Stepbrother Romance: My Alpha Cowboy Stepbrother (Stepbrother Romance, Taboo, Forbidden, Stepsister, New Adult, Western Romance, Cowboy Romance) by Celia Styles Page B
Authors: Celia Styles
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side of the road, and no trace of me in sight. It was a bit of a mystery to them as to why I told people that I was going to a gallery opening and then the car was found somewhere in the complete opposite direction, but while they might make Alan rather miserable for a rather long time, they couldn’t charge him with murder without a body. And, well, I was very much alive.
I was feeling pretty darn good.
Easton Miles flew into Philadelphia with an overnight bag and a tube of paintings. Over the course of a week, she got herself set up with a job as a barista, a new apartment, a new wardrobe. No more conservative jackets and scoop-necked shirts, no more sensible shoes and sedate jewelry. I went to work, served coffee for eight hours, clocked out, and painted, went to gallery shows, hung out with people who liked my work and whose work I admired. I even managed to sell a piece, which was good because I was despairing of ever saving up enough to buy my next set of oils.
I became known as the “cartoon barista”, because if I had time I would do a quick, funny sketch of the customer as they waited. They always loved it, and after about three months I started taking on more managerial tasks, like keeping track of inventory and store layout and design. I got permission to display some of my smaller works in the shop—and managed to close a few sales.
Easton Miles was rocking this thing called “life”, and loving every minute of it. She was single, hot, and making it as an artist. I took a vacation to New York one day and basically bought out the Max Factor line of makeup at Sephora. Where I used to be content with just a light foundation and some mascara, I now began to discover the joys of going totally glam. I dialed it down a little for work, but now that I could afford to go out again I loved the feeling of being in total control of my life and the men that got up the courage to flirt with me. But I never took any of them home. They reminded me too much of Alan.
And then she started coming to the coffee shop where I worked: she gave her name as Stella, and I drew her as a cartoon star. She had a lovely smile and an athletic build, and deep-brown, soulful eyes, rimmed with thick, long lashes. “I heard good things about this place,” she said, when I gave her the order for the first time. My heart skipped a beat.
She usually came towards the end of my shift, in the afternoons, always ordering the large latte made with skim milk. It was a slow time of day, and we often chatted as I wiped the counters and cleaned the machines: she’d just moved to the East Coast from Chicago. She was a lawyer. I told her about my art, and the pieces I’d managed to sell. “I think that’s really brave,” she said. “It’s a piece of you, isn’t it? To give that to a total stranger must be totally nerve wracking.”
Finally, someone who gets it . Usually when I told people I was an artist, they’d nod, and I could just see them thinking, Painting a dead cat doesn’t mean you’re an artist, sweetie, but if that’s what you want to believe, go right ahead. If the conversation managed to progress to where I’d be able to tell them about the pieces that I’d sold, then their faces would morph from complete disdain to annoyed condescension: So you sold a few pieces. Doesn’t mean you’ll be able to quit your day job .
“You’re the first person who truly understands what it’s like for me,” I said. “Thank you for that.”
She smiled sadly, and said, “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one left who has an appreciation for the finer things in life.”
“I know!” I cried. “Guys these days—they’re all like, ‘C’mon, let me touch your titties—‘”
“—and then if you let them, you’re a slut, and if you don’t, you’re a bitch,” she finished.
We laughed bitterly. I picked up my water bottle—free coffee was one
I was feeling pretty darn good.
Easton Miles flew into Philadelphia with an overnight bag and a tube of paintings. Over the course of a week, she got herself set up with a job as a barista, a new apartment, a new wardrobe. No more conservative jackets and scoop-necked shirts, no more sensible shoes and sedate jewelry. I went to work, served coffee for eight hours, clocked out, and painted, went to gallery shows, hung out with people who liked my work and whose work I admired. I even managed to sell a piece, which was good because I was despairing of ever saving up enough to buy my next set of oils.
I became known as the “cartoon barista”, because if I had time I would do a quick, funny sketch of the customer as they waited. They always loved it, and after about three months I started taking on more managerial tasks, like keeping track of inventory and store layout and design. I got permission to display some of my smaller works in the shop—and managed to close a few sales.
Easton Miles was rocking this thing called “life”, and loving every minute of it. She was single, hot, and making it as an artist. I took a vacation to New York one day and basically bought out the Max Factor line of makeup at Sephora. Where I used to be content with just a light foundation and some mascara, I now began to discover the joys of going totally glam. I dialed it down a little for work, but now that I could afford to go out again I loved the feeling of being in total control of my life and the men that got up the courage to flirt with me. But I never took any of them home. They reminded me too much of Alan.
And then she started coming to the coffee shop where I worked: she gave her name as Stella, and I drew her as a cartoon star. She had a lovely smile and an athletic build, and deep-brown, soulful eyes, rimmed with thick, long lashes. “I heard good things about this place,” she said, when I gave her the order for the first time. My heart skipped a beat.
She usually came towards the end of my shift, in the afternoons, always ordering the large latte made with skim milk. It was a slow time of day, and we often chatted as I wiped the counters and cleaned the machines: she’d just moved to the East Coast from Chicago. She was a lawyer. I told her about my art, and the pieces I’d managed to sell. “I think that’s really brave,” she said. “It’s a piece of you, isn’t it? To give that to a total stranger must be totally nerve wracking.”
Finally, someone who gets it . Usually when I told people I was an artist, they’d nod, and I could just see them thinking, Painting a dead cat doesn’t mean you’re an artist, sweetie, but if that’s what you want to believe, go right ahead. If the conversation managed to progress to where I’d be able to tell them about the pieces that I’d sold, then their faces would morph from complete disdain to annoyed condescension: So you sold a few pieces. Doesn’t mean you’ll be able to quit your day job .
“You’re the first person who truly understands what it’s like for me,” I said. “Thank you for that.”
She smiled sadly, and said, “It’s nice to know I’m not the only one left who has an appreciation for the finer things in life.”
“I know!” I cried. “Guys these days—they’re all like, ‘C’mon, let me touch your titties—‘”
“—and then if you let them, you’re a slut, and if you don’t, you’re a bitch,” she finished.
We laughed bitterly. I picked up my water bottle—free coffee was one
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