Good for Me
Author
Sofia Jade
Reads
1.7M
Chapters
29
Rory never expected her mom’s new marriage to change everything—including giving her a stepbrother she can’t stop thinking about. Forrest is grumpy, gorgeous, and the one person she should never want. They fight the tension, but one night shatters the fragile line between them. Years later, Rory returns to town with a ring on her finger and secrets in her heart. Forrest swore he’d buried his feelings, but seeing her again proves nothing has changed. The pull between them is still fierce, still dangerous, and this time he refuses to stand back. Off-limits has never looked so tempting—and resisting might just be impossible.
Chapter 1
FORREST
There’s nothing like the sticky, unforgiving humidity of Minnesota in late August. It clings to your skin, sits heavy on your shoulders, makes every breath feel like you’re inhaling through warm cotton. And after a full day of hauling lumber and dragging myself across a job site, I feel like I’m drowning in it.
I swing my truck into the gravel driveway of my home, and as soon as I get out, I peel off my T-shirt and jeans. Standing in nothing but my soaked boxers, I grab the garden hose, twist the knob, and crank it on. Cold water blasts out instantly. I tilt my head back and let it hit my face, run down my chest, drench my abs. Relief floods me. I could stay like this all day.
That is, until I see her. She’s in the hammock, swaying back and forth gently with the hot summer breeze. She’s seated sideways, legs curled up beneath her, a canvas balanced in her lap and a paintbrush dancing across it. She’s biting her bottom lip as she works, completely focused on her painting, headphones in her ears, lost to the world. And I’m standing here soaked, shirtless, in my damn underwear staring at her like I can’t breathe.
She hops out of the hammock, her tiny cotton shorts hugging her hips. She tiptoes barefoot into the sunlight and tilts her head, smiling up at the sky, totally unaware she’s got an audience. The trees frame her like she’s part of the scenery—like she was painted into this place with the same brush that she’s holding.
I should turn around. I should go inside, grab some dry clothes, and pretend this never happened. But I don’t. I walk toward her, drawn by something that I can’t explain.
Her head is still tilted as she sways slightly to the music, her hips rocking back and forth.
“Hey,” I finally say.
She jumps, startled. The canvas slips from her fingers, and I lunge forward, catching it just in time to save it from being ruined.
It’s stunning. The trees, the sunlight, the soft green shadows. It’s my backyard exactly, but through her eyes. She’s somehow found a way to make it look even more magical. I wonder if she’ll see any magic when she looks at me.
“Oh my God,” she says, laughing nervously as she pulls her headphones off. “I didn’t see you there. Hi.”
Her smile is blinding. Her eyes, this deep shade of moss green, lock onto mine and hold. And just like that, I’m not hot or tired anymore. My body’s awake and I’m caught in her gaze, completely stunned.
She leans forward like she’s about to offer her hand in a shake, then quickly pulls it back. But even that small movement is enough to make me feel like she’s one end of a magnet and I’m the other. Pulled to her in every possible way.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask, voice rough.
“Painting,” she says. “These trees are incredible.”
I want to tell her she’s the one that’s incredible. That she looks like something out of a dream I didn’t know I had. I nod my head instead.
“Yeah, it’s not bad living here.”
She tucks a lock of black hair behind her ear shyly. “I’ve never been surrounded by this much nature before. It’s wonderful. Did you know these are eastern white pines?”
I rub at the back of my neck. “Yeah, I think my dad might have mentioned that to me. We’ve got them all over town.”
She smiles and says, “The Native American tribes that live here call them the Tree of Peace. What a beautiful name to have.”
Her gaze returns to the forest. Meanwhile, I can’t look away from her.
“Songbirds love these trees. I bet it’s simply magical out here in the mornings.”
She shifts on her feet, her gaze dropping to my boxers for half a second before darting back up. Her cheeks pink as if she’s suddenly realizing something’s off.
“I’m Rory, by the way. Your new stepsister.”
Rory. My dad’s new girlfriend’s daughter. The girl I was told last night would be moving in for her senior year. The girl who, until this moment, I assumed would be some awkward transplant who stayed out of the way. Instead, she’s this.
Of all the girls in the world to crash into my life and instantly fall for, it had to be her, this beautiful, creative angel, sent here to ruin my last year of high school.
I clear my throat and shift uncomfortably, suddenly very aware now of how naked I am.
“Yeah. That’s me. Forrest. Though I guess I’m not technically your stepbrother yet, since our parents aren’t married.”
She bites her lip and nods, her eyes lingering for just a second too long before flicking away.
I drag a hand through my wet hair, my jaw tight. “All right, well, I guess I better go take a real shower.”
Then I turn and bolt like I’m being chased by demons. This girl is going to be sleeping under the same roof as me for the next year, and somehow, I’m expected not to touch her.
RORY
I stand in the backyard for a moment longer, watching Forrest disappear through the back door. I shake my head, trying to clear the image of him half-naked and dripping wet from my mind. He’s going to be my stepbrother. I cannot be thinking about him like that.
Taking a deep breath, I gather my art supplies and head inside. The house is quiet. Mom and Daniel must still be out running errands.
I climb the stairs to my new room, which I haven’t seen yet, actually. Those trees were too enticing. The room isn’t huge, but it’s nice. Soft afternoon light streams through the window, and in the corner sits a beautiful desk.
My mom told me Daniel and Forrest built it for me out of reclaimed wood. The craftsmanship is incredible, with every joint seamless, every curve deliberate. My fingertips trace along the surface, feeling the subtle texture of the wood grain.
I imagine Forrest had his father working side by side, measuring and cutting and sanding until it was perfect. My painting, the one Mom sent ahead, hangs above the desk in a simple frame. It’s a landscape I did of Central Park last winter, all bare branches and muted grays.
It was a sweet gesture, but it also makes me sad, reminding me of what we left behind. I can’t wait to get back to New York when I go to NYU next year.
I set my art supplies on the desk, arranging my brushes and paints with careful precision. Creating this order helps quiet the chaos in my mind. But then I can’t concentrate on anything else.
My hands are shaking as I set up a fresh canvas in my room, telling myself I’m just going to paint something simple. A still life, maybe. Something safe. Instead, I find myself mixing colors on my palette for an unexpected subject: the warm tan of sun-kissed skin, the light brown of wet hair, the deep blue of boxer shorts clinging to lean hips.
My brush moves across the canvas almost without my permission. I’m painting Forrest from memory, but every detail is crystal clear. The curve of his shoulders, the line of his jaw, the way the muscles of his stomach contracted when the cold water hit his skin.
The way he looked at me, like I was something unexpected and maybe wonderful. The intensity in his eyes, the slight part of his lips when he realized who I was.
When I finally step back, my heart is pounding. The painting is beautiful, maybe the best work I’ve ever done. It’s alive with an energy I’ve never managed to capture before.
But I should paint over it, before someone else sees it, because what I was thinking when I painted Forrest will be so obvious. Instead of destroying it, though, I carefully set it aside to dry and reach for a fresh canvas, ready to start another one.
Apparently one forbidden painting of my soon-to-be stepbrother isn’t enough. As I squeeze fresh paint onto my palette, I have the sinking feeling that no amount of painting is going to be enough to forget the way Forrest Everest looked at me for the first time.
