Free Shame: A Stepbrother Romance by Emma Soule Page A

not alone.
    I duck out of view, though I doubt he’s noticed me. It’s too bright inside and he seems too engrossed in his companion to have eyes for anything else around him. I’m behaving like a school girl again as I sneak a peek at the couple enjoying their afternoon coffee. Though I swore I’d never drink alcohol again, I suddenly feel like having a tea heavily spiked with rum.
    When I’m safely hidden behind a magazine stand on the curb of the sidewalk, I look again. Andrew looks immaculate as always. My brain is even convinced that he’s put more care into his appearance tonight. He is wearing a sharp-looking, well-fitted gray suit as if he has been to work or an important business meeting. His hair is sleeked back, revealing his high forehead, and an expensive watch blinks under his pressed cuff.
    His company is a woman. That would have been enough to ruin the warm, fuzzy mood I was in on my way to the book shop. But it’s so much worse. She is nothing short of stunning, Andrew’s female counterpart, an ethereal creature that you just don’t see on the streets and would more likely attribute to Photoshop.
    Her hair is warm cinnamon and flows down past her shoulders in an avalanche of velvety waves. From where I stand, not a hair seems out of place. Her profile is flawless. Small, well-shaped chin, luscious peach-colored lips, tiny nose. She is holding her cauldron with such sophistication as if she is holding a champagne glass and I can see her bright-red nails, which don’t seem trashy or vulgar, but elegant.
    I look at mine and… Shit! I’ve chipped the nail-polish already, probably while I was closing my umbrella. I hope the photographer won’t be zooming in on my hands. Plus, I have more important things to obsess about now.
    I squint my eyes towards the woman again and catch a glimpse of Andrew laughing at something she’s just said. Her lips are attractively curved in a sly smile now. She is probably very aware of how funny she is. She probably doesn’t even need to be funny. Any man would gladly laugh at even the lamest line she’d say, just to make a good impression on her.
    She is slim and her long legs in shiny black stilettos almost touch Andrew’s under the table. I look at my rubber boots and feel miserable. Since when am I so shallow?
    I’ve never been too concerned with my looks and I don’t normally base my confidence on the way I look. Though I’ve recognized the attractive features in both my friends and ex-boyfriends, I wouldn’t say any of my relationships have been influenced by a person’s appearance either. And now, here I am, with my muddy rubber boots and my military, fur-trimmed parka and I suddenly feel inferior to the couple chatting inside the window.
    Then the questions start banging inside my head. Who is this woman? Has Andrew slept with her? Did he (Oh, God) like it better than when he was with me in that bathroom? Are they on a date? Is it serious?
    I can’t seem to stop myself and the worst is that since we’ve now established we are just brother and sister, I have no right to be jealous. It’s even creepy for me to be jealous. It’s sick. I picture a long life of sharing our love conquests with my brother , him introducing a new model-like girl every other week and me going years in between pathetic dates with balding intellectual snobs. Fun!
    Suddenly Andrew looks up and looks in my direction and I am so horrified that he might spot me that I stumble backwards onto the street pavement and directly into a large puddle. The water splashes so hard, it fills my left boot with grimy fluid which trickles down to my heels and gets absorbed into my terry socks. A car horn honks alarmingly right behind me and I almost fall forward, but I manage to grip the side of the magazine stand. As a result, I have two broken nails now.
    Before things can get any worse, I hurry off to the bookstore.
     
     
     
    The door bell chimes and Ashleigh walks in, struggling under the