Read Shame: A Stepbrother Romance for Free Online Page A

into my consciousness, I manage to dodge it. No, it’s not something I’m ready to face just yet. Probably that’s why hangover exists, so the physical pain you feel can somewhat mitigate the memories of what you’ve done the previous night.
    Why am I not one of those people who don’t remember a thing after a night of being wasted?
    I’m not eighteen. I’m twenty-seven, for God’s sake! Hangover does not agree with anyone over twenty. I pour myself a giant jar of tap water (I have no glasses here, just cups, so I use mason jars) and put a kettle on the small electric stove. Hopefully the coffee and the pill will bring me back to my senses enough to push through to my lunch hour. I’ll take a nap on one of the sofas by the fireplace then.
    My misery can’t wait that long.
    By the time I’ve set the tray with the coffee, a small porcelain jug of cream ( Eww, cream, whip cream, Blow Job shot… Stop! Don’t think! ) and the sugar bowl on the small wooden table, I’m already so exhausted that I decide to lift my legs up for just a minute.
    The minute stretches on. Right before I drift off, I finally ask myself the inevitable question. What was that last night? It wasn’t even a one night stand. It was more of a twenty-minute stand. What came over me? Why didn’t I say no? I keep repeating my new mantra, I’m never drinking again, until I fall asleep.
    A distant sound, a bell chiming, brings me back to reality. No! Please, no. I thought I locked the front door behind me, but apparently I haven’t. My brain is mush. It’s a customer and I’m sleeping. At the very least there is a bookcase that is currently the only thing between the poor person and the even poorer-looking me, so I’m not exposed yet.
    I rise to my feet at once and feel extremely disoriented for a minute. My glasses have fallen off to the floor and as soon as I put them on and things come into focus again, I wish I hadn’t.
    Or maybe what I see before me is not as shocking as it seems. It’s impossible, so it’s just proof that I’m dreaming.
    It’s him.
    The man from last night.
    I still haven’t completely washed him off my skin yet, and here he is again, standing in my bookshop, right in front of me. It is seriously not possible and I’m about to turn and go back to my cozy spot on the sofa, certain that I’m not awake yet, when he speaks. I wince. Please, be a dream. Please, be a dream.
    “Wow! Hi there, Cinderella,” he says slowly, smugly.
    I’m really hoping that by that he doesn’t mean that I’ve turned back into a pumpkin, but a quick look at the gilt-framed mirror on the wall behind the counter confirms that’s exactly what he meant. I look much worse than I thought.
    I’m dressed in black leggings and a huge, baggy hoodie dress. My hair is all over the place, falling out of the loose knot on top of my head. My skin is red and blotchy and dark circles frame my eyes under the thick glasses. I really want to hide somewhere and pretend this is not happening.
    I remember reading somewhere that Cinderella never asked for a prince anyway. She asked for a dress and a night out. That’s what I did. I’m not even sure I asked for the particular dress I got, but I had a night out alright. Now I have to deal with the prince.
    “Hi,” I manage to mumble. “What on earth…”
    “Am I doing here?” he interrupts, the half smile never leaving his face as he inspects me from head to toe. “I came by to check on my little crush from last night.”
    It’s one thing to have primal sex with someone in the obscurity of a club’s bathroom when you are drunk, and it’s completely another to have to face a man who is clearly out of my dorky league in real life, when I’m sober and hungover. Now, in the daylight, I finally get a good look at him and what I see doesn’t make me any more comfortable to be in his company.
    He is tall, that I knew from last night, but now I see just how tall he really is. His dark blond hair is messy