Falling For My Ruthless Stepbrother

Forbidden bites

If there’s something bad about making homemade pizza from scratch, it’s the time it takes for everything. The yeast must do its thing, I have to cook the tomatoes and make a sauce with them, I have to prepare the dough, and the kneading part is the one I like the least.

One of my secrets is to knead for several minutes so that the dough incorporates air and can rise much more easily. Additionally, after doing all this, it must rest for at least half an hour to double its size. At least. Because sometimes it’s good to let it sit for at least two hours, as the dough will have a better texture.

But since Emily and I are so impatient, half an hour is just fine. During that half-hour, I try to slip away, but my little sister has the grand idea of dragging me into the room where Ethan is and starts talking to him.

My whole body is tense. I don’t understand the need to bring me to this place when my discomfort is clearly evident, and the fact that I’m practically being ignored, which works wonderfully for me right now.

Ethan explains to my sister something about American football scoring and how they earn points. I remain on the side of them, completely still, not breathing too loudly, and trying to blink as little as possible while patiently waiting for the 30 minutes to pass.

But the stupid minutes don’t advance, and I feel like the clock is mocking me. Ten minutes of those thirty minutes I need have passed, and it feels like an eternity.

Why is it that when we want time to pass quickly, it becomes slower?

Or maybe that only happens to me because I have such wonderful luck. Note the sarcasm.

After about fifteen minutes, my leg starts moving up and down, and my nails get lost between my teeth, horribly devoured by them.

God, I’m too uncomfortable.

“Can you stay still?!” Ethan’s small, passive-aggressive shout makes me jump a little in my place. I look at him with narrowed eyes and a hand pressed to my chest. God, I felt like my heart stopped beating for a few seconds.

“I don’t want to.” I shrug, irritated. Ethan shoots me annoyed looks as he watches my leg continue to move.

“If you don’t stop now, I swear that…”

“What?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. “What are you going to do?”

My attitude is clearly defiant. I always feel on the defensive with him, but let’s see what for him, I’ve always been a nobody, a perfect target for his jokes, someone he could be ruthless with and a horrible person. For me, he is the one who has created many fears and insecurities, and he will always be to blame for my anxiety issues, especially when they grow because of having him so close.

“You won’t want to know. Just stop.”

His green eyes seem to shine more due to the contrast of his black shirt; I don’t know how I notice it, but I see small brown specks in his eyes.

“Don’t threaten me if you won’t really do anything.”

I shouldn’t have said the latter, and I know it the moment his hand descends upon my right thigh, immobilizing it. His hand is large—too large compared to my body—and it’s so heavy that I immediately feel my leg being effortlessly stopped. The palm of his hand feels warm against my skin, and right now, I curse wearing shorts instead of long pants.

Excuse me? What am I thinking? I’m not cursing my choice of clothing; I’m cursing that he’s touching me!

“Stay still,” he says with clenched teeth, very close to my face.

“Let go of me.” I squirm under his grip, but I don’t achieve much; it’s so strong.

“Step back!” His thumb traces a small path, as if it were a caress on my skin while his eyes are fixed on mine. What’s wrong with him? Has he gone crazy?

I want to scream loudly, but I don’t want to scare my sister, who surprisingly is very focused on the TV, watching the local American football team play against a team from another country.

I place my hands on his chest and push. I think I caught him off guard because I manage to move him, surprising myself. I take advantage of the moment to escape from there, feeling my heart beating very fast within my chest.

I take the dough and spread it on the island, starting to knead it again—another of my secrets, always knead twice, before and after. Now, my breaths are strong, and the poor dough seems to be suffering from the force I exert. But I’ve found this method to be a very practical way to release tension.

I roll out the dough with more determination, shaping it with thick edges. I take a large spoonful of tomato and spread it as the base of my pizza before starting to place the ingredients. Finally, a generous amount of shredded cheese.

