Romance: Stepbrother Passion (3 page)

Chapter Five

10 years later…

“You know that book editor that you have been shamelessly flirting with for like the last month? Well, he made a special delivery this morning!” Mel says, smiling like a mischievous Cheshire cat.

I walk up to the counter and look at her strangely, dumping my coat and handbag by the register.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, taking the envelope and peering inside. “Holy crap! Tomorrow night?”

“What’s tomorrow night?” Mel asks excitedly.

“Only the ballet!”

“Get out! He’s taking you to George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker? My life officially sucks.”

“Oh don’t be so dramatic. Want come with? I can ask Cole if he has a cute friend to double date with? NOT that this is a date.”

“Um it’s totally a date, Ella. Cole is like obsessed with you. But of course I’ll come! I’m not putting out though.”

“Since when?” I laugh. “A few champagnes, some poignant music and guys in tights, and you’ll be singing to the whistle of another tune!”

“You know what I like!” Mel winks and bends down to pick up a large box.

“Is that the best seller for the window?” I ask.

“Sure is, boss. I thought I would make a start on it early. If I do it any later the workmen from the construction site across the road take an early lunch and watch me. It’s gross.”

“Fair enough,” I chuckle. “I’ll make us some coffees and bring one over.”

“Perfect,” Mel calls, already half way across the store.

I glance back to the envelope still in my hand.

Cole is getting desperate.

Private box seats?

These tickets would have cost a fortune, even with his six figure salary.

Cole is a book editor that I have known for a few years. We are friends, but ever since his divorce a few months back things have become somewhat less platonic.

But I really have no interest in dating. My lifestyle right now compensates enough for the loveless side of things.

Not that I do not want to find love.

I put down the ballet tickets and take a moment to look around.

After I graduated from NYU with a major in Literature, it took another six years of working for a small publishing company in Brooklyn to finally get the funds to buy this place. Hence where I met Cole; he was my boss.

But now I have branched out on my own, a bookstore owner/barista extraordinaire!

No matter what time of year it is business is always consistent as long as I keep a great profile and flair for managing.

That is where the beautiful Mel comes in.

She graduated with a degree in Management and Marketing. She is a constantly pushing me to do bigger things but without her I doubt this place would have even gotten off the ground. In Manhattan bookstores sit like hidden gems.

Tourists always find themselves wandering into
Wilde at Heart
, my cozy treasure trove on the 5th Avenue end of West 19th Street. It is filled with the scent of old, worn and fresh pages of books mingled with the subtle aroma of coffee. People come here to escape, to dream, to sit down with a good book and cup of coffee and just get lost.

It is a refuge from the bustle of the city, a serene haven to get swallowed by.

At one o’clock Mel and I leave Tom and Emma, two of our casual staff, to run the store while we head out for lunch. Tom and Emma secretly like each other; well that is what we think anyway.

The shy glances and blushing each time they have a shift together kind of gives the game away, although they are completely oblivious to it.

On Fridays Mel and I always go to the same place, The Blue Ivy Tavern. It is an amazing outdoor restaurant on the corner of East 20th and Park Avenue South, which is only a five-minute walk from the bookstore.

“Good afternoon ladies,” our regular waiter Mario chirps as we take a seat by the fountain. “The usual?”              

“Absolutely.”

“Excellent. Two smoked salmon bagels and two glasses of Femme De Champagne coming right up.”

Within minutes the champagnes arrive along with a copy of The Wall Street Journal.                           

“If anyone had told me ten years ago that this would be our lives right now I would have laughed endlessly,” Mel smirks, sipping her champagne.              

“Same,” I jeer, holding up my glass. “Here’s to us!”

We clink and laugh blissfully whilst the rest of Manhattan goes on around us.             

“Oh. My. Gosh. No way!” Mel squeals suddenly, eyes fixed on an article in the paper.

“What?”

“What was the last name of that guy you used to live with? The one whose father your Mom divorced after only like six months? Dylan something?”

My hearts quivers. “You mean Dylan McCormack?”

