Free OUTCAST: A Stepbrother Romance by Ora Wilde

were almost finished when I saw them. I went out and they smiled at me.

    “ J ob’s done , Ma’am!” they politely and gleefully exclaimed.

    I gazed at the facade and it looked brand new. Amazing how a newly painted wall can make the entire house look so much different.

    I thanked them . They packed their things and left. They didn’t ask for their payment. I guessed dad took care of it already.

    I went back to the house and proceeded to the kitchen. I was starving. I’ve always felt very hungry in the morning the past couple of days.

    I was pleasantly surprised to see that breakfast was ready. Bacon and omelette. Aunt Susan probably got up early to have prepared that meal before they went out.

    B ut where did they go ?

    I chomped on the food like a raving lunatic who had fasted for months. Usually, half an omelette would’ve filled me up. My petite frame just can’t handle a lot of intake. But that morning, I finished an entire serving and I was still hungry.

    I poured some coffee on my mug and sat on the Lazy Boy on the right side of the main door... dad’s favorite spot. He wasn’t home so I got dibs on his personal property . That Lazy Boy was very dear to him. It was a gift from one of his most loyal customers since the nineties, Edward Thorne. He was also one of the richest men in Sacramento. When he died in 2013, my dad was devastated. Eddie shared a lot of great stories , he lamented, I’m gonna miss those and I’m gonna miss him .

    I sat on the ultra comfortable seat and tried to enjoy my mug of caffeine.

    C offee has always been one of my morning rituals.

    B ut something was strangely different .

    S omehow , the aroma of the coffee - which I found as addictive as its taste - was quite repulsive for my smell. I thought I was coming down with a cold or something, hence, my sense of smell was compromised. But as I took a sip, I discovered that even the flavor was revolting.

    W hat was wrong with me ?

    I placed the mug on the lamp table beside the chair. I never touched it again that day.

    T he doorbell rang and I immediately ran towards the door. I opened it and I saw my father and Aunt Susan, holding a rather huge box - around a foot wide and a foot tall on all sides - smiling giddily at me.

    “ H ey guys ! What’s up?” I greeted them.

    A nd like tools - a word I feel guilty to use in describing my folks, but there was no other appropriate term at that time - they just stood there, with those ridiculous looking smiles still plastered on their faces.

    “ S top it ! You’re scaring me,” I told them. “This is like a scene from Stepford Wives , but instead of wives, I have to deal with brainwashed parents.”

    “ O h , you’re being overly theatrical again, Andrea,” my father retorted. “What’s wrong with being happy and smiling?”

    “ M e ? Overly theatrical?” I responded. “Coming from the guy who cried and cried until he fell asleep when Jay Leno retired? For the second time?”

    “ H ey ! I practically grew up with the guy,” he reasoned out.

    “ S o ... what’s with this Brady Bunch treatment all of a sudden?” I asked, puzzled by their unusually good mood. “I’m so used to the doom and gloom that pervaded this household.”

    “ O h nothing ,” my dad answered with a smirk.

    “ Q uit the delays , Honey,” Aunt Susan finally remarked. “Here, Andrea. This is for you,” she added as she gave me the box she was holding.

    “ F or me ?” I questioned, my bewilderment heightened. “What for? It’s not my birthday. It’s not Christmas.”

    “ O pen it ,” she answered as she excitedly grabbed my father’s arm and held it tight. “You’ll see soon enough.”

    A nd so I did .

    T he box was light , as if it contained nothing. Its size was quite deceiving. What was inside it? Even a bunch of cotton swabs would weigh heavier.

    O nce the wrapper was off , I pulled out the lid.

    A nd I saw it .

    A key .

    O ne , solitary key.

    “ W hat’s