Too Wrong for Me: Chapter One - The Intruder

Maya’s brother Leo is heading out to sea, leaving her in the one situation she’s spent years avoiding: trapped in a house with Julian Cross. He’s arrogant, a notorious heartbreaker, and—as it turns out—he knows exactly what Maya has been doing at the pier at midnight. The "good girl" librarian has a secret, and Julian is about to use it to get exactly what he wants.

Chapter One

The Intruder

Maya

The humidity in our house isn’t just weather; it’s a living thing. It clings to the walls, makes the floorboards groan, and turns the simple act of breathing into a chore. I like things crisp. I like the library's air conditioning that smells like old paper and filtered air. I like order. I like my life tucked into neat little boxes where nothing messy can spill out.

But tonight, the air is thick enough to swallow, and my brother Leo has officially ruined the one box I had left: my peace.

“He’s staying in the guest room, Maya. End of discussion,” Leo had said three hours ago, hoisting his duffel bag onto his shoulder. “There’s been two break-ins on the north side this week. I’m not leaving you here alone while I’m out on the boat for seven days.”

“I’m twenty-five, Leo. I have a deadbolt and a very heavy flashlight. I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You don’t have Julian Cross,” Leo countered, his jaw set in that stubborn way that usually means he’s worried. He hoisted his heavy sea bag onto his shoulder, the canvas strap straining against his flannel shirt. He gave me a quick, rough squeeze of a hug—the kind that said he was already halfway out the door and onto the boat—before heading for the porch. “He’s family. He’ll look out for you.”

Family. The word felt like a lie. I watched from the window as Leo’s truck kicked up a cloud of crushed shells, disappearing down the coast road and leaving me in a house that suddenly felt much too quiet. Julian Cross was many things—a heartbreaker, a manwhore, a permanent fixture at the local bars, and the guy who had spent the last decade making sure I knew exactly how boring he thought I was. But he wasn't family. He was the itch I couldn’t scratch, the thorn I couldn’t pull out.

Now, an hour after Leo’s truck pulled out of the gravel drive, I hear the low, guttural thrum of a motorcycle.

My stomach does a slow, sickening roll. It’s not fear. It’s irritation. Pure, unadulterated annoyance. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I stand in the kitchen, staring at the back door.

I’m wearing a black silk slip nightgown, the one I bought on a whim during a late-night online shopping spree when I was feeling particularly invisible. It’s short, held up by thin spaghetti straps, and it makes me feel like someone else. Someone who doesn't spend her days shelving romance novels she’s too cynical to read. I shouldn’t be wearing it with him coming over, but the heat is a monster, and I’d figured I could retreat to my room before he arrived.

I was wrong.

The door doesn't just open; it yields. Julian doesn't knock. He never has. He walks into my kitchen like he owns the deed, tossing a weathered leather duffel onto my pristine granite island. The thud sounds like a challenge.

“Nice pajamas, Princess,” he draws.

I don’t turn around immediately. I need a second to compose my face into the mask of cool indifference I’ve perfected since high school. When I finally face him, the air in the room seems to vanish.

Julian looks like he was designed to ruin lives. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his dark hair mussed from the helmet he’s carrying in his other hand. His T-shirt is tight, too tight. Stretched across shoulders that have spent too many hours hauling lumber or working on engines. He smells of salt, exhaust, and a spice-heavy cologne that makes my head feel dangerously light.

“Get out, Julian,” I say, my voice steady despite the way my heart is currently trying to sprint out of my chest. “I told Leo I’m fine. Take your bag and go back to whichever girl's bed you crawled out of.”

He smirks. It’s a slow, crooked thing that doesn’t reach his eyes—storm-gray eyes that are currently tracking the way the silk of my nightgown clings to my hips.

“Leo’s orders, Maya. And you know I’m a stickler for the rules.”

“You’ve never followed a rule in your life.”

“True.” He steps closer, his boots heavy on the tile. “But I like this one. It’s got perks.”

He stops just inches away. I’m forced to look up, my pulse thudding in the hollow of my throat. He’s so much bigger than he used to be. The lanky boy who used to snap my bikini straps at the beach has been replaced by a man who looks like he could snap me if he wanted to.

“You’re not staying,” I insist, clutching my glass of ice water so hard my knuckles are white.

“Oh, I’m staying.” He leans down, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrates against my skin. “But we both know you aren't as fragile as Leo thinks you are. Are you, Maya?”

I freeze. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't you?” He tilts his head, a strand of dark hair falling over his forehead. “The back of the pier. Last Tuesday. Midnight.”

My blood turns to ice. I’d gone there to meet a contact for my freelance research—the kind of work that paid triple what the library did but lived in the legal gray area of deep-web data mining. It was my ticket out of this town. My secret fund.

“You followed me?” I whisper, the glass of water trembling in my hand.

“Didn’t have to, I was already there. Different business, similar shadows.” He reaches out, his thumb catching a bead of condensation on my glass, his knuckles brushing my hand. The contact is electric. I want to pull away, but my feet are lead. “I saw who you met. I saw the envelope he handed you. Doesn't look like librarian behavior to me.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It is when I’m the one tasked with keeping you safe.” His smirk turns into something sharper, something almost predatory. “So here’s the deal, Princess. I stay in the guest room. I do my ‘job.’ And in exchange, Leo never hears about his sister’s little midnight rendezvous with the local fixers.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Call it what you want.” He leans in further, his scent overwhelming my senses. “But for the next seven days, you’re mine to watch. And I’m going to be watching very, very closely.”

I want to slap him. I want to scream. But mostly, I want to know why the look in his eyes makes me feel more alive than I have in years.

“Fine,” I hiss, stepping back to break the tension. “Stay. But stay out of my way. I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to hear you, and I certainly don’t want you talking to me.”

