The last time Becky Rivera stepped foot in her childhood home, the hallway walls were still painted buttercream yellow, the scent of cinnamon candles wafted from the kitchen, and her mom was still obsessively single. Now, the walls were cold gray, the house smelled like leather and cedarwood, and her mother was married.
And not just married.
Becky tugged her duffel bag over her shoulder and blinked up at the man who answered the door.
Tall. At least six-foot-two. Broad shoulders filled out a crisp white button-down, sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows. His jaw was stubbled, square and shadowed, like something off the cover of a men's fashion magazine. His hair was dark brown, a little messy, like he'd just run his hands through it after a long meeting. Hazel eyes blinked down at her—cool, unreadable, and very much not impressed.
Becky blinked. "Uh… hi?"
"You're Becky," he said. His voice was low, smooth. Clipped.
"And you're…?"
"Ethan Cross. Your mother's husband."
Her mouth opened. Then closed. "I thought you were the doorman."
His brow arched slightly, but no smile followed. "No. I own the penthouse."
Of course he does.
Becky stood there for a beat too long, before he stepped aside. "Come in."
She walked into a sleek, glass-and-steel world that didn't feel like her mom at all. The downtown penthouse was minimalist and modern, with clean lines, an open floor plan, and a floor-to-ceiling view of the city skyline. Where were the scented candles? The colorful throw pillows? The cluttered warmth?
Gone. Replaced by a cool, masculine aesthetic that screamed money.
She dropped her bag by the hallway and looked around. "Where is she?"
"Still at work. She's helping launch a new showroom in Midtown." Ethan's voice was all business, like reading off an agenda.
Becky crossed her arms. "And she just… didn't mention that she got married?"
"She said she told you."
Becky scoffed. "She said she was dating someone. She didn't say it was serious. And she definitely didn't say she was eloping with Bruce Wayne's older, grumpier brother."
That almost got a smile. Almost. Ethan's lips twitched, but his face remained composed.
"I'm thirty-nine, by the way. In case you're wondering," he said dryly, walking toward the open-concept kitchen.
Becky followed, trying to shake off the bizarre feeling building in her chest. "You don't look thirty-nine."
He poured himself a glass of water. "Good genes."
She leaned against the marble island, watching him. Every move he made was calculated, like he belonged in a boardroom rather than a kitchen. "So, what's your deal? Architect, right?"
"Yes."
"Do you design those cold, lifeless buildings that look like glass prisons?"
Ethan turned to her, glass still in hand. "Sometimes."
"Fitting," Becky muttered under her breath.
"I'm sure this is strange for you," he said, finally meeting her gaze head-on. "But I don't bite. And I'm not here to replace anyone."
"I don't need replacing. My dad's in California. Very alive. Very annoying."
"Good," Ethan said simply. "Then we won't have to pretend."
That shut her up. There was something disarming about how direct he was. No fake charm. No trying too hard. Just calm, calculated distance.
She wasn't sure if it pissed her off or intrigued her.
"Do you live here full time?" she asked, feigning casual.
"When I'm not traveling. This is my base."
"And you and my mom… what? Fell madly in love over blueprint drafts?"
Ethan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "It was fast. But we're both adults. We know what we want."
"Must be nice," she said flatly.
He placed his glass in the sink. "Your room's down the hall. Third door on the right. Bathroom's attached. If you need anything, ask your mom."
Translation: stay out of my way.
Becky grabbed her bag and made her way down the hallway, trying not to let her mind wander. But it did. To his voice. To that too-fitted shirt. To the way he hadn't even tried to charm her, which only made him more compelling.
She hated that about herself.
The room was nice. Too nice. High ceilings, muted walls, a king-sized bed with crisp white linens, and a bay window overlooking the skyline. It felt like a five-star hotel, not a home. But Becky threw her bag down and collapsed onto the bed anyway.
Mom's new husband.
It wasn't like she'd never had to deal with her mom dating before. After her parents divorced eight years ago, there'd been a string of forgettable boyfriends. But none of them lasted. None of them moved in.
None of them were Ethan Cross.
Becky pulled out her phone and stared at her texts. No new messages. She'd left school early to come home, needing a break from the chaos of finals, her failing romantic life, and the growing restlessness gnawing at her. A little stability, she'd told herself. Just some time with Mom.
And now here she was—in a stranger's penthouse—with a man who looked like he belonged in GQ and acted like an emotional vault.
She needed a shower.
Twenty minutes later, she padded into the kitchen in a towel wrap, wet hair dripping down her back, only to freeze.
Ethan was standing at the fridge, shirtless, a pair of black athletic shorts hanging low on his hips.
Oh god.
His back muscles flexed as he reached for something, and Becky's throat went dry. Tattoos—surprisingly elegant ones—lined the curve of his ribs and one shoulder. Geometric designs, inked in black and gray, like something ancient and architectural.
He turned.
She squeaked.
He looked at her, completely unbothered. "Forgot a shirt. Sorry."
"No, I—um—sorry. I didn't think you were home."
He stepped aside, still calm. "Didn't mean to ambush you."
"You didn't ambush me," she mumbled, clutching her towel like a shield. "You just… exist. Shirtless. Unexpectedly."
His mouth quirked. "Duly noted."
He walked past her toward the hallway, his bare feet silent on the hardwood. Becky stood there, heart racing, unsure whether to scream or melt into the floor.
This was going to be a very long summer.
---
The next morning, Becky woke to the sound of espresso being brewed.
She rolled out of bed and threw on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater. The apartment was eerily quiet for such a large space. Her mom still wasn't home. It was like she'd married Ethan and vanished.
She found him in the kitchen again, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, sipping black coffee like a man preparing to negotiate the sale of a skyscraper.
"Morning," he said without looking up.
Becky grabbed a mug from the shelf. "Is my mom alive?"
He glanced at her. "Still at the showroom. She's been staying in Midtown overnight to oversee the launch."
"Right," Becky muttered. "Of course. Nothing says romance like a month-long work bender."
Ethan didn't respond. Just sipped.
She watched him for a moment, trying to figure him out. He wasn't rude. Just… unavailable. Like a locked door with no keyhole.
"How long have you known her?" she asked finally.
"A little over a year."
"And married for…?"
"Four months."
Becky raised her brows. "Fast."
Ethan met her gaze. "Efficient."
"You're not exactly a charmer, are you?"
"No."
Becky leaned against the island. "So what made you marry her?"
His expression didn't change. "That's between your mother and me."
"Fair," she said, but something about the way he said it made her chest tighten. Like there was a subtext he wasn't sharing.
He put his mug in the dishwasher, checked his watch, and turned toward the door.
"Have a good day," he said.
She watched him go, the weight of silence trailing in his wake.
This man was a mystery—and not the fun kind.
But as the door shut behind him, Becky realized something terrifying.
She wasn't just intrigued by him. She was watching him. Noticing things. Feeling things she wasn't supposed to feel.
And that? That was a problem.
A big one.
---