Okay. So maybe I’m in trouble.

Scratch that. I’m definitely in trouble. And not the kind I usually enjoy, either.

Because I thought I had a handle on this. I’m Dean Di Laurentis. The guy who doesn’t get rattled. The guy who keeps it casual, no strings, no drama. I’ve comforted girls crying in my bed because I “forgot” to text back. I’ve hosted parties wild enough to get us blacklisted from half the East Coast. I don’t get caught up.

But this?

This is a disaster in slow motion.

And Garrett warned me. Ages ago. Back when we were still getting to know each other, sitting in the kitchen late at night, bonding over protein shakes, hockey, and how many weird noises Logan makes when he sleeps.

He tossed it out casually, like it meant nothing. “My little sister’s got a crush on you. Just a heads-up.”

I laughed. Thought he meant an actual little kid. You know—middle school, braces, glitter stickers, probably obsessed with pink.

Turns out “little sister” isn’t so little anymore.

Or maybe she never was, and I just never looked. (Unlikely. I always notice hot girls).

But now?

Now everyone notices. How could we not? She came back from that artsy-fartsy summer camp looking like a whole damn Instagram thirst trap with a paintbrush. New haircut, new attitude, and—God help me—a confidence that could level a building.

And yeah, sure, the wardrobe shift didn’t go unnoticed. Neither did the... upgrades. Because trust me—I would have remembered a figure like that.

But it’s not just about the body. It’s the way she moves now. The way she carries herself like the whole room’s already watching, and she’s letting us. She used to be this sweet, shy presence in the background. Now she’s bold. Loud. Flirty. She swears like a sailor and laughs like she owns the place.

She’s even been hanging around the frat lately. Like, constantly. She’s practically a roommate now, always in the kitchen with Tucker, on the couch with Logan, throwing popcorn at Garrett’s head and pissing him off on purpose.

And me?

I’m Googling “how bad is it to have dreams about your best friend’s little sister.”

Don’t check my search history. Seriously. You’ll cry.

Which brings us to right now.

I’m half-asleep at the kitchen island, drinking coffee and tuning out Logan’s fantasy football ramble, whatever, when she walks in. Vivian.

And I freeze.

Messy hair. Puffy eyes. No makeup. And a three-sizes-too-big Briar U hockey tee that hits mid-thigh and shows just enough to make my brain short-circuit. Just legs for days and that sleepy, sweet, husky-as-hell “morning, boys.”

Logan chokes. Spits coffee and mumbles something about being late and nearly trips over his own feet.

Me?

I stay seated.

I manage to respond. “Gym.”

And then… oh God.

Then she fully turns.

And there it is, on her back.

Di Laurentis, 66.

My shirt. My name. My number. Hanging off her like it belongs there.

I think my soul leaves my body.

“That’s—uh.” I say, gesturing like an idiot. “That’s my shirt.”