Shame: A Stepbrother Romance (12 page)

What I find inside, however, takes my breath away.

It’s a Christmas wonderland. Fresh pine branches decorate the bookshelves and emit a deep scent that reminds me of forests and mountains. The dim room is illuminated with sparkling Christmas lights that run just at the upper edge of the walls and stream down like fairy tale icicles. Gorgeous glass ornaments hang from the ceiling, suspended on white and red satin ribbons here and there and the gust of wind that enters the room with me makes them clink gently against each other. I can hear the fire crackling in the fireplace and a rich smell of cinnamon and oranges is wafting in from that direction. The place looks enchanted.

I’m in complete awe. I can’t move, let alone begin to explain the little miracle. Then I hear a soft thud coming from the back of the shop where the small kitchen and storage room are. Instinctively I clutch my book even harder and start to make my way slowly in the direction of the noise.

I’ve barely made three or four steps when a flustered Andrew appears from behind the bookshelves. He is holding the parts of a paper lantern in the shape of a Christmas star with tiny stars cut out in the cardboard and judging by his look, he is completely mystified by the way the thing is supposed to work. His cheeks are flushed with the warmth in the room and his hair is tousled like he hasn’t had time to fix it, but looks even more attractive in this ruffled state.

I drop my weapon, that is my book, and it lands softly on the Persian rug.

Andrew looks up and attempts to hide the giant star lantern behind his back like a child caught doing something forbidden. The edges of the star are sticking out comically from behind him and that, combined with his innocent expression, finally make me take a deep breath of relief and I burst into laughter.

“Hey,” he says in a mock offended voice, “You weren’t supposed to be here yet. You have fifteen more minutes till opening time.”

“Andrew…” I begin, but find myself lost for words. “How did you even manage to get all this done?”

“Well, with the right motivation…,” he winks at me and adds with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “Sorry I had to do a bit of stealing last night. Do you like it?”

“I… I can’t believe you did all this! I almost died when I found out my keys were missing.”

“I hope it was worth it then, the almost dying.”

I start walking around with the sudden need to touch everything—this glass ornament and that snow-frosted pine cone and this snowman and that sprig of holly.

“Yes, yes!” I shout like a little girl and turn past a bookshelf towards the fireplace. I stop dead in my tracks and gasp once again.

In front of me, right in the corner in the light of the fire, is the most magical Christmas tree I’ve ever seen.

“Oh my God! A tree?” I’m almost deranged with happiness.

It has tier upon tier of glowing lights and strings of glittery white snowflakes and a singing angel at the top. I feel like hugging the tree. Instead, I drop my bag and coat to the floor, turn around and start running towards him. Sensing what’s coming, he lets the paper lantern fall out of his hands and catches me right when I jump and wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck.

I’m so overflowing with joy that I don’t even think as I lean in to kiss his luscious warm lips. It was not one of the crazed kisses we’ve shared during our secret meetings with tongues trashing about in each other’s mouth and teeth biting the soft flesh. No, this time it was soft and slow and more passionate than I’ve ever kissed in my life.

I reluctantly part from him to get a breath.

“I love you,” I hear the words slip out of my mouth and I wince, trying to swallow them back. It never works this way. They’ve been let out, flying, buzzing around in his ears and there’s no erasing what I’ve said. His hands are still on my butt and he squeezes me even more tightly against his hard, ripped body. The silence stretches and I close my eyes to hide from him. I know my cheeks are burning and my glasses are steamed up with his breath.

“I love you too, Jo,” he whispers in my ear and carries me over to the sofa, where he places me down gently and kisses me again. My body is once again pulsing with desire for him and I’m ready to forget about the bookstore and the customers and opening time, but he doesn’t start ripping my clothes apart like I thought he would. Instead, he kisses me softly once again and gets up to leave.

“No, no, no,” I whimper, “You can’t leave. You don’t get to leave after all this.” I wave a hand to indicate the fairy tale my store’s been turned into. “I need to thank you first.”

“Believe me, it’s the last thing I want to do right now, but it’s important.”

“It’s always something important with you. You always freak out every time your phone rings and disappear faster than I can say a word.”

I realize I sound like a whiny girlfriend and that’s not how our relationship is. First of all, I’m not his girlfriend, and second, if he’d wanted me to know anything about his life outside our time together, he would have shared. I wonder if saying ‘I love you’ gives me the right to probe deeper now. I also wonder if his saying it back entitles me to at least some answers.

“I’m meeting with my father today, Jo,” he says, taking a seat beside me on the sofa. “It
is
important.”

“Oh,” I manage to utter. Now I feel stupid. I had been imagining a long list of women he needs to meet with right after me and give them their own Christmas surprises, but it’s something completely innocent and I know it means a lot to him. It’s the whole reason he is back in town after all. “How is that going? Are you getting along better?”

“You have at least some impression of him by now,” he says staring mindlessly into the fire. “You know you can’t really tell with him. For all it’s worth, your mom seems far happier to see me every time I go over there. I think he is still not ready to forgive me.”

“Forgive what? What have you done that can make a father banish his own son?”

“Just a stupid mistake. I was young and wasn’t thinking it through. Back then I didn’t care about consequences. I just did whatever felt good and fun.”

“Much like what we are doing now?”

“Much worse than what we are doing. I don’t feel like talking about it, but I’m hoping he’s at least started to consider forgiving me.”

“But you’ve been wonderful, Andrew. I know, I was there almost every time you’ve had dinner with him. He’s definitely not as cold. Maybe if you keep it up, he’ll soften and get you your trust fund back.”

