Wicked Stepbrother (Book One) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Wicked Stepbrother (Book One)

  WICKED STEPBROTHER (BOOK ONE)

  OBSESSED WITH HIM (Book One)

  Copyright

  NOTE

  Want To Be In The Know?

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  OBSESSED WITH HIM

  Wicked Stepbrother (Book One)

  Lila Price

  Favor Ford Publishing

  Contents

  Copyright

  NOTE

  Want To Be In The Know?

  WICKED STEPBROTHER (BOOK ONE)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  OBSESSED WITH HIM (Book One)

  1. OBSESSED WITH HIM

  Copyright © 2017 by Favor Ford Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  NOTE

  This edition of Wicked Stepbrother contains the following bonus content: OBSESSED WITH HIM by Hannah Ford

  Want To Be In The Know?

  If you want to know as soon as the next Lila Price book is released, and get alerted to the hottest deals in romance—sign up now to the Favor Ford Romance newsletter!

  WICKED STEPBROTHER (BOOK ONE)

  by Lila Price

  1

  I shouldn’t be feeling this way, with wild butterflies in my belly and my heart pounding so loudly that it seems to echo around the inside of my car. But as I grip the steering wheel and stare out the windshield at the shirtless guy washing his badass Chevy in my mom and stepfather’s driveway, I can feel a forbidden heat between my legs.

  He’s the last person on earth who should be here—and the first person I want to see. God, he’s always been that person, even if it’s wrong. So wrong to feel that way about my stepbrother.

  Since Tristan obviously didn’t hear my car pull up to the curb, I allow myself to watch him just a little bit longer, the summer sun kissing his tanned skin as the spray from the water hose mists his broad back. Every time he moves, his muscles bunch, and it’d take a miracle for me to drag my gaze away from him.

  I try to stop, I really do, but… I can’t. Maybe it’s because there’s so much about him that hasn’t changed since I last saw him. After I graduated from high school, he was in college and started coming around less and less; after he dropped out to supposedly get a string of jobs until he finally settled down as a stockbroker in Manhattan, I never saw him much at all.

  Then again, there’re changes in him, too. He seems even taller than the last time I saw him, and he’s bigger, with arms that bulge and flex. His brown hair is a little longer, and he’s got some dark ink trailing down one arm. Even from here I can see it’s some kind of tattoo with wings.

  The ache between my thighs tightens. Tristan, with a tattoo, wet and glistening as he soaps off the hood of his car then pauses to push the hair back from his face. My heart actually twists in my chest as I remember his light green eyes, which could always have a teasing playfulness in them or something haunted that I never understood.

  My mom wouldn’t talk about what it was, and neither would my stepdad, but I always knew there was something mysterious buried inside Tristan, and maybe that’s why he’s always fascinated me.

  Or maybe it’s just the way he looks now.

  His jeans are clinging to his backside as he leans over to grab the hose again, and just as I bite my lip, telling myself once more that I shouldn’t be thinking about him this way, he raises his head.

  It’s as if he’s got little stepsister radar, and it’s just been tripped. Slowly, he shuts off the water and looks over his shoulder, right at me.

  Crap. I fumble my keys out of the ignition, and they drop to the floorboard.

  That’s me, queen of cool.

  I exhale and pretend as if I couldn’t care less about my clumsiness. I glance at myself in the rearview mirror instead, adjusting the ponytail that’s holding back my wavy burnished-brown hair. I make sure the eyeliner I’ve used to bring out the hazel of my eyes isn’t smudged.

  As I primp, I can’t help but to be reminded of when I was twelve and Tristan was fourteen and we’d just blended what there was of our families. He’d been skulking around the house when he’d caught me getting ready for one of those dumb junior high dances. He’d teased me until I’d slammed the door on him.

  I blow out another breath. God, I wish I had some lipstick on.

  When I glance back at him, he’s already washing his black car again, almost as if I don’t exist. But what’s new? I never did seem to exist much for Tristan.

  And that’s a good thing.

  Such an idiot, I think. He’s your stepbrother, no matter how hot he is and how much you always secretly adored him.

  I realize that I’ve been smoothing down my white eyelet blouse and the cut-off shorts I wore for the short trip back here to Dunlop Heights from Syracuse. Nervous. But how can I not be when Tristan has thrown me off guard like this? If he was where he’s supposed to be—in the city working—I wouldn’t be fumbling and bumbling and having wayward thoughts about the stepbrother I haven’t seen in ages.

  The more I think about it, the more annoyed I get.

  I grab my keys, stick them in my back pocket, get out of my car, and shut the door. I avoid the water streaming down the pavement as I walk up the driveway.

  “Well, look who showed up after all these years,” I say loudly, so he’ll be sure to hear me over the sound of the water.

  Tristan ignores me.

  “I know you can hear me!”

