Page 17 of Hey, Stepbro

"Will do." I clasp his shoulder briefly, hoping the gesture conveys my gratitude. "Good luck not studying too hard."

"No promises." Waxley winks and shoos me off with a wave of his hand. "Now go, before those drinks get cold."

I don't need to be told twice. With a last nod to my friend, I grab the drinks, slip a few bills into the tip jar, and head out of the cozy cafe into the crisp autumn day with Stella.

The walk to Rainbow Paws passes in a blur of leaf-strewn sidewalks and pumpkin spice scented breezes.

By the time Stella and I push through the shelter's doors, two drinks in hand, the tension has completely melted from my body.

I glance around forCampusKing,but there’s not a single college-aged guy here. Unless he’s a sixty-year-old woman with a cute crocheted sweater, he never showed up.

CHAPTER6

BROCK

Sunday mornings are for French toast, that's what my other dad, Carlos, always said before he went and cheated on Nathaniel, the only dad I care about. Carlos didn't have many good qualities, but he was an excellent breakfast chef. He taught me the best French toast recipe ever, and I always make it on Sunday mornings. No one can force me to eat anything different.

Well... Blakely sitting at the center island—right beside the bowls and whisks—makes me want to grab cereal.

"Hey, stepbro," I say, eyes lingering on the way Blakely's T-shirt clings to his slender frame. I swallow hard, willing my mind to stay on topic. I can't believe how hot he is. Most dudes in my position wouldn't give Blakely a second glance, but he has an energy about him I can't ignore. He gets my gears turning, my engine rumbling, and he turns my eight-inch cock into a motherfucking log.

Blakely looks up from his phone. "You seem to be in a good mood. What's up?"

"I'm making my favorite Sunday meal." Duh. Everyone within a five-block radius of Dad's house knows what I do on Sunday mornings. The fact that Blakely doesn't know this tells me he has a lot to learn about me.

Blakely grins. "I can't believe I'm related to someone who knows how to make breakfast. I thought you were a football jock."

"Hey, now. I'm more than a mere jock. I have a variety of talents." No innuendo implied.

Blakely laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. He sets down his phone, resting his elbows on the center island's granite top.

"What are you making?"

"French toast." I take out the eggs and milk from the refrigerator.

"Can I help?"

I hesitate for a moment, not sure how to respond. My eyes roam over his cheeks, delicate lips, and dewy eyelashes, and I let out a groan.

I shouldn't be attracted to Blakely.

Some people would call me a freak.

I don't really give a fuck about their close-minded opinions, but they do have a point. He's my stepbrother, after all.

It's hard to ignore the way his voice sends shivers down my spine or the way he makes my balls clench. Amanda never did that once; that nasty witch didn't have the talents.

In fact, now that I think about it, I'm certain that I dreaded putting my dick inside Amanda. At the very least, when she blew me, she didn't make me cry out like Blakely.

"Sure," I manage to say, placing the ingredients on the counter beside him. "Why not?"

Blakely picks up a whisk and starts to beat the eggs. I watch, mesmerized, as his hands move swiftly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"That looks delicious," I say, a bit too eagerly, as Blakely pours the egg mixture into the pan.

He gives me an amused look. "Thanks, I guess."

"Do you ever cook?"

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