Waking up the next morning, the first thing I do before even opening my eyes is immediately reach across the bed for Weston. Like it's instinct, like I've done it for years.
When I don't feel anyone next to me, I crack one of my eyes open and then the other. He's gone.
I try to fight the frown wanting to form on my face, I've never been needy before and I refuse to start now.
I sit up from my nest of blankets and pillows, stretching and yawning. There's no clock that I can see, but from the light filtering in through the windows I'm guessing it's about mid-morning.
It's when I'm finished rubbing the sleep from my eyes that I see there's a note placed on the pillow next to me.
When you're ready, meet us in the kitchen for breakfast.
Your brother,
Weston King
I run my fingers over the thick card stock, the loops and swirls of his signature. King. It's fits him, monumentally. I'm not so sure about me.
I place the note on the side table and reluctantly start climbing out of the massive bed, even as a part of me wants to slide back in and sleep for another few hours.
I swing my legs around so they hang over the edge, my toes sinking into the luxurious rug that's laid underneath the bed on top of the slate colored hardwood of the floor.
The splendor of the room in the natural sunlight streaming in from the open curtains inspires me to fully wake up to face the day and whatever may come of it. I'm itching to explore and that starts with leaving the relative safety of this bed.
When I'm standing, I walk around to my suitcase that's still sitting near the foot of the bed (I make a note to myself to sort out where to put the few things I do own later today) and root around for something to wear. I pick out a simple navy sundress, only slightly wrinkled from the journey.
The bathroom looks just as incredible as it did last night, or maybe more so now that I have more time to appreciate it all.
My eyes are immediately drawn to the walk in shower in the back corner. It's bigger than I've ever seen and made out of glass attached to the white marble. If it weren't for the shelving in the wall holding soap and shampoo, it would almost be invisible.
I walk over to it, taking cautious steps as if I'm scared I'll break something in here, and try to figure out how I'm supposed to turn it on. I don't see any knobs or even a shower head. Just a drain in the white floor behind the glass.
As I'm looking around the side where a few towels are rolled on a glass shelf next to the shower door, I see a small touch screen built into the wall.
I catch my bottom lip between my teeth as I slowly reach out to tap the surface. It lights up immediately, showing tons of settings for heat and water pressure and a bunch of other things I don't understand.
I fumble around for a while, sticking one arm inside to check the water now falling in a waterfall from the ceiling and using my other hand to test different buttons before I manage to figure it out enough to satisfy my needs.
After that, I step inside and I realize just how lacking every other shower I've ever used has been. The feeling of the hot water massaging maybe years worth of tension out of my muscles, leaving me relaxed and energized simultaneously.
There's a few different soaps, one smelling light and airy and a bit like strawberries that I use along with a twin pair of shampoo and conditioner that smell like mint stocked inside that I take advantage of, which leave my skin and hair feeling softer and smoother than I've ever felt it before.
Before long, I'm grabbing a towel from the wall and stepping out. I fiddle with the control panel a bit more to turn it off.
I ring my hair and fluff the towel over it to dry it as much as I can before getting dressed, crumpling my pajamas from the night before to shove to the bottom of my suitcase again.
When that's done, I stand in the middle of the bedroom uselessly. I'm looking around but not examining anything in full, really just stalling for more time before I go find everyone else, and wishing Weston was up here to guide me.
I catch sight of the french doors on the far wall again and start padding over to them, turning one of the knobs and opening it unhurriedly.
It's a balcony, and the view takes my breath away.
I walk up to the curved white stone railing and put my hands on it to lean over slightly, trying to absorb all of it, my mouth hanging open in awe.
Directly below is a beautiful, enormous pool, surrounded by chaises and other sitting areas in clusters. On one side the pool flows into a grotto built up with big stone slabs, another runs into an area hidden by an overhang of the house.
Beyond that, there's gardens and lush green grass with some palm trees dotting the landscape. It's an unbelievable sight.
