My Stepbrother Ruins Everything novel · Chapter 3 of 4

Chapter 3: The Morning After the Line

Mira and Callum pretend the night before did not happen until his hand brushes hers in the kitchen, and she takes his hand and leads him toward the stairs.

The kitchen was still dark, the only light a gray wash from the window over the sink. Mira had her back to the room, watching the coffee maker hiss and sputter into the pot. She heard him come in. She didn't turn around.

She could feel him behind her, standing in the doorway. Not moving. Waiting for her to say something about the night before.

She wasn't going to.

'Coffee's almost ready,' she said. Her voice came out too bright, too normal. Like a woman who hadn't spent half the night with her own hand pressed between her thighs, trying to forget the weight of his.

He didn't answer. She heard him cross the room, the soft scuff of his bare feet on the old wood floor. The cabinet opened. A mug came down.

The coffee maker gave one last gurgle and fell silent. The silence after it was enormous.

She poured for herself first. Then for him, because he was standing right there, close enough that she could smell him. Soap and sleep and something else, something warm that made her stomach clench.

She handed him the mug without looking at his face. Her fingers brushed his on the ceramic.

That was all. Just a brush. The heat of his skin against hers for half a second.

And they both went still.

The mug was between them, half in her hand, half in his, and neither of them moved. She could hear him breathe. She could hear herself. The air in the kitchen had gone thick, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.

She made herself let go. Turned back to the counter. Wrapped both hands around her own coffee and stared at the dark liquid like it held the answer to something.

He didn't move away. She could feel him at her back, close enough that the heat of him pressed against her through her thin sleep shirt.

'You didn't answer me last night,' he said.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

'I didn't think there was anything to answer,' she said. She kept her voice light. Almost bored. 'We had a moment. It passed. It's fine.'

'It passed.'

He repeated it flat, like he was testing the weight of the words.

'Yes,' she said. 'It passed. People have moments all the time. It doesn't mean anything.'

'Look at me and say that.'

She didn't turn around. She couldn't. If she looked at him, he would see it all over her face, the wanting, the shame, the way her body had been humming since she woke up and remembered his hand at the waistband of her jeans.

'I don't have to look at you,' she said. 'I'm making coffee. It's a very involved process.'

He made a sound behind her. Not quite a laugh. Something lower.

'You're a terrible liar, Mira.'

'And you're very invested in my lying skills. Maybe get a hobby.'

She heard him set his mug down on the counter. Then his hand was on her shoulder, light, barely there, turning her to face him.

She went. She didn't fight it. That was the worst part. Her body turned toward him like it had been waiting for permission.

His face was close. Too close. His dark eyes moved over her face, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing her.

'It didn't pass,' he said quietly. 'Not for me.'

Her throat went tight. She wanted to say something sharp, something that would cut through this and put distance between them again. Nothing came. All she could think was that she was still holding her coffee, and her hands were shaking, and he could see it.

He could see everything.

'Callum,' she started.

He waited. Just watched her, that steady, patient look that made her feel like the only person in the world.

She set her mug down. The ceramic clattered against the counter, louder than it should have been.

'I don't want to talk about last night,' she said.

'Then don't.'

'What do you want?'

His mouth curved, just barely. Not a smile. Something hungrier.

'I want you to stop pretending,' he said. 'You wanted me to touch you. You still want it. And you hate yourself for it.'

Her face went hot. Her whole body went hot. He was standing too close, and he was right, and she hated him for saying it out loud, for naming the thing she had been trying to bury since she woke up.

'You don't get to tell me what I want,' she said. Her voice cracked on the last word.

'Then tell me I'm wrong.'

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

He stepped closer. His hand came up, slow, giving her time to stop him, and she didn't. His fingers brushed her jaw, just under her ear, and she shivered so hard she thought she might come apart.

'Tell me to stop,' he said. 'And I will.'

She looked at him. At his mouth. At the steady, dark heat in his eyes.

She couldn't say it. She had known she wouldn't be able to. That was the thing that scared her most. Not that he wanted her. Not that she wanted him. But that when it came down to it, she would never tell him to stop.

She reached up and took his hand from her jaw. His fingers were warm, rough at the knuckles, and they curled around hers without hesitation.

She pulled him toward the stairs.

He followed without a word. The decision was made, hanging between them like a held breath, and neither of them spoke as she led him out of the kitchen and into the dim hall, toward the stairs, toward whatever was waiting at the top.

She didn't look back. She didn't have to.

She could feel him behind her, his hand tight in hers, and she knew he was coming.

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