  Off goes the water. Again, he casually looks over one of those broad shoulders that always made him look like a quarterback, even off the field. He sends me a lopsided grin that makes my pulse speed up.

  Then, as if I’m as easy to dismiss as a changed channel, he turns back to his work. The water pelts off the car, and I walk closer—enough so that I feel the spray of it on my skin, which is already getting sticky from the humidity. The sensation is like fingertips skimming down my arms, and that irritates me even more.

  I step on the hose, killing the water.

  Tristan drops the nozzle to his side and then pushes back his hair again, turning around with that killer grin still on him. I fight to keep my breathing steady, guilty for looking at him in a way I’m not supposed to be looking, regretting those thoughts I’d been having back in the car.

  And I get even angrier because he’s the one making me do both of those things.

  Why couldn’t he have stayed away?

  During our tense stand off, I get a better view of his new tattoo. It’s a yin and yang symbol attached to a single wing, but this close, I see that there’s something broken about the image. It’s the wing.

  I glance at him to find him running his gaze over me, from my pink-polished toes, up my bare legs, to my short shorts. By the time he gets to my chest, my heartbeat is pistoning, taking me over. Is it my imagination or is he lingering on my breasts?

  My nipples start to tighten, and I cross my arms, barring him from seeing that I’m not wearing a bra. I’d thought the eyelet-decorated white linen was thick enough to cover me, but I’m not so sure now.


  As I narrow my gaze at him, he laughs, and I don’t know whether it’s because he’s onto me or if it’s just Tristan being annoying.

  “Welcome home, Cherry,” he says, his voice low and slow.

  I both hate and love the nickname he gave me years ago. If there was anything he’d noticed about me besides the preteen primping, it was how I would constantly suck on cherry-flavored Jolly Ranchers.

  “What’re you doing here?” I demand.

  He cocks an eyebrow. “Sounds like your junior year in college offered some classes in directness. And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

  Little does he know. “My mom and your dad left me the house for the rest of the summer while they’re gallivanting around Europe. They didn’t warn me that you’d be here,” I say. “If they had, I might have changed my plans.”

  “Ah.” He tugs on the hose, and I hop back from it before I trip. “So they didn’t tell you anything.”

  “About what?”

  “About how they asked me to keep an eye on you for the summer.”

  “An eye on…” I motion to myself. “Me?”

  “Yeah.” Tristan gives me the once-over again. “You.”

  Just as it seems he’s about to go about his business again, I step around to the side of his car, bracing a hand on the hood. He gives me a semi-threatening look that I don’t take too seriously—it’s just a darn car—but it’s enough to make me stand straight again.

  “What about me?” I say. “I’m not some teenager who needs supervision, especially since I’ve always been better behaved than you.”

  He shrugs that off, almost as if he can shed all those adolescent nights of coming home late, doing those bad-boy things that our parents told me was none of my business. Things that made me look at Tristan with even more secret adoration and wonder.

  “Cherry,” he says, “I don’t know much, but I do know that they told me to hold down the fort. Why do you think that is? Have you been partying too much? Running up Dad’s credit card at the bars since you turned twenty-one? Seeing all the wrong frat boys in between all those business classes you’re taking?”

  On that last part, his voice gets an edge to it, and I’m not sure why.

  It’s my turn to laugh. “I see all the right boys.”

  A strained beat thuds between us before he aims the hose nozzle at my sandals. I jump back as a squirt hits the blacktop.

  “I could give a shit what you do up there at school,” he says. “But I told the parents I’d help out while they’re away.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like you—helpful. A real goody-two shoes.”

  This time his laugh is cutting. “What’re you saying, Cherry? That I’m a deviant?”

  He’s somewhere between teasing and not, and I don’t like how he’s constantly confusing me. I don’t like feeling ashamed about the feelings he brings out, and I don’t like wondering if he’s as happy to see me as I am him—or if he doesn’t like seeing me at all.

  His gaze has darkened, and now I’m really confused because I definitely can’t get a read on him.

  “Is that what you really think of me, Cherry?” he asks. “That I’m a bad influence?”

  “Stop teasing me.” I start to turn around so I can unload my car. “And stop calling me Cherry.”

  “Why? The girls I take out in New York order drinks with maraschino cherries in them all the time. They’re sweet, just like you, Lil Sis.”

  I stop in my tracks. The girls he takes out. Ugh.

  He uses the hose to shoot another stream of water at my feet.

  “Come back here,” he says. “Finish this conversation, Cherry.”

  My temper flares. He knows his taunting is getting to me.

  “Listen,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about the girls you ‘take out’ or do…whatever to.”

  Tristan has always dated hot girls, and talking about them only makes me remember that I’m not even close to being in their league. Any guy I’ve ever dated would be the first to say that I’m sweet or adorable, just like Tristan has said. What they really mean is that I’m a nice girl. Like virgin nice, even though Tristan has no way of knowing that part.

