Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94092 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“These fries are really good,” Amelia says, dipping one of mine in ketchup.
Jason nods, his mouth full, a red smear of ketchup on his cheek. “Best ever,” he announces with his mouth full.
I laugh, wiping his face with a napkin.
There is a storm inside me, but we talk about school, about the dragon Amelia’s painting, and I try to be the half-brother I should be—engaged, present, safe. But her laughter, her glance, the way her hair catches the light. It’s always there, a pull I can’t ignore. I want to forget the near-kiss, to erase the heat of her breath, the feel of her hip under my hand, but it’s burned into me.
As we finish, Jason slurps the last of his shake, and I meet Amelia’s eyes. Just for a moment, and see the same struggle, the same effort to pretend. We’re friendly, we’re family, but the moment in the kitchen lingers, a ghost we can’t banish.
I know then, this night, this meal, is only a pause in the battle we’re both fighting.
Chapter
Nineteen
AMELIA
Water cascades over my skin, beating my shoulders and my back, as I stand under the wide rainfall shower head, the glass enclosure fogging with steam and heat. The bathroom is a sanctuary of white marble and chrome, the lavender-scented soap is pure luxury, but I’m distraught, my heart a tangled mess of guilt, desire, and despair.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile, my hands braced on either side of me, water streaming down my face, mingling with the tears I can’t hold back. How did I let it get this far? The near-kiss in the kitchen only hours ago—Max’s hand on my hip, his lips a breath from mine—replays in my mind, vivid and relentless. A moment that nearly broke us. I know he’s not my brother, not bound by blood, but he thinks he is, and we almost kissed, teetering on the edge that would shatter his world.
Then…
My body betrays me, a restless heat surging between my legs, and I’m horrified by the images that flood me—Max fucking me, his hands pinning my wrists over my head, his mouth hot and demanding, his body driving into mine with a hunger that matches my own. I imagine his lips on my throat, his fingers tracing every inch of my body, the rough scrape of his stubble against my skin. My breath hitches, and a soft moan escapes as my hand slips between my thighs, unthinking. But for the first time since he abandoned me, I stop, my fingers tremble as I press my palms flat against the tile. Real shame burns through me. Yes, I’m horny. Yes, I’m terrible, horribly conflicted. Yes, the desire is a fire I can’t douse, not yet, maybe never, but I can’t give in now, not when it risks Max’s family.
Sara’s trust, but mostly Jason’s innocence.
I shut off the water, and the sudden silence is deafening. I step out and towel off with slow, deliberate movements. My reflection in the fogged mirror is a blur, and now that my hair is wet, I can no longer see my new self—the transformation made possible by Sara’s kindness.
All I can see is the woman who still carries the same ache.
I slip into a soft gray tank top and cotton shorts, the fabric cool against my flushed skin, and pad downstairs with my laptop. I need a cup of chamomile tea to calm my nerves down, to quiet the storm inside me.
The house is dark, the hallway sconces casting faint pools of light. I don’t switch on the light. There is enough moonlight pouring in through the French doors. I move quietly in the empty kitchen, filling the kettle with water, the soft gurgle a soothing sound. I set it on the stove, the flame flickering blue, and pull a teapot, a cup and saucer from the cabinet. I pop a couple of tea bags inside the pot and wait.
As the kettle hums, I sit at the breakfast nook, the cushioned bench soft beneath me, and open my laptop and blue light illuminates my face and hands. I scroll through my emails—notes from my publisher, a friend’s condolence message—but my mind drifts, Max’s face lingering, his confession from last night echoing: If I cross a line, please stop me. The kettle whistles, sharp and insistent, and I pour the boiling water into the teapot, the chamomile flower’s earthy scent rising, wrapping around me like a fragile calm. I sip the tea, its warmth spreading through me, but it does little to ease the ache, the tension that’s off the charts.
Footsteps break the silence, too heavy to be Jason’s, and my heart lurches as Max appears in the doorway, bare-chested, his sweatpants low on his hips, his dark hair tousled from trying to find sleep that he clearly didn’t find. His blue eyes meet mine, surprise flickering in them, and my pulse races.