Page 28 of Even in the Rain

“You mean likecaaaandy?” Finn asks, strolling obliviously through the sticky puddle on the wood-paneled floor onto the carpet. “Like a wholebagof candy, maybe?”

“You bet, Finley. A huge, jumbo-size bag of candy,” I promise him, getting up and stepping over to nab the rapidly dying popsicles from his fists just in time, because he pumps them high in the air.

“Yesssss! I love candy!”

I stuff the popsicle pieces in my mouth. “These for me?” I ask, chewing with my mouth open because damn, that’s a lot of ice-cold in one shot.

“Hey! One of those was for Xave! Imadethem.” Finn looks legitimately scandalized.

“Aw, shoot. Sorry, dude. I didn’t know.” I stick out my now orange tongue at him, and he laughs. Kid’s got the best giggle. “Your bro doesn’t deserve popsicles, anyway. Especially popsicles this delicious,” I tell him, licking the sticky juice off each finger until only the middle one is left up, conveniently hovering right in Xave’s line of sight.

Finn looks relieved when Xave laughs, obviously the confirmation he was looking for that his older brother isn’t too traumatized about missing out on his share of the popsicle stash.

I toss the little squirt over my shoulder. “Finn-the-man, you are a popsicle-making genius! I feel bad your wiener of a brother didn’t get to try one of those bad boys!”

Finn squeals with glee as I stride out of the room with him still slung over my shoulder. When I round the corner, I flip him over and hold him perpendicular to the floor while he stretches his arms out wide and pretends to be an airplane as I race along the long hallway. He almost pierces my eardrums with his high-pitched peals of laughter, urging me to go faster.

“Down the stairs, Seb! Make me fly down the stairs!”

So we turn back down the hall, past Xave’s room, on to the elaborate staircase that winds down to a massive atrium two stories below, with Finn making airplane noises the whole way down. It’s a game we play pretty much every time I’m here, and yet he never gets tired of it.

I deposit him back on the ground once I’ve shaken and spun him a few times at the bottom of the landing, where Nanny Number Nine is waiting to retrieve him, throwing me an evil look over his mop of curls.

“You boys are too rough with him,” she scolds, as Finn collapses onto the Persian rug in a fit of laughter, and I use the opportunity to make my departure before Nanny Number Nine can chew me out any more. Besides, I’m eager to get home because after finding out that Caroline is willing to give me a second shot at tutoring, for once I have news that’ll make my folks happy—instead of wanting to rip their hair out just trying to figure out how to handle me. When we aren’t in the middle of dealing with one of my many screwups, the Murdoch household is actually a sick place to be. My folks are honest to God fun people, those times they aren’t despairing over how miserably they failed as parents. I miss that version of them. Hell, I miss that version of our family.

Chapter Ten

Caroline

I’vebeenhomefromschool for less than two hours when a text comes in on my phone. I assume it’s from Sebastian Murdoch’s father, since I’ve been going back and forth with him a couple of times this evening. Also, as I mentioned before, there isn’t really anyone my age I text with.

But it’s not Graham. I don’t recognize the number at all. And then I groan when I read the incoming message.

Chapter Eleven

Caroline

Everyonetalksaboutthehouses on the peninsula—specifically the houses on Ocean Drive—but I’ve never had any reason (or interest, to be honest) to witness them in person. I expected to be impressed. I didn’t expect to be utterly gobsmacked.

Yes, all the houses I pass on Sebastian’s street are mansions. But not the sort of pretentious, predictable McMansions you see on TV dramas about stinking rich people. These are stunning houses; each one creative and interesting and just… visually mind-blowing. And no two are alike.

I pull up to Sebastian’s house, and of course it’s my favorite one I’ve driven past so far. I knew his dad was a famous architect, but I still didn’t expect anything likethis. Uber modern, but warm and inviting and totally in sync with the landscape instead of in blaring juxtaposition with it. Sprawling, but not ostentatious. The whole thing is almost entirely made of glass, with some concrete and dark wood.

After parking to the side of the four-car garage, I take about five calming breaths, because I am really, really nervous. Sebastian Murdoch intimidates me. This house intimidates me. Socializing in general intimidates me, because I suck at it. I am Fish Girl. I am dork girl fucking loser chick.

Wait, no. Those are labels that represent a bunch of other people’s prejudices and hangups and asshole personalities. I pull my shoulders back and remind myself I am, in fact, none of those things. I would rather be me than be any one of those people who called me those names.

Right? Right.

As I approach the massive front doors up three series of wide, zig-zagging steps, I realize the house is essentially a series of interconnected glass “boxes” of varying widths and heights, a couple of which jut right over the edge of the high rocky cliffs and over the ocean. I bet you would get an unparalleled view of the finback whales from this place.

At this point, my excitement at seeing the inside of the house is starting to overshadow my nerves.

Okay, well, almost.

Heavy, clearly male footsteps thud down some stairs somewhere inside the house a few seconds after I ring the doorbell. Two shaky inhales later, the door swings open and I’m accosted with the vision of Sebastian Murdoch in all his six-foot-two, lean-muscled, football-God glory. His wide grin is all confidence and devil-may-care charm, his eyes warm and possibly a little tired, and his hair still damp from his post-practice shower.

“Thank God.” He grins, making his dimple pop. “I was worried you’d be late.”

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