I end up sitting on one of the sofas that are on the balcony, just thinking about how much everything has changed in such a short amount of time. If I was back home, in Washington, I'd have been at work for hours already. Trying to earn enough to survive. And now I'm here.
I don't know how long I'm out there, but it's enough time that my hair is almost completely dry, hanging straight down my back.
Eventually, I work up the nerve I need to leave. I take small steps across the room to the door, peeking around when I open it to see if anyone is in the hallway.
I don't see anyone, so I take a few more tentative steps forward and then more confident the longer I don't encounter anyone.
I try to backtrack the route Weston took me from the kitchen, getting turned around a few times before finally finding the two staircases leading to the entryway.
As I'm reaching the bottom, the front door opens and I freeze in my steps.
A man walks in, probably about as old as my father, but still handsome. He has medium-brown hair and he's wearing another expensive looking charcoal suit.
He scans the foyer quickly before his eyes land on me, flicking up and down my body and then locking on mine; a smile that's probably supposed to be charming sliding onto his face.
Instantly, I don't like him.
He has a calculating gleam lurking in his eyes, like he's figuring out how he could use me to his own gain.
"You must be Willa." The man says to me, no question in his voice. Just stating a fact that I don't bother to respond to.
"Well, look how beautiful you turned out to be." He continues anyway, nothing complimentary in his voice at all, just the same conniving look that makes shivers want to start crawling down my spine.
My eyes goes hard. I've heard similar things from the men my mother brought around me and I didn't take it well then, either. "Should I know you?" I grit out.
A spark of amusement lights up his face, like he didn't expect me that from me. "Sebastian Knight, I work with your father." He tells me.
The name isn't familiar, but I figure this must be the business partner Weston mentioned last night. "So no, then." I state blankly.
"You're clever aren't you." The same would-be charming smile painted on his face.
A moment later his attention is diverted to something over my shoulder.
"There you are. Did you just get here?" I hear my father's voice from behind me
"Yes, I just ran into the lovely Willa here." Sebastian replies to him.
My father walks around and when he enters my eye line I try to paste a pleasant look on my face.
"Oh, good morning sweetheart. Did you sleep well?" He asks, infinitely more genuine sounding.
"Yes, very well. Thank you." I respond truthfully. It might have been the best sleep of my life.
"Good, good," He says absently and then continuing a bit hesitantly. "I actually have to talk to you about something, walk with me?" He asks.
I nod, not seeing a way around it. He looks back at Sebastian for a second, telling him to meet him in his office. I catch the fleeting look of annoyance flash across the other man's face before he masks it.
My father holds his arm out, motioning in the direction I remember the kitchen being in, and I fall in step beside him.
We walk slowly while he seemingly collects his thoughts. We're almost there when he stops suddenly in the hall outside of it and turns to me.
"I wish this could wait, but I have to know now," he starts. "Is there anything you want to do for your mother?"
The question stuns me. A funeral. The thought never even crossed my mind.
I give myself a moment to give it real thought, but I don't.
The ceremony would mean nothing to me, I've never been to one. I don't know what they're like or what they do for people's grief.
And who would go? Would it just be for me?
A thought occurs to me then. It's been easier to see this man as our father than it has been for me to see my mother as all of ours, too. She never mentioned them once. She didn't care.
I hear voices coming from the kitchen, but I can't make out any words. Would they want a funeral?
He must see my eyes flicking towards the sound and reads my worries because he continues. "They'll only want to go if that's what you wanted." He assures.
"Then no," I allow. Then hesitate for a second before adding, "if she's buried nearby." I may not want a funeral but I think one day I might want to visit her grave.
He nods solemnly and I regret not asking if he wanted one, he was married to her after all, but I know after stating my preference it's been set in stone.
"I'm going to have to go into the downtown office today, but I'm sure the boys will keep you busy." He says, lightening the mood, but reigniting my nerves.
"Okay, I'll see you... later?" I say even as my infliction goes up in a question as I wonder how anyone sees anyone in this house unless it's by chance or by strict planning.
"I should be home in time for dinner, maybe we'll eat together." He says.