“Good luck with that,” he calls out as I spin on my heel and march toward the stairs. “It’s a small house, Maya. And it’s a very long week.”

---

I spend the next hour in my room, the door locked, the window open to catch a breeze that never comes. I can hear him downstairs. The heavy thud of his boots. The clink of the fridge opening. The low hum of a song I don’t recognize.

He’s invading my space. He’s taking up the air.

I sit at my desk, my laptop open, but the data on the screen is a blur. All I can think about is the way he looked at me. Not like I was Leo’s annoying little sister. Not like I was the "good girl" who organized book drives.

He looked at me like he wanted to strip the silk right off my body and see what else I was hiding.

It’s wrong. He’s too wrong for me. He’s messy and loud and temporary. He’s everything I’ve tried to avoid.

But as I lie in bed later, listening to the house settle and the distant sound of his shower running, I realize the "hate" I’ve been nurturing for Julian Cross feels a lot like a hunger I can’t satisfy.

---

The next morning, the heat has only intensified. It’s barely 8:00 AM, and the sun is already a white-hot glare against the blinds. I dress in a light cotton sundress, no bra—it’s too hot for layers—and head downstairs for coffee.

I tell myself I’m ready for him that I’ll be cold and professional. Then I walk into the kitchen and stop dead.

Julian is at the stove, shirtless. His back is a map of muscle and old scars, his skin tanned a deep, golden brown. He’s wearing low-slung grey sweatpants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. He’s flipping bacon in a pan, sizzling is the only sound in the room.

“Coffee’s in the pot,” he says without turning around.

“I didn't ask you to make breakfast.”

“I’m a guest, Maya. Manners.” He turns, the spatula in his hand, and eyes my dress. His gaze lingers on my chest, where the thin fabric shows exactly how the morning air is affecting me. He doesn't look away. He doesn't even pretend to be polite.

“You’re a parasite,” I mutter, moving past him to get a mug.

The kitchen is small. As I reach for the cabinet, my arm brushes his. The heat coming off his skin is staggering. I freeze, my breath hitching, and for a second, the world goes silent.

He doesn't move away. He leans in, his chest nearly touching my shoulder.

“You’re awfully jumpy this morning, Princess. Didn’t sleep well?”

“I slept fine.”

“Liar.” He reaches around me, his arm caging me against the counter, and grabs a mug for himself. “You were tossing and turning all night. I could hear the bed creaking through the wall.”

My face flushes a deep, hot red. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re obsessed.” He looks down at me, his eyes dark with something I can’t name. “You’ve been watching me through the kitchen window for years, Maya. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“I was not—”

“You were.” He sets the mug down on the counter with a sharp clack. “You hate that I’m here because you’re terrified of what happens when the ‘good girl’ stops pretending.”

I find my voice, sharp and biting. “What happens is I lose my patience and call the cops to trespass you.”

He laughs—a low, dark sound. “Try it. I’d love to see the look on Leo’s face when I tell him why I had to leave.”

He’s got me trapped. The blackmail. The house. The heat. Ugh!

I grab my coffee and try to push past him, but he catches my waist. His hand is massive, his fingers splayed across the small of my back, heat searing through the thin cotton of my dress.

“Let go,” I whisper.

“Make me.”

It’s a dare. A challenge. We’re standing in the center of the kitchen, the smell of bacon and coffee and raw tension thick enough to choke on. My heart is pounding against my ribs, and for a split second, I want to lean into him. I want to see if he tastes as dangerous as he looks.

But then the back door flies open.

“Maya! You have you seen my—oh.”

It’s Sadie. She’s standing in the doorway, her hair in a messy bun, looking between me and Julian with a slow, knowing grin spreading across her face.

“Am I interrupting a ‘keeping the sister safe’ moment?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe.

Julian doesn't let go immediately. He lets his hand linger for a heartbeat too long, a silent claim, before he steps back and picks up his coffee.

“Just making breakfast, Sadie,” he says, his voice perfectly casual, like he wasn't just trying to dismantle my entire life.

I scramble for my dignity. “He was just... leaving. Weren't you, Julian?”

“Actually,” Julian says, leaning back against the counter and taking a slow sip of his coffee, “I think I’m going to spend the day right here. It’s too hot to be out. And someone needs to make sure the librarian doesn't get into any trouble.”

Sadie looks at me, then at him, then back at me. “Right. Trouble. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

She winks at me and disappears back out the door.

I’m left alone with him again. The man who knows my secret. The man who knows how to make my blood boil.

“You think this is a game,” I say, my voice trembling with fury.

“Oh, Maya,” he says, setting his mug down and stepping toward me again. “This isn’t a game. This is the most honest we’ve been in ten years.”

He’s right. And that’s what scares me the most.

The rest of the morning is a slow-motion car crash. He follows me into the living room. He sits on the sofa while I try to read, his legs spread wide, his presence filling the room. He makes comments about my books. He mocks my "neat" little life.

By noon, I’m vibrating with the need to hit something. Or better yet… him.

“Why do you do it?” I ask, slamming my book shut.

“Do what?”

“Act like this. The girls. The bars. The... everything.”

He looks at me, and for the first time, the smirk is gone. His face is hard, his eyes unreadable.

“Because it’s easier than wanting things I can’t have, Maya. You should try it sometime. Might loosen that top button of yours.”

“I don't have buttons on this dress.”

“Metaphorically speaking.” He stands up, his shadow falling over me. “I’m going to the workshop to work on the Jeep. Don't come looking for me unless the house is on fire.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

He walks out, and for the first time all day, I can breathe.

But as I watch him through the window—watching the way his muscles move as he tinkers with the engine, the way he wipes grease off his forehead with the back of his hand and I realize the fire has already started.

And I’m the one who’s going to get burned.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: February 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix