My Toxic Stepbrother
And here I thought it’s called a white blouse and a blue skirt.
Nice apron, by the way.
My head snaps up then and I look around. I’m at the coffee shop and what he just described is my uniform. I know I shouldn’t have been looking at my phone while working, but as soon as I saw whose text it was, I couldn’t resist. Thank God for slow lines and another barista who’s manning the register.
He’s not inside the coffee shop, but then my eyes skim over the street, visible through the glass front window, and I draw a breath when I find him. He’s right across from the shop, leaning against his truck, his arms folded across his massive chest and his ankles crossed.
Even though he’s got shades onanda ball cap, I know he’s staring at me. He probably has been staring at me all this time and I’ve been so lost in my thoughts and so busy texting with him that I never felt it. And when he realizes I’ve found him, I watch his lips quirk up in a small smirk as he pushes off from the truck and begins walking toward me.
I hate how handsome he looks right now. How the sun is shining down on him, making his bronzed skin sparkle. He has an off-white t-shirt on with a faded black logo, and more than clinging to his shoulders, it highlights the breadth of them, the width of his chest. His slim hips.
While every inch of him is noteworthy, my favorite part will always be his thighs, muscular and burly. Even if you didn’t know he was a superstar soccer player, you could still figure out he’s an athlete of some kind just from watching him walk your way. Just from watching those thighs flex and bulge under his washed-out jeans.
But the whole world does know. Or at least, the people he passes by on the street do, who do a double take when they realize their idol is among them. And the fact that he’s watching me while the world watches him makes my heart race. It makes me feel… special.Heis making me feel special, and nothing could be further from the truth.
I watch him open the door to the shop and make a beeline for me. Which looks unusual because I’m not standing at the register. I’m off to the side by the coffee machines, and people stare at him as he comes to stand right across from me.
And before he can say anything, I blurt out in an urgent tone, “What did you say to Callie?”
Not that he gets the gravity of my question, because he takes his time with things. He takes off his glasses first before running his eyes all over me. He takes in my face that I know is flushed; my tied-up but perpetually messy hair; my mouth that’s parted because I can’t quite catch my breath. Before moving on to my uniform, the white blouse and the blue skirt with a frilly white apron.
On his way back up though, he pauses at one particular spot. The way he stares at it, with glittering eyes and a sharply clenched jaw, makes me think it’s his favorite. Or second favorite, after my belly button ring. The side of my neck where that vein is. My jugular that flutters like crazy when he’s close. That he’s going to sink his teeth into.
“Can you—” I stop when he snaps his eyes up.
He slides his glasses into the neck of his t-shirt as he speaks. “Do you remember what I said last night?”
His voice is low and still I flinch as if he shouted. As if the whole café not only heard him but now knows exactly what happened last night. Then, gripping the edge of the counter and keeping my voice as stern as possible, I say, “I’m not going to talk to you about last night.”
His gaze drops to my lips for a second before he lifts his eyes and says, “Then you probably shouldn’t have forgotten one of the rules.”
“What rules?”
“About running your pretty pink mouth about other guys,” he reminds me, his voice more of a growl and his jaw clenched.
“Are you…” I claw at the glass in frustration. “That was a joke, you asshole.”
“Told you not to make jokes about that.”
I watch him for a second before narrowing my eyes at him. “What about you, huh?”
“What about me?”
I lean forward. “What aboutyourcolorful history? All the girls that you’ve been with. I may be making jokes about other people, but you’ve actually been with other people. And it’s not as if I can forget about it. It’s plastered all over the internet.” Then, folding my arms across my chest, I can’t help but add, “Oh, and weren’t you the one who was engaged, between the two of us? So don’t come in here and tell me not to talk about other guys when you have zero moral ground to stand on.”
Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have added in that part about Isadora. That’s still raw and he really loved her,lovesher. I mean, that’s the whole point of him doing whatever he did last night—I still don’t get howIfactor into that, but that’s a separate point—but how dare he stand here and lecture me about other guys like I committed a crime when he’s the one with a mile-long rap sheet.
“I’ve got a colorful history, yes,” he says, his jaw ticking in displeasure. “And unfortunately, itisplastered all over the internet. Can’t really help that now. But I don’t go about throwing it in your face every two seconds like you do.”
“I—”
“And just the fact that you’re still not over the engagement, which was bullshit by the way, something you already know very well, given that you were hellbent on giving me all your wisdom about it, goes to show you need this as much as I do.”
“I don’t?—”
“But,” he keeps going, without giving me a chance to speak, “how about we make a deal? For as long as this lasts, I don’t mention other girls and you don’t use other guys to fuck with me.”
