Hooked: A Stepbrother Romance

by Iris Parker

  “There’s no need for that. Haven’t you found the new vests yet?”

  The low, masculine voice came from behind me, a couple feet away. It echoed off the hallway, a hint of an English accent floating in the air. I tensed up, my limbs feeling like stone as I tried to turn and stand. I looked over the speaker’s massive body; he was at least a foot taller and a foot wider than me, and when my eyes finally reached his, they were the bluest I’d ever seen outside of one other British guy.

  Actually, they were the same blue eyes.

  My palms curled into fists, a bolt of fear and animal hate piercing my heart. I stared, looking for the air of indifference I knew had to be lurking beneath his chiseled exterior. It had been thirteen years, but it was him. The aristocratic nose, the strong jaw, the jet-black hair framing a high brow, there was no mistaking it. I’d have recognized him, and the streak of arrogance in his bright blue eyes, anywhere. My heart sank, its beating slow and heavy.

  Simon Ferguson.

  Biggest asshole in two countries.

  The planet.

  The fucking galaxy.

  Here. Standing in front of me. Talking to me. Again.

  My skin erupted in bumps and shivers of disgust. What the hell was he doing here, after all these years? I’d run a thousand miles away from home, and he never left England anyway. I felt like throwing up. “Home” was such a fucked up word for me, thanks to him.

  Oh. Oh. Of course. The realization hit me like a punch in the face. The rugby deal, the money. Suddenly, Mr. Big Star had blitzed his way back in my life.

  “You,” I said flatly, my voice icy. “What. the. hell. are you doing here?”

  “I take it you’ve heard about a certain donation,” he quipped, unbearably smug. He was wearing a white button-down shirt, its short sleeves showing off his bulging muscles as he took a drink of coffee from Adam’s office. He quirked an eyebrow at me in defiance, daring me to criticize him.

  Of course he was loaded. I’d heard all about his success in England—his many selections as hooker for the English national team, his titles, his popularity. The money and the women. My head was swimming with shock and disgust, my mouth open but silent.

  “So, Emilia Jones, are you game for a little action?” he asked, taking another sip of coffee. He seemed devilish, like he was concealing a sneer beneath the steaming hot mug.

  Well, at least he’d learned to hide, pretending he was decent.

  “I’d rather die,” I said, and a shadow crossed his face.

  “That’s not true.”

  “Oh, blow it out your ass, Mr. Goodwill. What are you doing here?”

  “Helping,” he said, looking down at the floor and sliding his free hand into his pocket. For a second, he looked like a boy who’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar…except there was nothing boyish about Simon Ferguson.

  “You’re a bit late for that, by about thirteen years. You’re not welcome here. What did you do? Fuck a movie star’s wife and need to do a little damage control? Go find some other charity to patronize, asshole.”

  “Are you allowed to swear in front of the kids, now?”

  “I’m allowed to do whatever the fuck I want. And the only kid I see here is a damned overgrown one. Now, please kindly go choke on a lemon while I sort through these vests, Mr. Ferguson."

  “They’re not going to be very useful without me, Emilia,” he hissed softly, close to my ear. Grabbing the whole bag, I turned and briskly walked back to the gym, pushing through the doors as hard as I could. Maybe, just maybe, if I let it go at the right time it might slam into his face and smash some of the prettiness away.

  “Emilia, wait,” he called from just behind me. I looked over my shoulder, and a petty thrill ran through me as the doors swung back in his direction. Chuckling, I dumped the bag out and spread the vests out on the floor.

  “Emilia.”

  “Fuck off,” I hissed quietly, focusing on the vests.

  “Emilia, I—”

  “I see you two have met,” Adam interrupted, standing atop a pile of minty new sports mats. “Everyone’s all caught up, Em,” he said to me, gesturing towards the pocket he kept his phone in. “Now, Mr. Ferguson, do you need anything else?”

