Stepbrother Billionaire(17)

“At least tell your mother that you’re happy for her, Emerson,” my dad says harshly. My eyes go wide at his tone. He never reprimands Emerson for anything.

“Already playing at being my old man, Bob?” Emerson says, with a cold smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hate to break it to you, but that ship sailed a long time ago. Thanks for at least waiting until I’m a legal adult to pull this crap. That way I can bail on this shit show with no strings attached.”

“Emerson, please,” Deb says plaintively, but it’s no use. He’s already turned his back and marched out the door once again. We hear his Chevy start up and peel out of driveway.

I blink back devastated tears, looking longingly after him. He could have at least taken me with him. After everything we shared this evening, everything we did...he said I could trust him. Was that just another lie to get in my pants? No. Of course not. He’s just hurt by our parents’ carelessness. Hurt by what it means for us.

“Are you going to say congratulations at least?” my dad asks me flatly, placing a comforting hand on Deb’s back.

“I...I don’t...” I stammer, looking back and forth between them. “I don’t know what you want from me, Dad.”

“That...is very disappointing,” he replies, looking as hurt as I’ve ever seen him. But how the hell am I supposed to congratulate them on what is clearly nothing more than an impulsive, terrible decision? They barely even know each other. They’re still in the early stages of recovery. What the hell are they thinking?

“So ungrateful, both of them,” Deb mutters, marching up the stairs.

Dad heaves a sigh as she slams their bedroom door. An eerie silence falls over the house, punctuated only by Deb’s muffled sobs from upstairs. My dad and I look at each other across the wide open space. This is as alone as we’ve been in months, ever since Deb showed up on the scene. I wish I could be honest with him right now, tell him how reckless he’s being, tell him how much it hurts me to see him pick up with the first woman he meets without actually giving a shit about her. But I’ve never been able to call my dad out on his bad behavior.

“This is not how I saw tonight ending,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“I just wish you would have asked us if we were OK with this,” I say, frustrated tears stinging my eyes.

“Excuse me,” my dad replies, “Since when do parents ask their children for permission?”

“I just...You hardly know her! She hardly knows you!” I exclaim. “What is it you even love about her, Dad? I mean, you do love her—?”

“Of course I do,” he says gruffly. “I love how she looks. How she carries herself. Her eyes. Her hair.”

“Seriously?” I ask, scoffing, “You like the way she looks? That’s it?”

“You and Emerson will be adults soon,” my dad says firmly. “Before long, you’ll know what it feels like to want something—someone—so badly that you’re willing to do just about anything to be together. I hope you’ll have the courage to make that leap when the time comes.”

I almost laugh as he spews theses words of wisdom. He practically just told me to go ahead and jump my soon-to-be-stepbrother’s bones. But as absurd as this all is, I can’t laugh at about it just yet. The pain is far too raw.

There’s a good chance it always will be.





Chapter Five





It’s three in the morning before I hear Emerson’s car swing back into the driveway beneath my window. In the four hours or so he’s been on the road blowing off steam, I haven’t slept a wink. Haven’t even come close. My nerves have been on a hair-trigger, ready to snap clean in two, as I wait for him to return. The second I hear his car door slam, I throw off my covers and roll out of bed. Crossing my arms over my chest and throwing my blonde hair into a messy ponytail, I pad over to my bedroom window and ease it open. Leaning out into the warm spring air, I see Emerson leaning heavily against the hood of his car, looking up at our house with despair.

“Hey, Emerson,” I whisper, waving to get his attention.

“What are you doing up?” he murmurs back.

“What do you think?” I say, “I was waiting for you. Stay there—I’m coming down.”

“You don’t have to,” he starts to say, but I’ve already turned away from the window. I take the stairs two at a time, not pausing long enough to be self-conscious about my tiny cotton shorts and camisole.

I gently push open the front door and step out into the darkness of the very early morning. Emerson watches as I cross the driveway toward him. He smiles wryly at my approach.

“Are you trying to kill me with those shorts or what?” he says. Though I know he’s teasing, there’s a frustrated, regretful hunger beneath his words that breaks my heart.

“Some of us have been in bed for hours now,” I remind him, leaning against the car by his side, “Instead of rending our shirts and bellowing into the wind. Or whatever it was you were doing out there.”

“That about sums it up,” he replies. “What, are you pissed at me?”

“It would have been nice to not be stuck alone with our parents after all that,” I point out, “Your mom cried for hours.”