Chapter 3 Moving in

Date = 18 March

For the first time in my 23 years, I officially have a girlfriend. And even this time it's fake.

Place = San Francisco (Enrique's home)

Meeting her for the first time when she's moving into my house.

POV - Enrique Blackburn

"All I'm saying is just make damn sure she's not a fucking backstabbing gold digger using you to extort every penny you have," my twin shouts from the screen.

I wonder who tried to rob his pennies. Jackson won't go off like this without a good reason. But I'm not worried ... given that he has a ton of pennies, whoever will need to engage in a lot of extortion. And given that he's not easily fooled, I'm sure they won't even get a dime.

Instead, I nod wholeheartedly, as if I'm paying attention to his counsel.

"And don't be like Damion ... use a fucking condom."

"I'm not planning on reproducing soon," I tease, "But thanks." He mumbles a goodbye.

With an irritated flick of my hand, I close the laptop on the coffee table while simultaneously getting up from the brown leather sofa. The large windows look out over the ocean.

Like always, it's breathtaking. Soothing. Endless. As if the world and the sky became one.

But I don't take in the scenery.

My mind is preoccupied with the girl in my shower ― whom I wouldn't mind joining.

I lean my temple against the cold glass, jaw tight, hands in my pocket as if it may stop the discomfort in my chest from spreading.

How the heck did I get myself into this?

Two strangers have moved into my life. Into my home. Into the tightly-controlled isolation I've built like a castle made of polished interviews and designer solitude.

The uninvaded space where I can just be myself has now been invaded. By a redhead with stormy eyes and biting wit. And a wide-eyed nine-year-old with a backpack shaped like a turtle.

At least there are some positive parts of this whole shitty idea ― I'm helping a little girl to get better while I'm fishing my career from the toilet before it goes down the drain.

But at what price?

Stripping myself bare for the whole world to see what a fuckup I truly am. To let everyone know that I'm not worthy of anything. That underneath the image I've been building up is a coward who can't even say three little words? Show them the huge mistake I made that can never be fixed?

Can I face that? The hard truth?

I'm responsible for my mother's death. I'm the one who rejected Lucinda. Who pissed-off Darren.

And on that horrible day, I'm the one who lost my cool. The one who fought with her. The one to call her what should never have been said. The one to make us slip out of the house. The one who left her vulnerable and alone.

The memory comes fast - uninvited. With exacting detail.

Every horrifying second edged into my mind with painstaking precision.

From where the front door creaked louder than usual - to the way Jackson sat on the floor removing his blood-stained sneakers with a frenzy of shaken movements.

The house was too quiet.

Not mom's-still-mad-at-us quiet. Not everyone's-asleep-so-be-cool quiet.

This was wrong quiet. Dead quiet.

You could hear the proverbial pin drop.

A dark crimson trail led straight to the kitchen - thin, tacky smears of it, like someone had crawled or been dragged.

One blue high-heeled shoe looked lost and out of place in the middle of the hall.

The closer we got, the worse it smelled - raw meat, iron, something sour, mixed with her Bolognese sauce. The kind of smell that clung to your clothes. To your hair. To the inside of your nose.

Time stopped.

The smell hit first. It made me gag. Then the sound - dripping - soft, slow, rhythmic. A fly buzzed.

Ilkay gasped, and my eyes focused; my brain took in exactly what I was looking at.

Everything, the whole kitchen, even the ceiling, was sprayed with blood, the color ranging between cherry and burgundy. Like a messy paint job.

On the floor was this huge, thick pool of red. Roughly 4.5 liters.

In a prone position, right in the center of it, was my mother's naked, pale-yellowish body - next to our dead dog. His silver coat matted with red, paws stretched out like he'd tried to defend her.

"Fuck," Jackson's voice cracked. Ilkay stepped forward like he could fix it. Like maybe she was still breathing if he just looked close enough. His hands hovered in the air, shaking.

I stared at her open eyes. They looked empty. Like plastic. A knife was stuck in her back. Her throat ...

I could not breathe. I fell forward onto my knees.