I feel Andrew’s body tensing up next to mine. I know money is a tacky subject, but it’s even more so with us, given that I’m now the sole beneficiary of
his
trust fund. Of course, I don’t intend on spending a penny out of it. I have my own five-year business plan with the bookstore. If money was what I was after, I’d let my mom teach me the art of seduction or at least agree to go work for Joe in his billion-dollar company.

“Do you need any money?” I ask quietly and instantly regret it. What man would admit to a woman that he needs her help, financially? I know it’s my guilt speaking. Though I don’t need the money I’ve been undeservedly signed over and I never asked for it (and neither did my mom, for once), I still feel like it’s my fault that Andrew needs to suffer for it.

“No, Jo,” Andrew says, but his voice has changed to irritable and I know I’ve taken the conversation in the wrong direction. “I just need to get my father to accept me again.”

I have so many questions for him. What did he do that was so unforgivably bad? What does he work? Where does he currently get money from? Who keeps calling him? I know I can’t voice any of these, so I’ll just have to accept not knowing for now.

“Do you think that we should stop seeing each other… like this?” I finally ask the only thing that truly matters to me right now. “If Joe ever finds out about us, things will only get exponentially worse for you. Well, and me, but at least he is not my birth father and I don’t care that much.”

“No,” he says firmly, standing up, “No, we can’t stop seeing each other, Jo. It’s a really hard time for me right now and to be honest, you are the only thing that keeps me going.”

I blush and feel the warmth spread throughout me. How is it possible that simple words can make me change color and temperature? It
is
possible, apparently.

The dreaded ring of his phone breaks the temporary silence and he heads towards the door.

“Good bye, Jo, I need to go now,” he says over his shoulder and I curl up on the sofa, frustrated.

It’s always the same thing with him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Life Is Not Just About Love.

Finding the Light at the End of the Tunnel.

Make Your Anxiety Feel Smaller.

You Are WorthMORE, Not WorthLESS
.

I keep ringing up the titles from a substantial pile of books as the woman in front of the counter is shuffling uncomfortably, picking up clever postcards from the nearby stand and pretending to read them. Only now I realize I’m smiling. Not the ordinary polite friendly smile I reserve for all my customers, but a wide, almost lunatic grin that is completely inappropriate. The poor woman! If I were in her place, I’d have definitely assumed that I’m mocking or judging her.

I shake my head to erase the ridiculous expression and put on a far more fitting serious, yet soft and compassionate face.

“This is a good one,” I say, hoping to make her feel more comfortable. I’ve picked the next random title from her purchases pile and read the title out loud.
If He Is Not the One for You, You Are Not the One for Him Either
. Oh God, could I have picked anything lamer? Here we go, I’m being judgmental again. “It really helped me out,” I add gently.

The woman finally looks up at me and I can see her cheeks are crimson, the way mine would be if I were ever caught buying something like that. I try to smile reassuringly.

“Would you like to have these gift wrapped?” I ask the usual question.

“No,” the woman half-whispers.

Of course not! Why am I being so tactless? Who would give out such depressing books as Christmas gifts? I imagine the poor woman snuggled up on her couch by the sad-looking, almost bare Christmas tree, with her reaffirming reads, nibbling on a candy cane. I can’t help but feel sorry for her as I stuff the less than stimulating titles in a large paper bag.

I’m being such a hypocrite.

Just a month and a half ago, I could have been that same woman. Well, self help books wouldn’t have been my choice, but I’d have certainly found it normal to hide from the entire world with a bunch of romance novels, ignoring the festive mood on the streets and pretending that I had nothing to do with a holiday that only reminded me of how lonely I was.

The reason I was just now grinning like a madwoman is that this morning I realized how happy I am. It’s a very hard feeling to acknowledge while you are living through a good period in your life and people usually only remember the happy times once they are gone, but I was walking towards the bookstore, the snow crunching under my boots, and I knew.

I have my dream job and though it doesn’t make me much, it feeds my independence and makes me wake up eager every morning. I still feel the thrill of running the box cutter through a parcel of newly ordered books, taking out each one and cradling it in my hands, inhaling the intoxicating inky scent of its pristine, untouched pages and finding the best spot to display it.

I still run the poetry readings and the book club with as much energy as when I first started. I still treasure every new customer that walks through that front door. I don’t think I’d ever get sick of coming to work and can easily imagine doing this for the rest of my life.

Next, I have the perfect man. Maybe I don’t have him in the most perfect of ways, but I do have him and with each day that passes our relationship becomes less and less of what it started out like and more and more of what I’d always dreamed I’d have in my life one day.

I know people’s lives don’t usually unfold like that scene in a movie where uplifting music is playing in the background, while moments of complete bliss roll one after the other before the camera, but the last month has felt exactly like it.

I close my eyes and try to bring back the last couple of weeks. It seems that the words ‘I love you’, as dangerous and heavy as they seemed the moment we said them, have unlocked a new stage in our relationship that’s no longer just about the sex. Don’t get me wrong. The sex is still there and it’s hotter and more intimate than before, but there’s something else, too.

We do all the cheesy things couples do, only, because it’s us, it doesn’t look cheesy. In my head, it’s the definition of perfect romance.

He is sitting among my nerdy friends at a book club meeting, holding a copy of the latest mystery we are reading. It’s about an old lady who loves cats and quilting and solving murder cases, and his little tome is carefully bookmarked with post-its. I’m doubled up laughing as he shares with a serious face that the clues didn’t progress naturally for him and were somewhat misleading, but he still found the main character quirky and endearing. My friends are staring at him in awe, because with the muscles protruding under his long-sleeved tee shirt, he is the last man on earth to be talking about quilting.