My first time.

“So it is him! Wow he’s like an icon of Manhattan now. Did you know he went to jail not long after we left Missouri?”

“What the hell are you on about?” I ask firmly, snatching the journal.

And then I see him.

The hypnotic eyes, the perfect teeth, the million-dollar smile, and the expensive pinstripe suit that looks like it is Armani.

Dylan is a hotshot defense attorney?

Here in New York?

Seriously?

I quickly re-read the first few sentences of the article:

Dylan McCormack is shaping up to be one of New York’s most popular defense attorneys. The shining white knight, having served time in prison for breaking and entering when he was 18, now defends the very people he would have shared a cell with.

When asked what prompted him to become an attorney, he said quite frankly, “Not everything in prison, or within our justice system, is clear-cut black and white. There’s a hell of a lot of grey area and a hell of a lot of lost souls who just made the wrong choice and deserve a second chance. I just want to be the guy who helps them get that chance.”

Although Mr. McCormack is quite the controversial icon, he recently joined the prestigious firm of ‘Preston & Smith’, relocating from his home town of Florissant, Missouri, to the bright lights of Manhattan…

“Earth to Ella? Are you ok?”

I pretend not to hear and put down the journal, stunned.

“Mario!” I shout, swigging the rest of the champagne. “Another.”

“Okay, I guess that answers that question,” Mel says rolling her eyes. “Did something happen between you and ‘Mr. Manhattan’ that I don’t know about?”

“Mario! The wine!”

“Ella!” Mel persists, yanking on my arm.

“Here we are!” Mario says, placing the glass down in front of me. “Shall I keep them coming?”

“Yes. No. I’ll let you know,” I stammer and take a large gulp.

I look at Mel whose concrete stare has become demonic enough to get anyone to spill the beans.

“What happened?” she persists.

“Okay I’ll tell you...”

When I finish telling Mel about the night before college she is both angry and bewildered.

“I can’t believe you never told me. After all these years, Ell.”

“I was too embarrassed to tell you. I denied it for a long time. And if I told you, it meant it was true. It didn’t exactly end well,” I say honestly.

“But I’m your best friend. How many times have I told you about guys who’ve screwed me over?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Mario brings out the salmon bagels and Mel and I sit quietly for minutes, capers and bits of red onion dangling at the ends of our forks.

“So are you going to see him?” Mel asks perkily.

“What? No.”

“Seriously? Not even for coffee? I mean did you not see his picture? He’s like even more breathtakingly handsome now. Like Christian Gray but way hotter, if that’s even possible.”

“You know you haven’t changed one bit since high school. Forever the little harlot, and you’ve never even read 50 Shades of Gray.”

“True. But still, we’re talking about the guy that made you a woman. You have history with this guy. You should definitely see him!”

I return to playing with my bagel, the memories of Dylan flicking through my mind with
Bad Moon Rising
stuck on repeat.

I cannot believe that he lives in Manhattan now and is a defense attorney!

Well, this is a big place.

The likelihood of us bumping into each other is highly unlikely, right?

Right??

Chapter Six

Today was meant to be my day off, but Mel had called up runny nosed and husky at the crack of dawn, begging me to open up the store.

I had originally planned to go apartment hunting, my drab little hollow over in Park Slope, Brooklyn, long overdue for an upgrade. It would be nice to live closer to the store, somewhere in the heart of Manhattan.

But I guess that will just have to wait.

Saturdays are usually extremely busy and today has been no exception.

Tourists, locals, children, you name it, they were here. Luckily my casual staff showed up on time this morning, otherwise it would have been a total headache.

However, come late afternoon the store had virtually emptied so, being the somewhat carefree boss that I am, I gave everyone the rest of the day off on the proviso that they do not go too wild at their individual frat and sorority parties.

Talk about in one ear and out the other.

As I finish up totaling the register I hear the bell jingle on the door, the sound of footsteps already making their way toward the counter.

“Sorry,” I say without glancing up. “We’re closed.”