And somewhere, something inside me split. Forever.

That's when the guilt hit. It came in the same package as the trauma, the pain, the sadness.

When I finally managed to sleep, I had my first nightmare - dreams I would get used to over the years. Dreams of Mom and Dad and even our Husky, Scout. They blamed me, their eyes beseeching me with accusations, as they got mercilessly slaughtered. Brutally. While Mom repeatedly exclaims, "I love you!" over and over again.

I realized I was undeserving of love. And that's when a new layer was added, on top of the foundation Granddad created with his shit.

And I've been building layer after layer since then, so much so that no one truly knows the real me anymore. As things stand now, I'm not even sure I, myself, know the original Enrique Blackburn (if there ever was one).

I've been acting fake for so long, I can't do real anymore. So, a fake relationship should be no problem, should it?

Little beads of sweat trickle down my face, and I wipe them away with my hand. Then clench my fists.

It had become a curse - the inability to say those three words. Even as an actor, I can fake everything but that. It's MY curse.

But now, because of a piece of paper with a signature, I'm forced to act the opposite of what I've always done. I have to act in love. Bypass the curse.

Another new layer. An act on an act ― a fake reality.

But this time it might bite me in the ass. I'm taking on the role I always avoid. Even in my romance movies, I always have them script out those words.

Now I'm creating my own romcom. In my own house. And this girl is not going to make it any easier. She's already got my hormones in a frenzy.

Fuck!

The moment she walked through the door, I knew she was going to be trouble. Not just with a capital T ― all CAPS.

It's hard to describe. It's as if her whole endeavor screams loudly out to my soul.

She's not the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, BUT she's also the most beautiful girl I've ever seen - dainty freckles, bushy red hair, curvy body, more-than-a-handful tits, soulful mossy eyes.

I was not expecting her to look like that ... I mean, we've talked almost every day over the phone ... but we've only Skyped once. That time, her hair was hidden under a towel, all wet and messy, and her face was covered in black goo.

And here she shows up, looking like a freaking erotic helpless fairy, sporting what is arguably the sexiest body ever in skinny jeans and a little green shirt.

I wanted her right there. My mind wanted her. My dick wanted her. My soul wanted her. And most terrifying of all, my heart wanted her.

Soft laughter echoes through the house, bouncing off the walls, like a lost traveler trying to find his way, and then it ghosts through me, leaving a small trace of warmth in my chest.

Like a robber in my own house, I sneak towards the half-open door, not wanting to intrude and disturb the sunny sounds. For some unknown reason, it fills a void inside me I didn't even know existed - fills the deep pit in my soul with something fluffy, gooey, and mellow.

Except for Mel, our childhood home was not exactly exploding with laughter. Our youthfulness was stolen at a young age by Alexander. Crushed under his terror.

Maybe that's why we always tried to make our sister laugh ... it filled us with warmth, life, and something else that we could not explain but needed very much.

Leaning against the doorway with folded arms, I look at the little girl. Anemic, head bold as a fat girl's ass, body all bones and skin. But her face glows like a beautiful cartoon angel.

Leyla sits crisscrossed on the whitewashed, house-frame bed, a juice box in one hand, wearing tiny purple socks with glitter stars. She must have raided the small bar fridge I've installed for her - stocked with drinks and snacks.

She doesn't look at me at first. Her focus is on the movie she's watching.

A soft light illuminates the freshly renovated room - remodeled in soft green and pink hues - Leyla's favorite colors - got it from the file. On one wall, Mel painted a huge mural, depicting a realistic Disney Princess forest scene, complete with characters from all the different movies. I must admit, it turned out pretty awesome.

"Your house is big." It takes me a few moments to realize she stopped laughing and is, in fact, talking to me.

"Too big." I can't remember the last time I talked to a kid other than Luke. It feels strange.

"I like the princesses," she says.

"I figured." Why am I feeling so insecure? Insecurity is not a Blackburn trademark.