  He’s watching me with the same raised eyebrow, as if he’s ready to throw another taunt at me.

  I level a preemptive strike at him. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you just go back to those girls you ‘date’ and leave me the house?”

  “I’m sure you know that what I do with those girls goes beyond dating.” He grins and squirts more water at me. This time it splashes my legs.

  “I’m serious, Tristan. Get back to your job, because it sure as heck isn’t here, babysitting me.”

  His eyes darken again right before he lifts the nozzle all the way, letting loose. As water covers me, I gasp, lifting my hands to block the sudden onslaught.

  Not that it does any good, because by the time he relents, I’m soaked.

  Water drips to the ground in the seconds it takes me to realize that my cut-offs are doused…and so is my blouse.

  All I can hear is my breathing, then the thud of my pulse as I feel my nipples harden even more, and it’s not because of the soaking. Without even looking down, I know that my tips are budding against the wet and clinging white linen.

  I know because Tristan’s got a look on his face that’s designed to make me think he’s not looking when he really is.

  My most private spot feels as if it’s been knotted, pulled tight, and I bite my lip, not knowing what to do. Is there something there in his gaze? A hunger that I’ve never seen before?

  In spite of everything I’ve told myself, I want him to want me. So badly I’m getting damp in other places, too.

  When Tristan’s jaw clenches and he turns back to the car to silently wash it again, it’s as if the past few seconds never happened. I re-cross my arms, true humiliation making my skin burn. I’m not the kind of girl he dates—hot and gorgeous, sophisticated and womanly.

  Worst of all, I’m his stepsister.

  Instead of going back to my car, I stomp into the house, not even caring that I’m trailing water onto the kitchen tile and then the carpeting on the stairs. I slam the door to my bedroom, hardly noticing the daisy-patterned bedspread or the vintage Paris posters that are still on the walls. I yank open a dresser drawer and pull out a pair of old shorts and a T-shirt. Then I shed everything, covering myself up in the comfort of ratty clothes while praying that Tristan didn’t actually see anything. And that includes my mortification.

  Not long afterward, I hear his car roar out of the driveway, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  Gone. But how long will it be before he comes back?

  Even worse, what will happen if he does come back?

  2

  Mom,

  I thought you’d like to know that I got home safely from school. The drive was easy, traffic was scarce, and I really appreciated the surprise that was waiting for me when I got here. Thanks bunches!

  Seriously, Mom, couldn’t you have told me that you’d asked Tristan to be my very own private nanny? What did I do to deserve this?

  Sosie

  I fire off the email on my laptop before thinking twice, and it’s only after the message is hurtling into cyberspace that I admit I’m being harsh. It’s not like my mom and I haven’t had it out before—after I came to terms with how she betrayed my real dad we had some icy days—but I’m not usually this confrontational.

  Except maybe when Tristan gets me going.

  I put him out of my mind and close my laptop. My mom probably won’t even see the email right away because I’m not even sure she and my stepfather have decent access to the internet in the little European villages they decided to explore. But that’s a good thing, because by the time she answers, I’ll have simmered down about this ridiculous babysitting situation.

  Probably.

  With the email done, I begin to putter around the house, walking past the closed door to Tristan’s room. Useless to
see if it’s locked, because I’ll bet it is.

  In the nine years since Mom got remarried, I think I’ve seen the inside of Tristan’s room twice, and I’m sure everything is just as basic as it’s always been. Even when he lived here, he was normally out with his friends, and it was as if he wasn’t a permanent resident, the walls bare, his bed pretty much unused, a set of weights like a display in a boy museum.

  And, now that he’s taken off, maybe everything will stay that way.

  I go downstairs to the family room and turn on the widescreen TV, searching through the DVR for something to clear my mind. I last a couple of hours with some junky reality shows, but after that it’s no use trying to occupy myself.

  I’m bored. Or maybe I’m just restless after seeing Tristan. Has he gone out to reestablish his status as Mr. Popular with old friends? Where is he?

  God, thinking about him 24/7 is only going to drive me insane, and what I really need to do is let off some steam. I mull over taking a jog, but I’m not in the mood. Swimming in our backyard pool seems more appealing, but what if Tristan hasn’t ditched me after all and he comes home to see me in a skimpy bathing suit? Good God, I don’t want him to look at me and compare me to his other girls, which is probably what he was doing this afternoon.

  What I need is to be in a place where Tristan surely won’t be, and it doesn’t take me long to come up with just the thing.

  I get my phone and dial. The answer is immediate.

  “Sosie Cooper!”

  “Julia Rice!”

  Julia, who I’ve known since the fifth grade, is never out of energy, and she’s already off to the races. “When did you get home? Why didn’t you call me? What should we do?”

  “I got home this afternoon, but I’m totally up for going out.”

  “You’re going stir crazy already? I’d kill to have your parents’ place all to myself.”