Did I Mention I Love You? (Did I Mention I Love You (DIMILY) Book 1)

I’d like to pretend that I’m staring at Ella’s lasagna. But I’m not. I’m gazing past the food, my eyes boring into those of the guy sitting across from me with his chin resting on his hand. The guy who is quite literally the epitome of nonchalance right now. I bite my lip as I run my eyes over his jaw, over his lips, over his drawn-together eyebrows, over the sparkle within his eyes. Every so often, he smirks when no one is looking.

“So Eden,” Dad says, raising his voice a little to get my attention. My eyes immediately plummet back down to my plate and my hands fumble anxiously with my cutlery as I fork up another bite of lasagna. “You’re being so quiet tonight.” He wiggles his brows and points his knife at me, a slight chuckle in his throat. “What are you thinking about?”

“I was—um—I was just—I—uhhh.” The words keep on stuttering past my lips like I’m a three-year-old attempting to string sentences together, so I shove the food into my mouth and offer a closed smile instead.

“How’s the lasagna?” Ella asks us all, her eyes widening a little as she hopes for a positive response. I’m just glad that she’s changed the subject. We all nod our heads in appreciation of the dish she’s slaved over. Even Tyler sits up slightly and sends her a small smile. She made a separate lasagna for him—four cheese, and definitely vegetarian.

“It’s great, Mom,” he says, and her face lights up with a warm glow.

My eyes drift between the two of them, watching their eyes soften as they exchange a glance, and I wonder how their relationship is configured. A lot of the time Ella just seems disappointed in him, but there are also brief moments where they seem to share a sense of silent understanding.

“It tastes so great that . . .” Tyler continues as he pulls the plate toward him, scooping up a large portion and lifting the fork to his lips. He leans forward over the plate as he takes a huge bite, but half of it falls from his mouth and lands on the table. Sheepishly, he laughs and wipes the sauce from his lips with his thumb. “It tastes so great that now I’m totally full,” he says after he swallows.

Dad arches a brow from the opposite end of the table. “You’re in a good mood tonight, Tyler,” he says.

Tyler presses his lips together as he folds his arms on the table, his eyes moving from Dad to me. As he catches my gaze, he tries his hardest to suppress a smile. But I see it. “I guess I am.” He clears his throat and pushes himself up, getting to his feet and carrying his plate over to the dishwasher. When he turns back around, his face is blank. “I’m gonna head out.”

“Where?” Ella immediately looks up, and she turns around to face him. Even Jamie glances up to hear Tyler’s excuse. “You’re grounded.”

“But I’m seeing Tiffani,” he completely lies, and he’s such a good bluffer that even I believe him for a moment. And then I remember. “Didn’t you say you’re hanging out with Meghan, Eden?”

I’m about to say no, but then he shoots me a stern look. He wants me to lie. So I say, “Yeah,” and then steal a glance at Dad to see if he’s buying it. Right now, I think he is.

“I can give you a ride there,” Tyler pushes, his voice slightly strained as he keeps his eyes firmly locked on me. He gives me the slightest of nods as he waits for me to play along.

“Thanks,” I blurt. If I attempt a longer answer, I’m bound to trip on my own words. So I smile a silly little smile and place my cutlery onto my plate as Ella stands to clean up.

But Tyler has no problem smirking back at me, like he’s forgotten our parents are in the room. Either that or he simply doesn’t care if they see or not. “Ten minutes?”

If only they knew we aren’t actually talking about him giving me a ride to Meghan’s place. “Ten minutes is fine.”

“I’ll just meet you at the car.” He throws me a wink before sauntering out of the kitchen in his black jeans and white T-shirt. I stare after him, watching the way he rubs the back of his neck as he leaves, gazing after his tall figure and adoring the way he tilts his head down as he walks.

Seconds later, I excuse myself from the family dinner, apologizing to Ella for not having time to help her clean up, and then dart up to my room to adjust my hair, brush my teeth, drown myself in perfume, pull on a sweater . . . All the kind of necessary actions that a girl must take before heading out to an amusement park on a pier with her stepbrother.

When the ten minutes are up, I make my way back downstairs and outside to the white and black car parked out on the road because there simply isn’t enough room for three cars on the driveway.

Tyler rolls down the window as I approach the passenger door, and he leans across the center console to glance up at me from beneath his shades. “I’d open the door for you, but I think your dad would have something to say about it.”