She points the remote at the built-in flatscreen I had installed - where a green chameleon is pulling goofy faces - and turns down the sound. She looks at me more seriously, which surprises me. She's pale, with those wide, intelligent eyes that kids have when they've seen too much too young.

"My sister's in the shower," she says like a little adult. She pats the bed next to her for me to sit.

"I know," I smirk and sit down.

"She always takes forever." Which girl doesn't?

"That's fine." She holds out a new juice box to me. It's grape. I take it.

Leyla glares at me with those grown-up green eyes behind her bifocals for a bit, then cocks her head. "Are you in love with her?" She throws out my cursed word like a hammer. I choke on the juice.

I cough, blink, stutter. "Sorry - what?"

She narrows her eyes at me like a therapist and looks over her pink-framed glasses straight into my heart. "My sister. Aria. Are you in love with her?" she says slowly as if she's dealing with a difficult patient.

"I - uh." I scratch the back of my neck. "Well, that's ... complicated."

"She thinks you're hot," Leyla says, calmly sipping her juice as if she hasn't just come in like a wrecking ball. "She said so."

I let out a short laugh. "Good to know."

"You look like a good boy. She deserves someone good." I've been many things ... but good?

My smile fades a little. "Yeah. She does."

"She's been taking care of me since our parents died," she says matter-of-factly. "I can't even remember them."

"I know." It's in the file. Everything is in the file.

"Do you?" she asks, not accusing, just curious. "Because most people don't."

I nod slowly. "I do now." Trust me. I understand growing up too soon.

She stares at me for a long beat. "Then you need to step up your game."

I lift a brow. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, you're handsome and all - "

"Thank you," I say dubiously, slurping down the last of the juice.

" - but that's not enough. She doesn't need handsome. She needs someone who makes her feel safe. And like a person again. A young person who can enjoy life. A sexy woman ... who men will look at ... like those stupid guys did at the airport."

I don't say anything. But I'm wondering what guys she's talking about. And why I don't like the thought of them looking at her?

She puts her juice down. "She thinks she has to be strong all the time. But she's tired. I can tell."

I look down at my hands. "She probably doesn't want help."

"Then don't ask. Just help her anyway."

I look up. The kid is sharp. Tough. Brave. Way too grown for nine-and-a-half.

"You're a smart kid, you know that?"

Leyla smirks. All missing teeth. "I get it from her."

"I'm not sure I'm the right guy," I say softly, almost to myself. I don't want to get her hopes up just to crush them.

She tilts her head. "Why not?"

I pause. Because I'm broken. Because I ruin everything I touch. Because my mom died thinking I hated her, and I haven't felt real since.

Instead, I go with "I'm not always very good at showing up."

Leyla's eyes soften, just a little. "Try anyway. She's worth it." I bet she is. She looks at me, pouting her mouth. For a moment, it feels as if she's looking right through all my versions straight into my soul. She has the same mossy eyes as Noah ... as her sister. I'm not sure I like this feeling.

So I turn the conversation. "What is the deal with the guys at the airport?" I try to sound composed. Cool. But I'm not fully succeeding. She offers me a little grin, and I swear that's exactly what a holy being must look like.

Her gaze makes me feel rather awkward, something I haven't felt for a long time.

I wonder for a moment if she actually can see into the pits of my soul, but before I can ask, Aria appears in the doorway, towel-dried hair clinging in damp, careless strands that make her look like she's just stepped out of some reckless dream I don't deserve to have.

She's wearing neon-pink boxers patterned with tiny cartoon cats - ridiculously and criminally short - with a black T-shirt that does absolutely nothing to tone down the damage. My chest tightens, my pulse trips over itself, because in this exact moment, in this messy, unfiltered version of her, I swear I've never seen anything sexier in my life. The universe must be mocking me.

Her plump lips part, and I have to hold myself back not to grab her to get a little taste of that sweet mouth. I may not have a heart, but I am still a man.

"Tangled again?" she asks lovingly, oblivious to my inappropriate thoughts.

I nod my head. I'm definitely tangled, twisted into knots, from my mind to my dick.

