Shame: A Stepbrother Romance (22 page)

“Baby
girl
? What makes you think—”

“Well, I’d rather we have another little you than another little me after all I’ve done to ruin my reputation, wouldn’t you?”

I feel the laughter bubble up inside me and boil over as I let out a noisy chuckle. I stroke his smooth hair, while his head keeps moving up and down ever so slightly in rhythm with my breathing.

“My reputation is not as intact as it used to be,” I say, “But then that’s also because of you, so yeah. I agree. Let’s have a little good baby girl.”

He lifts his head a bit and looks up at me with a smile. Then he slowly and tenderly kisses my belly with what can only be true love.

EPILOGUE

I open the tall French doors and come out on the small veranda that leads from my room down a short flight of stairs directly onto the back lawn. The warm sea breeze caresses my sleepy face and bare arms and I can smell the salty, slightly tangy air, which always feels like a tonic. Beyond the park, the ocean glitters in the afternoon sun, only slightly ruffled by the wind and the screeching call of the seagulls completes the enchanting scene.

I’ve just taken a short nap. I haven’t done this in ages, but every time we come over here, I can’t help but succumb to the afternoon lull after a rich lunch and a sweet cocktail out in the garden. I know my responsibilities are safely taken off my hands for a while and I have nothing to worry about while I roll among the cool sheets, stretching like a lazy cat in the sun.

I rub my eyes and scan the park, my eyes quickly focusing on the white metal garden table and chairs set out in a small paved circle in the middle of the vast grassy expanse. There’s a cobbled path that leads from the circle to the main deck of the house and a maid is walking slowly down it, careful not to spill the contents of her tray.

Soon she reaches the table and sets down a large glass jug of lemonade with four tall glasses, together with a dish of pastries and white napkins that she secures down under the glasses, so they don’t fly away in the breeze. My mom takes over from there and pours lemonade into three of the glasses, handing one of them to Joe and sipping heartily from another.

Andrew comes into view. He’s probably been down to the small private beach at the foot of the headland and is now briskly walking towards the table. He sits down and takes his own glass, tipping it towards his mouth and gulping down the refreshing drink.

I should probably join them, though I want to spend a few more minutes out here, basking in the sunlight and waiting for the sleep to completely seep out of my head. I look over at the table again and I see the decorative bushes that trim the stone circle move. It looks like a dog is wiggling around in there, but I know we don’t have any dogs in the house.

In the next moment a toddler emerges from behind the bushes and wobbles over to the table, her little chubby legs struggling to keep up with her desire to get there faster.

“Daddy, daddy,
mashuum
,
mashuum
,” she squeals and it’s so quiet around here that her sweet voice reaches me as if she’s standing right next to me. I squint against the sun to see what she has in her hands and I make out a large mushroom, almost as big as her head. Where did the little devil manage to find it?

She deposits it into Andrew’s lap and I can hear everyone around the table laugh. Joe gets up quickly and rushes to his granddaughter. I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking as he picks her up and twirls her around. The mushroom might have been poisonous and the little girl needs an immediate distraction until they can safely get rid of it and find something to wipe her hands with.

Andrew and I might still not be completely in the clear in Joe’s eyes, but he’s an entirely different man when it comes to Amelia. Actually, he’s a different man with her than he is with any other person in the world. As her effervescent laughter rings clearly in my ears from across the lawn, I recognize another sound that is far rarer, almost exotic. Joe is laughing too. I can’t see him well enough from here, but I know his face is glowing and his eyes sparkling while he is tossing my little girl in the air and catching her again, the ruffles of her dress rippling from the motion.

“I’ll be right down,” I call out when I finally snap out of it. Andrew is signing that we need wet tissues for Amelia’s hands.

I go back into the sunlit white bedroom to look for the packet of tissues. I know I have some in one dresser drawer or another. This used to be my bedroom in the very short period when I still lived with my mom and Joe before I moved into my tiny apartment. Now, it’s Amelia’s room, because it’s adjacent to a larger bedroom where Andrew and I sleep when we visit.

I still haven’t got around to moving my things though, so I start opening the drawers one by one, certain I’ll find what I’m looking for. I rummage through the pile of miscellaneous items in the top drawer and among the hairpins, candles, old wallets and travel souvenirs I find something I’m not really looking for. My old deck of tarot cards. So that’s where it’s been hiding.

The antibacterial tissues are right next to it, so I grab those, but don’t close the drawer just yet. For a minute I wonder if I should quickly draw out three cards and see what they say. Last time I did that almost two years ago, I was at a major crossroads, directionless. The cards gave me the answer, but I misinterpreted it then.

Now, I’m exactly where I want to be.

Still something is nagging at me. Will it last? Is it possible to sustain happiness? Isn’t this just a short period of bliss that’s been given to me just to have a taste, so it would hurt more when I lose it all soon? I’ll just have a quick glimpse at my future and I’ll go downstairs.