The smell is simply spectacular when I put the pizza in the oven and start making another one. I must admit that I love Hawaiian pizza with all my might, yes, the one with pineapple that is so controversial. From the first moment I tried it, I loved it—the double clash of flavors for me was the perfect contrast. Sweet and salty at a level that combines very well.

I add small cubes of pineapple along with bits of ham and cover with more cheese. I take advantage of having several ovens available to bake it as well. Now, I don’t have to wait for one to come out to put the other in, and that excites me, making me forget the entire previous encounter with Ethan. And it completely fades from my memory when I open the oven of the first pizza that has been cooking, and the smell is amazing.

My mouth waters just with the smell, and I see that it turned out perfect. It has a spectacular golden hue, thick edges, and completely melted cheese that makes you want to take a bite immediately. I carefully take the pizza out of the oven, trying not to burn myself, place it on a wire tray to cool a bit, and cut it into triangular portions.

My sister arrives as soon as she smells it, and right behind her comes Ethan, who leans on the kitchen island with his hip, still watching my pizza with interest. I won’t be so selfish as not to give him a slice. Even since I started preparing the dough, I knew I’d give him a piece because, I insist, I’m not a bad person. I just can’t stand the harm he did to me, but I can separate things, and everyone has to try my pizza at least once in their life.

I grab three plates and place them in front of each one, serving a portion on each. The cheese stretches, leaving strips between portions. My sister claps excitedly, biting into the pizza and pulling it away from her mouth to see how long she can stretch the cheese. Ethan smiles half-smilingly and joins in, creating a kind of competition to see who can achieve a longer cheese pull. I simply enjoy my first slice, very happy to have made it on my sister’s recommendation. The pizza turned out delicious.

The oven with the Hawaiian pizza beeps, and I jump from my seat with excitement. Upon opening it, the smell of fruit permeates the entire place, and my mouth waters again. I repeat the same procedure to bring the pizza tray to the island without burning myself. The pineapple has taken on a beautiful golden color, and the smell is simply spectacular.

“I don’t believe you,” I hear Ethan say. I raise my eyebrows in confusion. “What?”

“Pizza with pineapple? That’s an abomination!”

Of course, he would say something like that. I roll my eyes and cut the portions again with this wheel-shaped cutter ideal for pizzas. I have practice, and my portions are perfectly cut.

I leave the first slice on his plate for him to try before speaking. “Come on, try a bit and then tell me if it tastes bad. I’m completely sure it doesn’t because there’s simply nothing wrong with my favorite pizza.”

Ethan looks at me with narrowed eyes, not believing me. I encourage him to bite and savor a bit and then give me his opinion. My sister also encourages him to eat, and he has no choice but to take a bite of the pizza, a bite that seems to contain… fear?

I let out a small laugh when I see his teeth close against the dough, and it seems like he doesn’t even want to try to chew. Still, he gradually does it, and his eyes slowly open with much amazement. He takes another bite and another until he finishes it in record time. I give him a smug smile when he looks at me.

“I told you. There’s nothing tastier in this life than pineapple pizza.”

“Yeah, there is, but you’re too small and innocent to know it,” he shrugs, making me furrow my brow, “but well, I have to admit it’s not bad at all. I really liked it. Can I have another piece?”

I’m tempted to say no just to leave him wanting more, but I don’t even have to say anything because he takes another portion himself and devours it in record time.

I take one for myself, afraid he won’t leave me anything, and I moan in satisfaction when I taste it. It has never been so delicious! And that’s saying something since they always turn out delicious, I have to admit. I’m very good at making them.

Ethan’s mouth opens a bit as he looks at me. I move my face away when I see that his hand is very close to it, but I’m not quick enough, and his thumb brushes the corner of my left lip before showing me that there was a bit of tomato there. I’m totally amazed when he takes his finger to his mouth and licks the tomato from there.

My throat tightens, and I mentally hit myself for focusing on those lips of his. Remember that these are lips that have hurt you too much; you can’t want to taste them.

They’re forbidden.

Totally forbidden.