"Always," Leyla giggles. Too late, I realize the question is not exactly directed at me, and for the first time in forever, a light blush colors my cheeks.

Crap.

"I was just about to tell Enrique about those boys at the airport," Leyla reminds me. Aria blushes and rolls her eyes.

"Do you think I might get some coffee before you start?" she pleads, holding her hands together as if she's praying. How can she be so unaffected? I feel as if I can't breathe.

"Sure," Leyla jumps off the bed and runs down the hall. Aria follows, hips swaying sensually with every stride, and I take a deep, frustrated breath. I'm mantsy as hell. How many days have passed since my last sexual encounter? Hundred? More?

Fuck, no wonder I'm all cropped up.

I stand in the hall like a pimple on a hormonal teenage face ... hard and full and ready to pop. For a moment, it's silent. The echo of little footsteps has faded. The hallway smells faintly of peach shampoo, grape juice, and plane air.

I'm used to silence. Used to waking up alone in beds that change cities every week. Used to the weight of my name filling headlines with the wrong verbs - parties, breakups, brawls, drama.

I am NOT used to little girls in glitter socks giving me therapy before bedtime.

I slowly walk to the kitchen.

I'm not used to Aria either. Ginger-haired and stubborn, with that sharp tongue and the way her voice cracks when she talks about Leyla, like her whole world is balanced on one fragile, unshakable love.

And God help me - I like her. I like her in ways that make my ribs ache.

I get out of my reverie just in time to notice her eyes trailing slowly over my body before she plops down on one of the red high-chairs, arranged in a row, at the breakfast nook.

Darn. Now I'm thinking of throwing her onto the counter and ravishing her off.

Fuckit.

Instead, I slide a pod into the glossy red Nespresso and jab the button. The machine sputters to life with a few soft squirts, like it's clearing its throat, then begins to purr. A thin stream of dark liquid curls into the cup, steam rising in delicate ribbons. The scent is immediate - rich, roasted, and a little bitter - sneaking up into my nose and warming the back of my throat before I've even taken a sip. It smells like mornings after sleepless nights, like comfort pressed into something small and strong.

Leyla stands in the center of the kitchen, her starry socks slightly crooked and her arms flailing like a caffeinated windmill as she reenacts the scene from the airport with dramatic flair.

Aria buries her face in her hands, cheeks redder than her hair. I just listen, my mind on much more extravagant places, like how plump her nipples looked through that barfing unicorn T during our one-and-only video call. How plump they look now.

"So then," Leyla says, punctuating every sentence with intense eye contact, "this massive woman - like, literal rectangle vibes - was yelling because her little troll boyfriend winked at Aria. That one's got real perverted tendencies, by the way." She gasps, "OMG ... I almost forgot the worst part ... he was wearing Crocs, Rickie. CROCS. With socks." Seems I've already got a nickname.

I blink. "Unforgivable."

"Right?!" Leyla looks vindicated. "Anyway, Aria tried to be nice at first, but the guy was staring at her coochie, and then the woman started going full Hulk mode." A strange green feeling creeps up on me, too.

"Leyla," Aria groans, muffled. "Please stop." She tries to hide her flustered face even more with her hands. I notice the porcelain skin, the manicured hands, the green nail polish, and the fullness of her tits, and my dick decides to make a move.

I hand her the cappuccino and add another pod for myself.

"No, wait - it gets better," Leyla chirps, spinning around to face me like she is delivering the punchline of a joke she has waited her whole life to tell. "She was getting so mad, like ... Smurf-level blue. Aria tried to calm her down -"

"I did not."

Why am I this attracted to this woman? I'm around the prettiest of the prettiest all the time ... models, actresses ... but none of them pull me like this girl blushing at my kitchen table. A girl with shoulder-length ginger locks, slim legs with defined kneecaps, and mossy green eyes.

" - and then I told her to breathe and that she was looking like a purple cucumber."

I choke. "You said that?" I take my coffee from the machine.

Leyla beams. "Yup! Well ... Aria said purple cucumber, but I corrected her. It's an eggplant. That's the official vegetable for rage." It's the official vegetable for something else, too. Something I'm feeling right now.