I glance over my shoulder. Dad is standing by the living room window, trying to hide himself behind the angled blinds but failing miserably. I raise my hand and wave across the lawn to him, and his body quickly disappears. “Yeah,” I say as I open the door and slide inside. “I think he’d wonder where your new manners suddenly came from.”

“Hey!” he protests, throwing his hands up defensively as I put the window back up. When I pull my seatbelt on and turn to face him, I notice how he’s pulled a red flannel shirt on top of the white T-shirt. I take a second to gulp. “I’ll have you know I’m a true gentleman.”

“Really?” I say skeptically.

“Really,” he confirms. Switching on the engine, he plays around with the AC and then shuts his sun visor. He glances sideways at me. “Alright, I’m not. I’ve just heard that that’s what you’re supposed to do. Always get out of the car and open the door. Right?”

I smile. “Something like that.”

Shaking his head and shrugging, he puts his foot down on the gas and we recklessly jolt off down the neighborhood. It doesn’t surprise me; I’m used to his terrible driving skills by now.

It’s when we’re nearing the oceanfront that I finally decide to ask, “Why did you lie to your mom? Why didn’t you just say we’re going to the pier?”

I catch him roll his eyes as he snorts, “C’mon, Eden, keep up. We don’t want them to get suspicious.”

“What about Tiffani?” However much I want to push her to the back of my mind, I simply can’t. I feel so guilty every time I’m around Tyler. As if the whole stepsibling dilemma isn’t problematic enough already, I’m also sneaking around with my friend’s boyfriend.

“I’ve got it covered. She thinks I’m hanging out with the guys.” He says this so casually that again I wonder if he even cares about her at all.

The pier is extremely busy when we get there, with cars packed into the lot and families strolling around and groups of friends and couples holding hands while walking along the boardwalk. It makes me feel a little envious, and it’s tempting to just stretch forward and interlink my fingers with Tyler’s. But I’m not brave enough to do so, and especially not in public.

“Alright,” Tyler says, clearing his throat with a sharp cough before nodding his head toward the bustling amusement park to our left. “So this is Pacific Park. And I am going to show you Pacific Park, because I used to love this place when I was a kid and I want to be the one to introduce you to it.” He speaks so earnestly that I can’t help but stare back at him with a smile on my lips and warmth in my cheeks.

We casually saunter down the boardwalk, listening to the soft sound of the ocean and feeling the heat of the evening sun on our faces. All the while, we enjoy each other’s presence and talk about simple things around us. We try to figure out why the rollercoaster is yellow; we comment on the food trucks; we talk about the position of the benches. Why is that one facing the water and why is the other facing the city?

“This guy right here used to scare the shit out of me,” he admits when we reach the entrance to the park. Above the huge “PACIFIC PARK” sign, there is an enormous purple octopus. Awkwardly, he shoves his hands into his pockets and quickly shuffles through the gates. “It still kind of does,” he says.

“Ahhh.” I nod my head as I catch up to him, playfully widening my eyes. “Not so badass anymore, are you?”

“Well,” he says, his voice rising an octave, “would a badass tell you that he’s in love with cotton candy?” Removing his hands from his pockets, he gestures toward a food cart. It serves a wide range of traditional favorites, from hot popcorn to ice cream to pretzels and, of course, cotton candy. Tyler’s face is one big smile as he buys us some.

When he hands me the stick, I take note of his gentle smile when he turns back around to collect his own. “Are you sure you used to love this place?” I ask with a knowing edge to my voice.

His eyebrows quickly shoot up. Pursing his lips, he pulls off a chunk of his cotton candy and draws it into his mouth. “We need to go on the coaster,” he mumbles as the sugar dissolves on his tongue. He doesn’t quite answer my question. My smile grows into a grin.

I follow him through the flow of people until we settle down on a bench just beneath the yellow rollercoaster that circles the Ferris wheel. As I eat the cotton candy, I watch the wheel spin around and around and around.

“Eden,” Tyler says, the quiet force of his voice drawing my eyes to his. His expression falters. “I wouldn’t mention this to anyone. It’s just easier if we, um . . . keep this whole thing a secret for now. God, please say you’re good at keeping secrets.”

“I am,” I confirm, but the reality of all of this makes me feel nauseous. I don’t want to sneak around, making excuses and lying. But I know it’s necessary right now. “And I know that you’re good at keeping secrets, because you clearly have a lot of them.”

His lips quirk upward into a crooked smile as he devours the remainder of his cotton candy. Standing, he tosses the stick into a nearby trash can and then points to the rides above us. “It’s time for these guys.”