It is rude and unprofessional but in all honesty I am too exhausted to care. And this is New York. Being blunt is acceptable.

“Now,” says a deep sultry voice. “Is that anyway to treat your ex-stepbrother?”

What?

When I hear that voice I become 18 again.

I do not want to look up, anger flooding through me as I recall the note left on the pillow, the only goodbye he had thought I deserved.

“Ella,” he says softly, finally drawing my gaze. “It’s been a while.”

“Ah, can I help you?” I ask, pretending not to recognize him.

Although in truth it is not entirely inaccurate. He does have shorter hair now, a typical businessmen kind of style that makes him look even more striking.

Unfortunately.

“You don’t remember me?” he chuckles.

“I don’t think so. Did we go to NYU together?”

In reality, it is a stupid game to play.

Who wouldn’t remember their stepbrother?

And especially a stepbrother who took your virginity?

“You really want to play that game? All right, I’ll bite. No, we went to high school together. Your Mom kind of married my Dad once. Does that ring any bells?”

I pause for dramatic effect.

“Dylan?” I ask, faking the surprise. “Wow. Gosh, it’s been what…like ten years?”

“Indeed it has.”

“What are you doing in New York?”

He pauses. “I’m a defense attorney. I work at Preston & Smith on the Upper East Side.”

“An attorney? That is a…shock.” And the white lies just keep coming. “So, have you been living here for long?”

“No, only a few months. I’m surprised you didn’t already know?”

“Oh? What makes you think that?”

“The media have been having a field day with it. It’s in all the papers.”

“The papers? Really?”

“Yeah, the whole convicted felon thing is a pretty rare profile for an attorney. But that’s another story. You really haven’t read anything about it?”

“No. Honestly I don’t read much,” I say, unconvincingly.

“And yet you own a bookstore?”

“I mean the news. I don’t read or watch it much…um, can you excuse me for just one sec?” I feel myself blush and grab a stack of discontinued books, making for the storeroom.

Just keep it together Ella.

You are not that 18-year-old girl anymore.

Get a hold of yourself!

I return to find Dylan wandering through the shelves, pinching myself several times so that I know that this is once again real.

He is really here.

“It’s a nice place,” he says, surveying the raised wallpapered ceiling. “Antique bookcases, local artwork, coffee spot, monthly book launches and poetry nights. No wonder you’re the number one ‘must see’ bookshop in Manhattan on TripAdvisor.”

“Thanks.” I smile faintly; curious as to how he knows all this. “You’ve certainly done your research.”

He grins and walks back over to the counter.

“I have. I would’ve got in contact sooner but I’ve just…” Dylan hesitates and stops in mid sentence. “I’ve just been so busy at the firm. Client meetings, court dates, you know how it goes.”

I nod, but I cannot help but think that it is not what he had wanted to say.

As the silence lingers between us, I try to think of topics of conversation.

The weather?

No.

His Dad?

Hell no.

Potential wife and kids?

Absolutely not!

“I really should lock up. It’s been a long day,” I finally say, walking toward the door.

Dylan follows, only a few steps behind. “Of course. I tried to get here earlier but…something came up.”

There is that hesitation again.

“That’s fine. Well, it’s been…interesting to see you again anyway.”

“Likewise. In fact that’s partially why I’m here. I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me sometime? It would be nice to catch up properly.”

“Dinner? I don’t know. I…”

“Next week perhaps?” he asks, cutting me off. “You choose the night. I’ll make sure to keep it free.”

“Ah, um, next week might be hectic,” I say, trying to come up with a better excuse. “I have a lot of new stock coming in which usually means a lot of late nights.”

“Friday night then?” he persists, the cavernous russet eyes trying to work their magic. “Surely you can take one night off?”

“Maybe,” I stammer.

“I’ll take maybe,” he says beaming confidently, halfway out the door.

I study the other contours of his face: his impeccably chiseled cheekbones, his perfectly straight nose, his unblemished skin and “come hither” lips.

“Okay,” I whisper, spellbound, and just loud enough so he can hear it over the drones of the city. “Friday it is.”