I nod solemnly. "Naturally."

Aria lets out a groan and drops her head to the counter. "Please kill me."

"But THEN," Leyla continues, stepping dramatically onto the points of her toes to make herself taller, "the woman got all crazy and yelled, 'Is that so?!' And I had to defend Aria's honor. So I told her -"

"No." It sounds more like a yelp.

"- that Aria already had a boyfriend -"

"Leyla." Now a mew.

"- Enrique Blackburn."

A beat. Silence. A long, slow blink from me.

Then Aria's voice, muffled by the countertop: "Leyla. I will sell you to the nearest zoo."

Leyla turns toward me with a proud smile. "You're welcome."

I stare at her. "For what?"

"You wanted to go public ... well, you're officially public." Not exactly how I planned it ... but hey ... out is out. Dean's gonna freak his gay balls off, though.

"Leyla," I say carefully, "you should be a little more careful." The paparazzi can be dangerous ... cruel .... vicious.

She blinks, all innocence and sunshine. "I saved your girlfriend's reputation." Then she pouts. "You're mad."

I exhale slowly. "I'm not mad."

"You look mad," she sulks, narrowing her eyes.

"I'm not," I repeat.

"You're doing a potty face." I roll my eyes and scratch my temple.

"It's just my thinking face." But it can be a potty face ... I do my best thinking on the loo.

"Okay, if you say so." She skips to the fridge like she didn't just accidentally launch a PR bomb that could blow up the whole of San Francisco.

I look over at Aria, who still hasn't lifted her face. "You okay?"

She groans again.

"I'm assuming the words 'Enrique Blackburn' were heard by multiple people?" I chuckle.

"Oh," she grunts without looking up. "Someone gasped. Someone whispered. I was handed a baby. There definitely was a dog involved, and a chicken nugget, and I'm pretty sure a girl screamed. Or fainted. A few might've recorded it. I don't know. I blacked out."

I lean back against the counter, running a hand through my hair. "Great. My agent is gonna love the PR on this ... a surprise girlfriend reveal via toddler press conference."

"I'm nine," Leyla shouts from behind the fridge door. "And FYI ... we need to go shopping ... there's nothing a kid can eat in here."

Aria finally lifts her head and squints at me like she wants to dissolve. "What if someone posts it? What if it goes viral?" Oh, I'm sure it already has.

I sigh. "Then we lean into it."

She looks horrified. "What?" She'll get used to it soon.

"We lean in," I rap, too tired to panic. "We make a joke about it. You say something cute and funny. I shrug and look handsome and vaguely mysterious."

Aria sits up straight, now clutching her coffee cup like it's a weapon. "You can't fix everything with shrugging and bone structure, Enrique."

I smirk. "Wanna bet?" Oh, she has so much to learn. In my world, bone structure fixes more than most.

"Stop smirking."

I smirk wider. Sexier. "It's literally part of my job."

"It won't work," she hisses. "I'm not cute or funny."

I grin even wider. She's fucking cute. And vaguely funny.

Leyla climbs onto a stool and takes a bite from a carrot she pulled from the fridge.

"Can I be your publicist? I think I nailed it."

"No," Aria and I say in unison.

"Fine. But I want a cut when your wedding happens."

Aria turns crimson. "Leyla!"

Leyla gives a dramatic shrug. "I'm just planning ahead. My doctor said I need something to look forward to."

Something inside my chest stirs, wriggles, and warms up. This ... it feels cozy. Happy. Familiar. Like a long-forgotten memory that has just woken from a long slumber.

This feels like home. Like family.

It dawns on me ... we're all tied together now ... because of a contract, a child's bold honesty, and a stupid airport fight over a man in Crocs. The three of us.

And I like it. But I can't have it.

It sticks in my throat. Like broken glass.

Even now, looking at Aria, feeling everything I shouldn't - everything I promised I wouldn't - there is a wall in me.

I can protect her. I can provide. I can pretend.

But I can't ... do that four-letter word.

And she deserves better than that.