I don't know him very well, but from the little I've picked up from him I can tell that's probably not going to happen. But I appreciate the sentiment, so I nod in agreement anyway.
With that, he turns and walks back the way we came, leaving me stood alone in the hall.
I toy with the hem of my dress, smoothing and resmoothing the material, tuck my now-dry hair behind my ears and untuck it a second later before I force myself to take a step forward, and then another. Berating myself all the way for allowing my nerves to control me like this.
Taking my first step into the kitchen on light feet, I immediately spot Weston's back as he leans forward against his palms on the island.
I walk to his side instantly, as if I can absorb the strength radiating from him through my skin by close proximity.
By the stove with their backs to me I see two boys with the same white-blonde hair as me, one of them has it long enough to tie it in a messy bun at the back of his head. The others is shorter, but curlier than mine, reminding me a bit of the depictions of cherubs you would see.
I'm too busy staring at the two of them, a hollow feeling growing in my chest at the fact that I don't know who is who, that I don't see the person sitting opposite Weston.
I put my hand on my brothers back lightly when I reach him to announce my presence, and slowly slide my eyes away from the two who are flipping something over in a sizzling pan.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch the sight of him and I snap my eyes over to find his already on me.
He looks my age, or maybe a little older, with hair such a dark brown it's almost black—the same color of his eyes. He's leaning against the granite in a casual enough stance, one forearm resting on top and the other elbow up with his chin resting on his hand.
He might be the single most good looking person I've ever seen, but I'm stuck on his demeanor, it makes my heart flutter wildly in my chest a bit in fear and a bit in a sick sort of excitement.
He's so still he could made of the same marble that built this house, his face chiseled and carved in perfect hard lines and cold like stone.
I'm pretty good at reading body language and expressions, I had to be to grow up the way I had, but there's nothing there. He's completely blank, from the precise way he holds his body to his eyes that give away nothing.
"Did you sleep well?" I hear Weston murmur from beside me, sounding more like are you okay?, breaking my eye contact with the dark haired guy sitting across from us as I turn my eyes to him.
Weston's eyes are focused on me but my own are stuck on the two boys who must have heard him talk to me because they're both now staring in my direction.
They both look at me with the same wide eyed look I'm sure I'm giving them, mine flicking between the two of them rapidly.
I feel a hand link with mine and I give it a grateful squeeze before I let go, appreciating the support.
I step around the island, walking over to the two boys slowly, bolstered by the fact that they don't look like they hate the sight of me.
"Hi." I say softly, not knowing where to start.
The one with the long hair grins, his wide smile infectious.
He walks up to meet me in the middle of the kitchen and I notice how big he is. He might rival Weston in height but he's absolutely massive in the muscle department, arms huge. Working out is obviously something he takes pride in and I think to myself that we may have to find something else to bond over.
"Little sister." He says when he reaches me, picking me up off the ground in a bone crushing hug.
I scoff, even as I can't help but laugh. "Little brother." I admonish gently.
"Wyatt." He whispers to me after a moment and setting me down. I squeeze my arms around him a little tighter in acknowledgement before letting go, thankful I didn't have to ask.
"Stop hogging her." I hear from beside us before I'm taken in another set of arms.
I smell a familiar strawberry scent that I recognize as the same fragrance from the soap in my shower that morning. I smile as I realize Wren must have stocked it with the same brand he uses.
He has a smaller frame than Wyatt and Weston, but still bigger than me. I lean back a bit to get a better look at him, still not letting go.
He has a bit of angelic air about him, a hint of a dimple on his cheek, and it's hard for me to believe he's only eleven months younger than I am. That technically, we're the same age right now, both being seventeen.
He just looks like someone I want to protect from the harsh realities of the world. I'm not sure how much of that is my big sister instincts and how much is just what he inspires in people.
Wyatt walks back over with a plate piled high with food. "Come eat," he says, carrying it to the seat next to Weston, still showing his teeth in a blinding smile.
