Read Online Shame: A Stepbrother Romance by Emma Soule - Free Book Online
Authors: Emma Soule
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angel stood minutes ago, and staring at our joint reflection in the mirror.
I try to shake him off, but he only grips my bony shoulders tighter and holds me into place. At least he hasn’t pressed himself against my back, but why do I still feel my knees weaken just at the feel of his strong fingers digging into my skin?
I try to concentrate on what I see in the mirror, but it is no less disconcerting. There he is, gorgeous, trim and muscular, with a face that you don’t normally see in real life and is usually a product of retouching in magazines. And then there I am, with my red hair, my freckles, my glasses and my borrowed cardigan. Even if we weren’t brother and sister, we couldn’t work.
“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about,” I half-whisper, “I’ll try to be civil and you should do the same. No teasing, no smart talk. We’ll just forget that ever happened.”
“Are you done here?” he asks suddenly and I cock my head in the mirror. Is he even listening?
“Yeah, I mean, no. Why?”
“Take a walk with me.”
We take a side door and walk out onto a small deck. Andrew seems to know his way around well. The crisp air outside hits me like a wave and I’m almost about to turn and go back inside, when something warm lands on my shoulders. It’s his jacket. So, now he is a gentleman…
It has started drizzling outside and someone has taken care to wrap all the garden furniture on the deck in plastic cases that seem fitted for just this purpose. The cedar railings and the wood-like deck flooring glisten with moisture and reflect the lights from the park beyond. We take a few steps down to a narrow path between the expertly trimmed hedges and find ourselves at the gate leading to the tennis courts.
Andrew unlatches the waist-high fence door and ushers me onto the wet perfectly striped grass. My low heels sink into the moist turf and I almost lose my balance, but his hand is there to catch me instantaneously, so I find myself leaning onto his massive arm. Walking over this immaculately maintained court makes me uncomfortable. I feel like I’m trespassing, like I would never belong in a house where there are tennis courts, and I’m too conscious of the damage my heels are causing to the grass.
Andrew’s steps, on the other hand, are firm, confident, entitled. He knows whatever he ends up ruining will be taken care of, fixed and replaced before the next morning.
We keep walking in silence until we reach a small hexagon-shaped gazebo in between two of the courts with white latticework covering its sides. I imagine a sunny afternoon and women in sun hats, sunglasses and white tennis skirts taking a break from a vigorous game of tennis, wiping their sweaty brows with fluffy white towels and sipping ice-cold lemonade while discussing their performance. I imagine my mother as one of these women.
Though it looks perfectly maintained even off-season, the gazebo is now lonely and abandoned, the cushions from the white wooden benches stored inside for the winter. It’s still a good cover from the rain and we duck inside. I sit down on one of the bare benches at a small round table and Andrew takes the one opposite me. I can feel the bite of cold through my thin khaki pants and the intoxicating smell of autumn rain, mixed with that of freshly cut grass. To top it off, Andrew’s cologne is wafting up through the fabric of his jacket, making my head spin and waking up my little devil.
“Don’t you think it’s weird we just left the table like that?” I ask. The walk in the fresh evening air has softened me a bit. I’m no longer furious he walked in on me in the bathroom.
“No way,” he says confidently, “Didn’t you see how awkward everything was? I’m sure they are relieved. Plus, at least your mom would be happy to know we spent some time together.”
“But weren’t you supposed to make a good impression on your dad? I mean Joe. I mean…”
“It’s okay. You don’t
I try to shake him off, but he only grips my bony shoulders tighter and holds me into place. At least he hasn’t pressed himself against my back, but why do I still feel my knees weaken just at the feel of his strong fingers digging into my skin?
I try to concentrate on what I see in the mirror, but it is no less disconcerting. There he is, gorgeous, trim and muscular, with a face that you don’t normally see in real life and is usually a product of retouching in magazines. And then there I am, with my red hair, my freckles, my glasses and my borrowed cardigan. Even if we weren’t brother and sister, we couldn’t work.
“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about,” I half-whisper, “I’ll try to be civil and you should do the same. No teasing, no smart talk. We’ll just forget that ever happened.”
“Are you done here?” he asks suddenly and I cock my head in the mirror. Is he even listening?
“Yeah, I mean, no. Why?”
“Take a walk with me.”
We take a side door and walk out onto a small deck. Andrew seems to know his way around well. The crisp air outside hits me like a wave and I’m almost about to turn and go back inside, when something warm lands on my shoulders. It’s his jacket. So, now he is a gentleman…
It has started drizzling outside and someone has taken care to wrap all the garden furniture on the deck in plastic cases that seem fitted for just this purpose. The cedar railings and the wood-like deck flooring glisten with moisture and reflect the lights from the park beyond. We take a few steps down to a narrow path between the expertly trimmed hedges and find ourselves at the gate leading to the tennis courts.
Andrew unlatches the waist-high fence door and ushers me onto the wet perfectly striped grass. My low heels sink into the moist turf and I almost lose my balance, but his hand is there to catch me instantaneously, so I find myself leaning onto his massive arm. Walking over this immaculately maintained court makes me uncomfortable. I feel like I’m trespassing, like I would never belong in a house where there are tennis courts, and I’m too conscious of the damage my heels are causing to the grass.
Andrew’s steps, on the other hand, are firm, confident, entitled. He knows whatever he ends up ruining will be taken care of, fixed and replaced before the next morning.
We keep walking in silence until we reach a small hexagon-shaped gazebo in between two of the courts with white latticework covering its sides. I imagine a sunny afternoon and women in sun hats, sunglasses and white tennis skirts taking a break from a vigorous game of tennis, wiping their sweaty brows with fluffy white towels and sipping ice-cold lemonade while discussing their performance. I imagine my mother as one of these women.
Though it looks perfectly maintained even off-season, the gazebo is now lonely and abandoned, the cushions from the white wooden benches stored inside for the winter. It’s still a good cover from the rain and we duck inside. I sit down on one of the bare benches at a small round table and Andrew takes the one opposite me. I can feel the bite of cold through my thin khaki pants and the intoxicating smell of autumn rain, mixed with that of freshly cut grass. To top it off, Andrew’s cologne is wafting up through the fabric of his jacket, making my head spin and waking up my little devil.
“Don’t you think it’s weird we just left the table like that?” I ask. The walk in the fresh evening air has softened me a bit. I’m no longer furious he walked in on me in the bathroom.
“No way,” he says confidently, “Didn’t you see how awkward everything was? I’m sure they are relieved. Plus, at least your mom would be happy to know we spent some time together.”
“But weren’t you supposed to make a good impression on your dad? I mean Joe. I mean…”
“It’s okay. You don’t
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