I look at my hands. I have a packet of tissues in one hand and a deck of cards in the other. It’s so obvious which one is more important. My baby girl might get sick if I don’t get to her immediately and wipe her little chubby hands off. My future can wait. In fact, I don’t see a reason why I should rush to my future if my present is so dream-worthy right now and it’s calling for me to go and take part in it.

I quickly toss the tarot cards into the trash can on the way out and hurry to join my family.

Yes, how heartwarming it is to finally be able to say those words:
my family
.

Stalker

(excerpt)

I used to be more cautious, but even just three weeks in the prostitution business would teach you a lot, and though nothing too bad has happened to me, I believe I've developed a sort of intuition for who might be a good prospective client. There have been no warning signs about my next client and he even sent me a real photo of himself (by real, I mean one that shows his face as clearly as a mugshot). I don't want to admit it, but he is even attractive and maybe that's why I rushed into agreeing to meet him after only a couple of message exchanges.

The man who opens the door is young, even younger than his picture suggested, and he is not dressed in the customary suit and tie of my other clients. He is tall and broad in the shoulders, and his bulging arms underneath the casual T-shirt have the healthy glow of someone who spends his days outside, rather than in a cramped office. His curly black hair frames a handsome face and the look in his light brown, uncharacteristically large eyes carries a hint of surprise. I almost cringe back. He seems like someone I could be on a date with and that makes the confidence I've acquired in the past three weeks melt away to be replaced with a girlish awkwardness and insecurity. I know how to handle an older guy by now. I know my age is an advantage and I’ve learned that I don’t need to do much to impress them. They already think I’m interesting, just because I’m young. They think it’s cute when I’’m being silly or sexy when I’m wide-eyed and curious. It’s different with someone as young as this guy is. I have no tricks up my sleeve for someone like him.

The moment stretches on.

"Hi," he says finally and moves away from the door to let me in. I shuffle inside, my eyes on the floor, trying not to acknowledge the charming smile that now graces his lips, dimpling his cheeks and revealing a row of shiny white teeth. I am suddenly ashamed of myself. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be the girl he called to have paid sex with him. I want to be the girl he asks out for a coffee and maybe a movie afterwards. I am way past those nine times I promised myself after my first appointment, so for a moment I consider running away and disappearing, but then I am already inside and he closes the door behind my back.

To distract and ground myself at the same time, I look around the room. It’s the first time I have agreed to a different hotel and this one isn't as nice as what I've come to regard as my standard. In fact, it's almost dingy in comparison. The bed is covered with a tacky, rose-patterned quilt that makes me feel as if I'm about to have sex on my grandmother's bed. I decide I need to find a way out, but what I do instead is let my purse slip onto the shabby sofa and turn around to face him again. From the curious look he is giving me, I am shocked to guess that it might be his first time hiring a prostitute.

"So, what should I call you?" he says after he clears his throat. Another hint that he is not the regular customer I am used to. I haven't even come up with a fake name and my mind scrambles to invent something sexy and trashy enough. I can't. I'm blocked. He is too good-looking.

"Who do you want me to be?" I say when it has become obvious that I am not prepared for the question.

"Just yourself, I guess," he says and shrugs. That throws me off even further. "What's your name?"

"Emma," I blurt out without thinking and mentally slap myself. I don't know much about the profession, but that much I know. Never reveal your real name. God, probably even my century-old Math professor knows that.

"Nice to meet you, Emma," he says and smiles again. My knees feel weak. "I'm Chris."

"Okay, Chris, how do you want to start?" I walk over to the bed, just so I can break contact with his piercing eyes. He never stops looking at me and I notice his eyelashes are long and dark, and make him even more attractive. I can't look at him. I start to take off my coat, and suddenly, in a couple of long strides, he is behind me, pulling the coat back over my shoulders. His fingers brush the back of my neck and I shudder, then I instinctively pull away. Not what your ordinary prostitute does when with a client.

"Not like this," he almost whispers. "Come, let's sit down. You seem a bit nervous."

Great, so he knows. I am that transparent. I try to muster up fake composure and follow him to the sofa.

"Tell me, Emma, why are you doing this?" he asks after a while and I am once again taken aback. "Do you enjoy it?"

"I... I," I stumble, "Of course, I enjoy it. It's what I do." I sound ridiculous and more nervous than ever. He takes my shaking hand and looks at my palm, his index finger tracing my lifeline. His tingling touch makes me shiver again.

"You've got a long life ahead of you. Is that how you intend to spend it?" he asks.

What is this? Is he some sort of missionary on a quest to save my soul? It's not unlikely in this part of the country. He doesn't look too much like it, though. I can't meet his gaze.

This book is out now!

STALKER

Want to be among the first to get new release notifications? Join Emma’s Newsletter!

NEWSLETTER SIGN-UP FORM

Author’s Note

Thank you for purchasing my novel,
Shame
!

I hope you had just as much fun reading it as I had writing it. If so, it would mean a lot to me if you dropped me a line in the form of a review or just said “Hi.” You can find me at:
[email protected]

Or, you can sign up to receive news about my upcoming releases here:

NEWSLETTER SIGN-UP FORM

Follow me on
FACEBOOK
!

I’m looking forward to getting in touch with you!