I hesitate for a second, looking at the dark-haired boy. He's not looking at me but I can feel his awareness buzzing like electricity over my skin. But it's too hard to deny Wyatt, not to mention my own curiosity.
I walk back over and Weston pulls out the stool for me to sit, Wren standing on the other side of me around the edge of the island with Wyatt across from Weston.
In front of me is so much food I don't know how they expect me to eat it all. Stacks of toast and scrambled eggs with sausage and bacon and fried potatoes.
"Did you already eat?" I ask them, feeling a bit awkward it's just me eating.
"Yeah, Wes said he wanted to give you more time to sleep." Wyatt tells me.
I look at them in time to see Weston give him an exasperated look with his eyes and he looks properly chastised until he sees me looking, he gives me a grin and a wink that I can't help but laugh at.
I pick up some toast to nibble at before nudging the plate towards Wren, silently telling him to eat more. He tries to refuse but I don't stop until he picks up the fork and starts on the eggs.
"Willa," Weston get my attention, "This is Jackson." He tells me.
I look towards the dark-haired guy—Jackson—to find his eyes already on me. I remember what Weston told me last night, he's the son of the man I met in the foyer. His stare feels heavy on me, weighted, even as they show nothing.
I just want to see some kind of reaction out of him so I say the first thing that comes to my mind. "I met your father." I say, sure that the dislike I feel bleeds into my words.
My eyes are watching for any flicker of emotion, or even a recognition that he's heard me since he's yet to outwardly react to anything, so I catch the slight stiffening of his body. He rights himself just as quickly.
"I'm sure he was as delighted to meet you as I am." He tells me, his voice gravely but with no other infliction.
My eyes go hard and I narrow them at him, trying to see through to his true meaning, but there's nothing there.
Conversations resume around me and I try to pay attention to it all while not understanding most of what and who they're talking about.
I'm chewing on a piece of bacon when Wren mentions something I almost forgot about.
"We have to throw a party for Wes and Willa's birthday." He says, looking like he's already planning it in his mind.
My birthday has always just been another day in August, a mark of the end of Summer to remind me it was almost time to go back to school.
I raise my eyebrows at him and turn to Weston, gauging his response.
The side of his mouth is turned up in a smirk as he looks at me. "It's sort of a tradition, Dad leaves and we throw a party here."
"And now that you're back, we have to do something huge." Wyatt interrupts.
I've never been to a party and the thought of meeting all their friends sort of scares me, do they know about me? But I do want to celebrate with them, with my brother on his birthday, so I'll do whatever they need me to do.
When I'm finished eating and Wren takes my plate to the dishwasher—I'll have to remind them that I'm not helpless—Weston takes his phone out of his jeans pocket and checks the time, nodding to Jackson when he does.
They both stand and without another look at me, Jackson walks out of the room.
Weston stands in a way that blocks me from my two other brothers and leans in slightly, taking my hand. "I'm going to be gone for a few hours with Wyatt, will you you be okay here alone with Wren for a while?" He asks softly and my heart warms at his concern for me.
I nod enthusiastically. "Go, I'll be fine." I want to get to know them all better, and to do that I'll need time like this.
He pulls a phone out of his pocket and places it in front of me. At first I wonder why he's giving me his phone when I notice this one is a different color than the one he checked the time on. His was gold, this one is more pink.
I look from it to him questioningly.
"This is yours, I put all of our numbers on it already so you can reach us whenever you need to." He tells me.
My mouth drops a little. "For me?" I ask, a little redundantly.
"Promise you'll call me if you need me, for anything." He says urgently.
I see the worry building in his eyes so I squeeze his hand. "I promise, brother."
He seems accept that because he nods and looks to Wyatt, angling his head towards the exit, kissing my forehead lightly before walking that way.
Wyatt walks up to me and gives me another tight hug. "Text me, we'll hang out tonight." He says over my head, and unlike when our father said something similar, I believe it.
He lets me go and follows Weston out of the kitchen.
I look towards Wren leaning against the counter with his arms folded over his chest. He smiles a shiny white-toothed smile at me that I return.
"And then there were two."