  I could feel Simon’s presence behind me, and for a second I was seized by the mad urge to slap him, resign, and spend the rest of the day curled up into a sobbing ball. The only thing that stopped me was seeing Theo’s scrawny silhouette huddled in a corner, sitting patiently. I knew what he was waiting for.

  A bowl of cereal and a little compassion.

  I looked down at my feet, overwhelmed and feeling tears threatening to spill.

  “Everything is set for tomorrow. I’ll just need Ms. Jones to show up,” Simon said, his tone the exact cold voice I’d dreaded years ago. I shivered. “And the players, of course. In their vests.”

  A second later, Simon was trading a friendly handshake with Adam before turning and offering his hand to me, as if this were somehow business as usual. His eyes caught mine, and all traces of smugness were gone. He did look boyish after all, and the breath caught in my throat.

  “Blue” had always failed to accurately describe the brightness of his eyes, but right now, his gaze was shining with an earnest vividness I'd never seen during the two dreadful summers we'd lived together. On complete autopilot, I took his hand. He squeezed tight, and a shiver ran down my spine.

  Jesus. Simon Ferguson really was back in my life.

  “I’ll see you two tomorrow, then. Have a good day,” he said, his voice chipper as he grabbed a heavy leather workbag from the floor. Taking a few steps towards Theo, Simon once again offered his hand. “See you tomorrow, too. Nice meeting you.”

  Theo’s eyes went wide as he took Simon’s hand and shook it, a smile on his face.

  “Are you okay?” Adam whispered, his eyes fixed on me.

  “Sure,” I lied, bile rising in my throat as I recognized the pattern. The seeds of hero-worship were already firmly planted on Theo’s face. Typical. Simon always did have a way of making people love him. Always.

  Asshole.

  With one last wave, Simon casually turned and headed for the doors, large shoulders and bulging deltoids moving just under his perfectly tailored shirt, his snug designer jeans just barely hiding his fantastic backside.

  I sighed, feeling bad about being dishonest with Adam. Still, with Simon back in my life, I was going to have to get used to it. If lying to my friend was the worst thing that happened this summer, I would count myself lucky.

  Simon Ferguson.

  My freaking stepbrother.

  He was back.

  I’m not writing this shit.

  It’s stupid. You’re stupid.

  Actually, you can just go fuck yourself.

  I let out a long sigh, staring at the ceiling of my ridiculously oversized hotel room while I toweled myself dry. Even with the unusually hot spring afternoon, a warm bath had seemed like a good idea after this morning's tense meeting with Emilia.

  I’d known what I was in for with the Goodman Youth Center; I’d wanted to be in it. Rugby and troubled teens I could deal with. I’d been dealing with them my whole life.

  But Emilia Jones, holy fuck.

  I hadn’t expected the awkward girl to have transformed into such a gorgeous woman.

  It had been all I could do to breathe when I first saw her, kneeling on the floor in that long, dismal corridor, her sweet ass sticking out in front of me. She was dripping wet, looking like a million pounds.

  Yeah, I’d known what I was in for. I’d wanted it, for years. Except she was never supposed to look like that. Bloody hell.

  Even in my wildest dreams, I hadn’t expected how I would feel being in the same room with her. The few pictures I’d seen did her no justice at all, overlooking the fine curves of her figure, the overwhelming aura of femininity she projected. Back then, she’d been underweight and lanky, still attractive but not the zipper-bursting bombshell she’d turn
ed into over the past thirteen years.

  I opened my suitcase, pulling out a couple shirts and dress pants. Grabbing my rucksack from the floor, I rummaged through a mess of old shorts, rugby jerseys, and toiletries before reaching the zipped interior pocket. Safe inside it, I felt the familiar leather-bound outline bulging through the fabric.

  Emilia Jones, all grown up. Jesus. Her face was still covered in freckles, her expression still capable of lighting up the room. Not that I could ever see her smile directly, of course. I could only catch it from the side, when she was talking to someone else, when she forgot I was there. Still, it was exactly the same radiant smile I remembered from so long ago.

