what I needed, and never ratted me out to Dad. She was a godsend, if I were being honest.

Franky was more like an older sister than an assistant. For one thing, she liked to boss me around like an older sister, and I figured if she was really my assistant, then I'd be the one bossing her around. Maybe I was her assistant and just didn't know it. The main point was that neither of us had a romantic tendre for the other, which made the working relationship, well, work.

Bravely, I cracked an eye. Sunlight poured through the windows and I felt as offended as a newborn vampire.

Sitting up, I angled myself toward the door. Franky carried a large cup of coffee. In her other hand was a flaky croissant that I prayed was warm and gooey with a chocolate center. Without much ado, Franky handed over the coffee.

"Heaven," I breathed out as soon as those glorious dark, bitter notes hit my tongue. I admired her goal to start her own nutrition business. I'd even offered to finance her, but she'd turned me down flat multiple times. "Your coffee is out of this world, Franky. Double your salary."

"You say that every weekend."

"Yeah, but I mean it this time." I bit into the chocolatey croissant and about melted.

Franky chuckled. "Says the hungover college student."

I gave her what I hoped was a bite me look as I shook off the last of my sleep hangover. "Not a single drop. Got home late."

With a disapproving tone, she asked, "Zoey?"

Franky leaned against my desk, which was cluttered with textbooks, as she took stock of my bedroom. The blinds had been left open and the sun was in full swing, which highlighted just how messy the room was.

Clothes, mostly sweats or casual attire, were piled in a corner. Video game consoles and remotes were haphazard on the couch and coffee table. Towels and swim gear had been dumped on the edge of the king-size bed.

"Don't start on me," I groaned, rubbing my scratchy face. "I already know what you're going to say."

"That Zoey's not your type?"

"I suppose that's the polite way to say my coach is blackmailing me," I offered. "What'd you expect me to do?"

"You could say no ."

I finished the croissant, put the coffee down, and pushed off the bed. I started undressing but left on my briefs as I went into my closet.

Turning back to Franky, I said, "It's not that easy. If I say no, then there go my Olympic dreams. Poof. Ten years of training vanished overnight."

"He's a swim coach." Franky crossed her arms over her chest. "You are a Vaulteneau. You've got like a billion dollars."

More like seventy-three billion, but who was counting?

I donned jeans and a T-shirt, the action of which made my shoulder throb.

"Which means absolutely jack shit when I'm in that swim lane trying to beat the times of nine competitive swimmers."

"Matty—"

"Franky! The man is a former gold medalist swimmer. Let me handle this the way I know how."

"Fine." Franky's mouth flattened. "You're the boss."

"Am I?" I couldn't help but laugh and Franky joined in. "What time is it?"

She checked her phone. "Close to ten." A nagging feeling tickled the back of my brain. What was I forgetting? Franky helped me remember. "Mrs. Vaulteneau and her son will be arriving shortly."

"Fuck, that's right," I groaned.

It all came back. Theresa. Ciaran.

"That's partially why I'm here. Feed you and offer a pep talk to motivate you not to murder your new stepbrother."

She cocked an eyebrow and I felt the wrath of her judgment as if she'd thumped me on the nose.

"I really wish people would stop calling him that. Besides, I reserve the right to make the decision to murder or not to murder once I meet him. Until then, it's all a hypothetical."

"Fair point." A smile played on Franky's lips. "Mr. Vaulteneau said to be out front in twenty-five minutes to meet the new Mrs. Vaulteneau and her son, Ce-Ke…what is it?"

"Ciaran," I pronounced for her.

"Hm, I like it." Her voice was chipper. Franky was a people person. "Sounds like an Irish wildflower or something. I'll text you in twenty minutes. Mr. Vaulteneau gave all staff a half holiday, so I won't be back until tomorrow. Toodles." She bounced down the stairs and I heard the front door close.

I had no intention of pissing off my dad or showing disrespect towards Theresa. I finished dressing, styled my hair, gulped down the rest of the coffee, and headed outside.

When I walked to the front of the property, Dad was nervously pacing the driveway. He reminded me of a high schooler who wasn't sure if his prom date would arrive to pick him up. He'd dressed for the occasion in a custom dark gray suit. He only stopped moving when Davies pulled into the drive.

The blond woman who exited was even more beautiful than her photo.

"Hello, my love," my father said, taking her in his arms. "Welcome home."

"Stefon, darling," Theresa breathed.

All elegance and grace, Theresa moved like a ballerina and sounded like Grace Kelly.

While I was curious about the woman who'd captured my father's heart and soul, I was mostly interested in catching a glimpse of Ciaran.

Would he look different from his photo?

When he stepped out of the town car, I took him in. Yes, he was tall, probably my height. His hair was blond like his mom's, and a bit longer and curlier than his school photo. He was suntanned, which wasn't surprising since they were coming from Vegas. He wore sunglasses like I did, but I took in his angular face, long thin nose, strong brows, cut jawline.

Fuck me, he was better looking than his school photo let on.

Then I realized Ciaran was frowning. What'd the fucker have to frown about?

Ciaran was built like a swimmer. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, thin hips, and powerful thighs.

His dark wash jeans, while loose, and his dark blue shirt, which clung to him, did nothing to hide his physique. Local teen girls were going to eat him alive.

There was something intriguing about Ciaran, though what it was, I couldn't pinpoint. Ciaran looked too intelligent to bully or knock him off my scent—he'd see my actions for what they were, misdirection.

A smirk played on my lips as I thought through this. Dad was kissing Theresa like the rest of the world didn't exist.

By way of greeting I said, "I sincerely hope you're not expecting the same kind of welcome from me."

The glare Ciaran gave me told me he hoped I withered and died.

I needed Ciaran out of my life or else he'd get too close, which might ruin everything. Might ruin me.

I'll be nice tonight , I thought, but starting tomorrow, when our parents were out of the picture, I'd make Ciaran wish he never set foot in Malibu.