Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“Yeah.” He says it like an admission. “That was wrong. I’m your stepbrother. We’re related. Plus, I’m way too old for you. I shouldn’t have let any of that happen.”
I stare at him. My heart is thumping so loud I can feel it in my eyelids.
“Well, I think it’s too late for that,” I say in a chipper voice. “I mean, we’ve crossed that bridge already, if you know what I mean.”
He doesn’t agree. If anything, his face goes even more closed-off, every feature settling into a line. “It’s not going to happen again.”
Something breaks in my chest, but I don’t let it show. “Why?” I say, and it comes out almost a demand. “It’s not like we’re actually related, as you pointed out. Our parents got married, what, two years ago? We were strangers before that.”
Trevor finally looks at me—really looks—and the weight of it is a punch in the sternum.
“That’s not the point,” he says. “The point is that I know better. I’ve been an asshole my whole life, and it’s been fucking amazing, to be honest. But even I have boundaries, and I’m not going to do this to you. Your life is just starting, Kayleigh. You have no idea what you’re even doing.”
I flinch, like he slapped me. “Wow. Okay. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
He runs a hand through his hair, lets it drop, looks tired suddenly. “It’s not an insult. I mean, look at you. You’re still wearing my clothes, like you can’t even figure out how to dress yourself.”
“You gave me these clothes to wear,” I say, staring at him. “I don’t have anything else with me. What am I supposed to put on? My dress from last night?”
He looks down and is silent.
“You don’t understand,” he says, and the words are flat, final, a slab of stone between us. “You’re just a little girl.”
I feel my face go red, not with embarrassment, but with something hot and wild and a little bit desperate.
“That’s bullshit,” I say. “I do understand, and I’m not a little girl. I wanted it, Trevor. I wanted you.”
He shakes his head, one hand shielding his eyes like he’s exhausted. “You’re young. To you, this is about rainbows and unicorns, with a prince who’ll ride in on a white horse and sweep you into his arms. But life isn’t like that, Kayleigh. Trust me, you’ll get over this. You’ll find someone else. Someone better. Someone who’s not a fucking creep with a fucked up personality and massive issues.”
I push back from the island, the stool scraping hard against the floor. “Wow. You’re really going to walk away after what’s already happened between us.”
He looks me straight in the eye. “I am.”
I throw my hands up.
“So what now?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “So you finish breakfast and then leave.”
I stare at him.
“But like I said, I have no clothes with me. So what am I supposed to do at 7:54 in the morning?” I ask, glancing quickly at the clock.
He almost smiles, then doesn’t. “That’s what you wanted, right? The walk of shame?”
My vision goes blurry for a second. I stand up, fists clenched.
“Fine. I’ll get dressed and go,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
He doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t even move.
I stalk down the hallway, every step louder than the last, the cold marble burning my feet. The guest room looks exactly like I left it—bed unmade, a tangle of sheets and pillows, my dress from last night in a heap on the chair. I pull it on over my head, not bothering to smooth it. My hands are shaking so bad I drop my phone twice trying to shove it into my purse.
When I come back through the living room, Trevor is still in the kitchen. He’s cleaned up, the dishes stacked neatly, the counter wiped to a shine. The eggs are gone, like they never existed.
I stop for a moment, and then move on to the front door. My heels are in my hand, and I realize I’m barefoot, but I can’t bring myself to put them on.
I wait, just for a second, to see if he’ll come say goodbye. Maybe he’ll crack a joke, or apologize, or even just look at me.
He doesn’t. The kitchen is silent.
So I open the door, step into the bright, silent hallway, and close it behind me.
The latch clicks, louder than a gunshot.
Fortunately, the elevator comes right away, doors yawning open like a trap. I step inside and catch my reflection in the mirror: blonde hair wild, party dress wrinkled, heels dangling from my fingers. Red-rimmed eyes that suspiciously look like I’ve been crying. This is the true walk of shame, I think. Not leaving some random guy’s apartment at seven a.m., but leaving your own stepbrother’s, after he’s made it perfectly clear that you don’t mean a thing.