  Maybe that was the hardest part, the ways she hadn’t changed. I could’ve spotted her anywhere in a crowd, because in some ways she looked exactly the same. A set of plump, pink lips with an adorable overbite. Almond-shaped green eyes framed by long, dark eyelashes. Long chestnut hair bunched up in a ponytail. Even the ringlets around her face looked the same.

  How many times had I wondered that? If we’d ever met in the street, would we even recognize each other?

  Well, I had my answer. A resounding yes. Instantly. She’d looked at me, and the sparkle in her beautiful eyes changed to disbelief, then pure disgust. It had taken her all of three seconds.

  I couldn’t blame her. Hell, I’d been expecting it. Still, the intensity of her hatred had tugged at my heart in a way I’d not quite anticipated.

  “Not very useful without me.” Bloody hell. That had been such a killer line, really. Not my finest moment, and I wasn’t certainly going to go far like that. And yet very little had ever mattered to me as much as being here now.

  Yeah, I’d been prepared. Right up until the moment I saw the hurt in her eyes.

  Now, I just had to hope all of this wasn’t a huge mistake. At least for her sake.

  I don’t need this place.

  I don’t need this fucking life.

  I don’t need you, or your damn rugby.

  I gulped down the last of my diner coffee, the burnt taste stabbing my tongue as I watched the scene unfold just outside the window. So far, the morning wasn’t off to a great start, and Emilia’s little show of defiance told me everything I needed to know about what to expect from the next few hours.

  Running my fingers through my hair, I sighed. As bitter as the coffee was, it still had nothing on my lovely stepsister. Not that I could blame her, of course. Whatever it was she was planning, I was quite certain I deserved it.

  No, scratch that. Whatever it was, I deserved worse.

  Still, hadn’t that been part of why I came here in the first place? If I wanted to make peace with my past, I needed to start with her. After all, I’d let her down worse than I had anyone else.

  Anyone who’s still living, I corrected myself with a wince.

  I stood up and pulled out my wallet, slamming a large bill on the table. Johnnie had been more than accommodating during the two hours I’d been chugging coffee and stuffing my face with sausages. He’d even stood up for me to one of his regulars, a blue-haired old lady who’d quietly complained of the new element when she first saw me.

  Johnnie was a good guy, and the least I could do was tip him well.

  Outside the diner, West Field was smaller than I remembered it. Smaller, and a lot less green. The recent heat wave had not been kind to it, islands of emerald receding before a tide of dry yellow grass. Still, it was a small price to pay if I actually give something back here.

  Give something back and, of course, spend time with Emilia.

  She’d arrived at the field about half an hour ago, her ponytail swinging in unison with her fast jog as she approached. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but somehow she looked even sexier today than she had yesterday. How the hell she managed that, I’ll never know.

  Maybe it was just because she hadn’t noticed me yet, the dim incandescent bulbs of Johnnie’s Diner making it harder to see in than it was for me to see out. Whatever the reason, I’d stared at her body in awed silence as she sat down on one of the benches that Adam and I had moved onto the field last night.

  She pulled an old paper bag out from her backpack, setting it between her legs, before she finally and clearly made eye contact with me. I’d expected some kind of reaction, but instead she…just kept sitting.

  No talking, no acknowledgment, not even moving.

  Just sitting.

  She was impassive and statuesque, and the sight chilled me to the bone. She stayed like that for almost half an hour, until the first couple of players began to trickle in a few minutes ago. They were very early, and I should’ve known then that Emilia was up to no good.

  Snapping out of her trance, she greeted them with a familiar smile and pulled two pieces of fabric out of the bag. She gave one to each of them, and something finally clicked.

  I knew that smile. It was the one she’d always had whenever she was getting away with something, back during those two awful summers we spent together.

  I stared out the window, the other players streaming in quickly now. She didn’t waste any time before getting started, not even waiting for me to come out. After handing out fabric strips to everyone, she blew on her whistle and sorted everyone into teams.

  Suddenly, her plan was clear as hell.

