Life With A Flirty Step-sister -final- -

Emma hops off the suitcase, picks up my duffel, and hands it to me. “Last chance to back out,” she says.

So I stopped. The confession didn’t happen dramatically. It happened over coffee.

She laughs—that bright, impossible laugh that got me into this mess in the first place—and leads me down the stairs.

I raise an eyebrow. “A love letter? How old-fashioned.” Life With a Flirty Step-Sister -Final-

But in the end, they listened.

I pull her off the suitcase and kiss her. It’s not quick or careful. It’s the kind of kiss that says I’m not running anymore .

“I’m making sure you don’t forget anything.” She pulls a folded piece of paper from her pocket and drops it in. “Read it later.” Emma hops off the suitcase, picks up my

I take the bag. I take her hand.

“Terrified,” I admit.

We were careful. Quiet. During the day, we were the same bickering step-siblings who fought over the remote. But at night, when the house slept, she’d text me a single emoji: 🍕 (her code for “my room, ten minutes”). The confession didn’t happen dramatically

My chest ached. “Emma…”

“Not a chance.”