It frustrates me how he never answers a question, but his silence speaks louder than words. He never replies because he knows I’m right, because he knows that I’m figuring him out despite however much he wishes I wouldn’t.

And so the two of us spend our Tuesday evening waiting in line for kids’ rides but enjoying every second of it. The West Coaster, the Pacific Wheel, the Pacific Plunge . . . I’ll remember them all, because I’ll remember this night. I’ll remember Tyler’s hysterical laughter when I thought my seatbelt was broken on the Pacific Plunge and he leaned over to help me get it into place, with our hands awkwardly fumbling over each other; I’ll remember his sarcastic remarks on the West Coaster when others screamed their lungs out at the slightest turn; I’ll remember the way he said the ocean looked pretty cool from up there on the Pacific Wheel, but when I glanced at him, he wasn’t even looking at the ocean. He was looking at me.

It’s late by the time we leave the park, and the signs are glowing through the darkening sky and the stream of people is beginning to thin as we head back to the car. There are a couple people taking pictures next to the vehicle in the emptying parking lot when we get there, and they awkwardly scuttle off, knowing that they’ve been caught.

“It happens all the time,” Tyler tells me when we get inside. He pats the steering wheel, tracing his finger around the Audi logo. “I don’t know why. It’s LA. There’s, like, Lambos and shit on every corner in Beverly Hills.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying anything, but soon I can’t help myself. “How did you even get this car?”

He’s silent for a little while and runs his fingers over the steering wheel, like he’s trying to piece together the best way to answer me. “Because I got my trust fund early. And when you suddenly have all this money, you’re not really going to be rational about it, are you? I’m a teenager, of course I’m gonna go out and blow it all on a supercar.” He laughs, and I can’t tell if it’s genuine or if it’s at himself for doing such a thing.

“Why’d you get it early?” I press, mostly because I’m curious. My eyes stare at his mouth, and I study the way his lips move when he speaks, the way his jaw shifts.

“Because apparently money can make you feel better,” he mutters sharply. He heaves a sigh and his hands freeze over the wheel. “It’s a big trust fund,” he admits. “I mean, my mom’s an attorney and my dad . . .” His voice tapers off for a second before he swallows and continues, his eyes drifting over to meet mine. I stare back inquisitively, yet I feel a little guilty for prying into his personal matters. It’s none of my business when and why he got his trust fund early. “My dad had his own company,” he tells me. “Structural engineering. All up and down the west coast.”

Oregon is on the west coast, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve heard of it. “What was it called?”

“Grayson’s,” Tyler answers stiffly, his jaw tightening as something shifts in his eyes. He glances away for a moment. “Because we were the Graysons.”

At this, I rotate my body to face him, crossing my legs on the seat. I know I’m about to push him onto a sensitive topic, but I find it interesting learning about a person’s background, the foundation on which they are built. Especially Tyler. “Before the divorce?”

“Before the divorce,” he repeats, shrugging his shoulders. Slumping further down into his seat, he throws a hand into his hair and lets it rest atop his head for a moment as he tugs on the ends. “I used to be Tyler Grayson. Mom didn’t want us to keep his name.”

I don’t know how to reply. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been so focused on his lips that the only thing I can think about is the way they felt when they were locked with mine. A lump rises in my throat, but I quickly force it down.

My silence must tell him everything he needs to know, because he slowly pulls himself up from his slumped position. His hand drops softly from his hair to my knee and a shiver shoots down my spine. He licks his lips, slowly, teasingly, and in a way that makes it feel like torture.

“Can I kiss you again?” he murmurs, without breaking our fixed gaze, his eyes soft and calm as he waits for an answer, his lips parted.

But just like he never answers me, I don’t answer him. Instead, I push myself up and slowly move across the center console, trying not to dislocate my leg as I perch my body on top of his. I straddle him in the limited space, my beating heart against his chest and my back pressed against the steering wheel. It’s not ideal, but it’s enough.

Without hesitation, he reaches up to cup my face in his hands, and with gentle force, he captures my lips. It’s like yesterday all over again but better, his lips moving with a sense of urgency. He dominates the kiss again with confidence, doing things that I didn’t know were even possible. And the more he keeps on kissing me, the more I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get over the exhilaration.

As his lips break away from mine and move to my neck, I run my hands through his hair. The softness tickles my fingertips as he kisses my neck, slowly yet firmly, and I grasp his jaw and tilt his face up. My heart is racing as I draw his ear to my lips, and I dare to whisper, “You don’t even need to ask.”