  She’d lied to me about when we’d begin, expecting me to show up late and with egg on my face. It was only by dumb luck I’d decided to wait at Johnnie’s, and she still obviously had no intention of working with me. Without giving me a proper introduction to the players, she was relegating me from coach to bystander.

  It wasn’t surprising. She’d always been resourceful, even when we were young. I’d had an attitude, but she had spirit. I was just a rebellious bastard, while she was the golden child who succeeded at everything. A track and field star, impeccable academics, and the stepdaughter my father loved more than his own flesh and blood. She gave me a run for my money all right, both then and now.

  Grabbing my sports bag and slinging it over my shoulder, I ran out of the diner and straight towards the crowd of players. They were putting on those strips of fabric, which I could now clearly see.

  It was the old, worn-down vests emblazoned with Johnnie’s logo. I laughed, feeling the weight of my shiny new vests bouncing over my back as I ran. I’d clearly been outplayed.

  If this was round one, she’d won it hands down.

  Hooker.

  I never imagined Coach would make me hooker.

  I hope I don’t let him down.

  Johnnie’s Diner must’ve been the last place in the city to still use incandescent lighting. As far as Johnnie was concerned, fluorescent lights had been brought to earth by Lucifer himself.

  What can I say? The man did not appreciate change. Besides, after a long day under buzzing CFL bulbs I usually was inclined to agree with him.

  Not this morning, though. One look at Simon Ferguson illuminated by the warm glow of an incandescent bulb, and I was desperately wishing for a sterile blue glare to mute his features. As it was, he looked gorgeous. His chiseled cheekbones were highlighted by the darkness of his hair, a blanket of stubble on his chin complementing his masculinity. His body was hard, full of sharp angles and thick muscles.

  I shivered, realizing that there was no way in hell I could go in. Not with him there, no way. I’d just have to skip my morning coffee with Johnnie. I had no intention of fraternizing with Simon, even if he was technically my stepbrother. He could get whatever it was he wanted from our deal, and I’d take what I needed.

  His money.

  It would keep the center running, and once he was gone, then I could give the kids new vests. Ones that hadn’t been tainted by him, ones that didn’t scream “I came here to buy you” in big bold British letters. I’d buy us all the equipment and shiny things we’d been missing out on, and besides, we could always have the place professionally sanitized after he left.

  Yeah. This fall was going to be great.

/>   Assuming I made it through this summer.

  Because clearly, summer was going to suck.

  I sat on the bench, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. Everyone would be here soon, though I wasn’t expecting Simon for quite a while. His early appearance was disruptive, but I had to put on my best face. I needed to stay focused, and remember that I was doing this for the rec center and all the poor families who needed it.

  Taking another deep breath, I cleared my mind and focused on the rise and fall of my stomach. Or at least I tried to. I’d been decent at meditating ever since learning it in college, but apparently Simon was my kryptonite in more ways than one.

  Visions of last night flashed across my closed eyelids, filling my head completely. Simon was an ass, and I couldn’t afford to lose against him. That’s why I had to spend half the evening watching rugby videos on YouTube. Taking in the rules, learning how to teach it, studying the very best players and their moves.

  Of course, it was just an obnoxious coincidence that Simon was one of those best players. Probably the best. I’d had no choice but to stare at his toned ass all night long, trying to burn every little detail in my mind.

  Details about the game, I mean. Not his ass.

  It had been exhausting, but I’d been unable to sleep afterwards all the same. Now, with half an hour before training began, the man was stopping me from meditating as well. Great.

  Bulging shoulders under rose-emblazoned jerseys.

  Thick thighs straining up the field in victorious dashes.

  Confident smiles a mile long.

  Adoring fans shouting his name.

  I could feel my fingernails biting into my palms as I fought a losing battle to pretend Simon Ferguson didn’t exist. It was infuriating. With an annoyed grunt, I snapped my eyes open and gave up on meditating.

  Mistake. Big mistake. Now I didn’t need to imagine him, because he was right in front of me. Through the window, I could see his bulky silhouette looking in my direction. I barely managed to avert my eyes, suddenly fascinated by my running shoes and my fingernails.