My Stepdad's Forbidden Manuscript

I was sprawled on my bed, flipping through a magazine, when Alexander filled my doorway.

"Isabella," he said. "Running to the store. Wanna tag along?"

"Nah, I'm good," I said, gesturing to my pajamas. "Still in my comfy clothes."

"Need me to pick anything up?"

"Condoms."

He froze mid-stride. "I'm sorry, what?"

I giggled. "Just kidding."

His face went tight. "That's not funny, Isabella."

"Relax, Dad. It was a joke."

My stepdad is usually pretty cool, but he's got a major stick up his butt about some things. Sex is at the top of the list.

Even though we're not related by blood, his protectiveness is next-level.

He didn't even let me go on a date until I turned sixteen. And even then, I had to text him every half hour like clockwork—proof of life that I hadn't been abducted or dumped in a ditch somewhere.

Now that I'm eighteen, the constant check-ins are over.

But he still grills every guy who shows up at our door like he's a federal agent and they're prime suspects.

He would absolutely lose his mind if he knew I'd lost my virginity a year ago.

I've been sexually active ever since.

And judging by the hushed, tense arguments I sometimes hear through his bedroom door, I might be getting more action than he is.

"Text me if you think of anything," he said, all business again.

He's pure masculine energy—rugged stubble, piercing blue eyes, a mop of dark, messy hair.

Today it was a red flannel stretched across his broad shoulders and a pair of faded jeans.

"Thanks," I said.

He disappeared down the hall.

I waited, listening until his footsteps faded down the stairs.

Then I went to my window.

A minute later, his SUV backed down the driveway and vanished.

Finally. The house was all mine.

I'd been waiting for this.

Alexander was gone. My mom, Sophia, was away for the weekend with her book club on some wine-tasting tour.

I hurried downstairs.

I grabbed a kitchen chair and hauled it over to the locked door of Alexander's office.

Placing the chair squarely in front of it, I climbed up and ran my fingers along the top of the doorframe.

My fingertips brushed against cold metal.

Bingo. I snatched the key, hopped down, and moved the chair back.

Alexander's a writer. He works from home. No nine-to-five commute for him.

What does he write? Your guess is as good as mine.

I've asked him a million times.

He always brushes me off with some vague excuse, saying I wouldn't be interested.

I've told him I'm interested in anything he does.

But he's a brick wall. And he keeps that office locked up tight whenever he's not planted in there.

Even if I pop my head in while he's working, he slams his laptop shut before I can get a glimpse.

It's beyond irritating.

When I ask my mom, she just shrugs and says he writes "technical manuals" and that I should let it go.

Then, last week, I was vacuuming the hallway.

I bumped the vacuum against the base of his door, and like magic, a key fell from above and landed on the carpet.

I tried it. The lock clicked. Jackpot.