Crazy Over My Stepdad

Chapter 3

The sunlight was merciless.

I turned over in bed, groaning, the sheets twisted around me like they knew the secrets I’d buried in them last night. My skin still tingled faintly, humming with the ghost of what I’d done. My stomach knotted as shame flooded me, but there was no escaping the truth.

I had touched myself.

Thinking about him.

Mom’s boyfriend.

I pressed my palms against my eyes and groaned again. God, what was wrong with me? It wasn’t like I’d planned it. I hadn’t asked for this. But the memory of Mark—his broad shoulders filling the doorway, his voice curling low and deep into my bones, the way his eyes had lingered on me—had followed me into bed and refused to let me sleep.

And I’d broken.

The worst part? I didn’t regret it. Not really.

Dragging myself out of bed, I pulled on a thin T-shirt and shorts, trying to look casual, normal. Like a girl who hadn’t spent half the night squirming under her sheets imagining things she had no business imagining.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and toast. Mom was already buzzing around in her robe, humming some tune, setting plates on the counter. She glanced up when I walked in, her face glowing in a way I hadn’t seen in years.

“You’re up late,” she teased. “Rough night?”

I nearly choked. If you only knew.

I forced a smile, reaching for a glass of water to hide the heat rising in my cheeks. “Just… couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, try to wake up fast. Mark’s coming over this morning.”

The glass nearly slipped from my hand. “He is?”

Mom didn’t notice my reaction. She poured coffee into two mugs, humming again. “He’s going to help me with a few things around the house—some shelves, that loose cabinet door in the kitchen. Isn’t that sweet?”

Sweet. Right. That was one word for it.

My stomach flipped as I nodded mutely and sank into a chair, pressing the cold glass of water to my lips.

⸻

By the time the knock sounded on the door, I felt like I’d been sitting on pins. Lily came bounding down the stairs like a puppy, already dressed to kill in a skimpy top and tight jeans. I wanted to roll my eyes.

Mom opened the door, and there he was again.

Mark.

Sunlight framed him, making him look even taller, broader. He wore a plain black T-shirt that clung to his chest, jeans faded at the knees, boots scuffed but solid. He carried a small toolbox in one hand, like it weighed nothing.

“Morning,” he said, his voice smooth and steady, filling the space like it belonged here.

“Hi, Mark!” Lily practically sang, brushing past Mom to stand in his line of sight. “Wow, you look… handy.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning out loud.

His eyes flicked briefly over her, polite but uninterested, before landing on me. Just for a second. Barely long enough to register. But it was enough to set my pulse racing.

“Hey,” he said simply, the corner of his mouth tugging in the smallest hint of a smile.

I ducked my head, muttering something that was supposed to be a greeting, praying he hadn’t noticed how flustered I suddenly was.

⸻

Breakfast was torture.

Mark sat at the table across from me, his forearms resting casually on the wood, veins stark beneath his skin. Every time he reached for something, his muscles shifted beneath his shirt, pulling it taut across his chest. He smelled faintly of soap and sawdust, something clean but rugged, a scent that made it hard to focus on anything else.

Mom chattered away, asking about his week, laughing at his stories. Lily giggled at everything he said, even things that weren’t remotely funny. She leaned forward, batting her lashes, twirling her hair.

I wanted to strangle her.

Not that I had any right to. She was younger, prettier, and perfectly entitled to flirt with the guy dating our mom. But watching her simper while his eyes occasionally, occasionally, drifted toward me felt like someone pressing a hot blade against my ribs.

At one point, Mark caught me staring.

It was an accident—I hadn’t meant to look up just then, hadn’t meant to let my gaze linger on the cut of his jaw or the way his lips curved around the rim of his coffee mug. But when our eyes locked, my stomach plummeted.

He didn’t look away right away. His gaze held mine for a beat too long, unreadable, steady. Then he turned back to Mom, answering some question I hadn’t heard.

I swallowed hard, my face burning.

⸻

Later, Mom sent him to the kitchen to look at the cabinet hinge. Lily tried to tag along, but Mom asked her to help with laundry instead.

Which left me.

I hovered near the counter, pretending to be busy rinsing dishes while Mark crouched by the lower cabinet, tool in hand. His shirt stretched across his back as he worked, muscles shifting beneath the fabric. The sound of the screwdriver clicked steadily, but all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart.

“So,” he said casually, not looking up, “your mom tells me you’re in school. What are you studying?”

My mouth went dry. I fumbled with a dishcloth. “Uh… English. Literature.”

He nodded, tightening a screw. “Makes sense. You look like a reader.”

I blinked, heat crawling up my neck. “Is that… a good thing?”

This time, he glanced at me. His eyes were calm, steady, but there was something behind them I couldn’t name. “It’s a compliment.”

My throat went tight. I turned quickly back to the sink, my face burning.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. I could feel his presence filling the small kitchen, his body close enough that I swore I could feel the heat radiating off him.

Then, just as quickly, it was over. He tightened the last screw, stood, wiped his hands on a rag. “That should hold.”

“Thanks,” I whispered, not trusting my voice any louder.

He nodded once, then walked past me, his shoulder brushing mine ever so slightly as he went. The touch was nothing, barely an accident. But it sent a shockwave through me that left my knees weak.

⸻

When he finally left that afternoon, toolbox in hand, Mom kissed him on the cheek and promised dinner again soon. Lily watched him walk down the driveway like she was memorizing every move.

I didn’t watch. I couldn’t.

I bolted to my room, slammed the door, collapsed onto my bed. My chest was heaving, my body thrumming with restless energy. Every moment from the morning replayed in my head—the way he’d looked at me, the weight of his voice when he said it was a compliment, the brush of his shoulder against mine.

My fingers curled in the sheets.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

I was in deeper than I could admit, and there was no way out now.

Not without setting everything on fire.