Forbidden (A Real Man #28)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Lila

The tires of my beat-up Honda crunched over the gravel driveway as if they were announcing my return, loud and final.

I killed the engine and sat for a second, staring at the familiar two-story colonial that used to feel like home and now felt like a museum of things I’d outgrown.

The paint on the shutters had faded to a tired gray-blue, the porch swing still hung crooked the way it always had, and the maple tree in the front yard had gotten taller, its branches brushing the second-floor windows like they were trying to reach inside.

Everything looked the same. But it all felt so different.

I popped the trunk, hauled out my duffle and the cardboard box of sketchbooks and laptop cables, and climbed the three steps to the front door. Before I could knock, it swung open.

Marcus.

He was bigger than I remembered, with broader shoulders and thicker arms. It was the kind of solid muscle that came from years of swinging hammers and hauling lumber rather than gym selfies.

His dark hair was streaked with more silver at the temples now, and the lines around his eyes had deepened, but those storm-gray irises were sharp and exactly the same.

His gaze flicked over me in one quick, assessing sweep from my chest to my hips, down my legs, and back up again. He didn’t smile right away. He just looked.

“Lila,” he finally said. His voice was low, gravel-rough, and held the same tone that used to tell me to turn the music down when I was blasting indie rock through the hallway well past my bedtime. “You made good time.”

“Yeah. Traffic wasn’t bad.” I shifted the box in my arms, suddenly aware of how I wasn’t wearing a bra under my thin cotton tee and how my high-rise jeans left nothing to the imagination.

I felt exposed in a way I hadn’t expected.

“Thanks again for letting me crash here.”

He stepped aside, holding the door wider. “Hell, you’re doing me a favor going through all this shit. Besides, it’s your house, too. Always has been.”

I never expected the simple act of coming home to feel like stepping into a memory that was painful. For years, I’d wanted to leave, to be independent. I never expected to… miss this place.

I walked past him into the foyer. The smell hit me first—a mixture of wood polish, faint sawdust that always clung to him no matter how much he showered, and something warmer, earthier, and unmistakably Marcus.

The same narrow entry table stood against the wall with the same framed photo still centered on it… Mom, Marcus, and me at my high school graduation. I was eighteen in the picture, skinny arms and uncertain smile under the cap and gown.

Marcus had his arm slung around my shoulders, his stance casual and protective, but back then, I remembered it felt heavy in a way that made me feel both anchored and strangely unsteady at the same time.

I set the box down and turned. He was still watching me, arms crossed now, biceps flexing under the cotton of his T-shirt. The silence stretched, thick and awkward.

“You look…” He searched for the word. “Different.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Five years will do that.”

“Guess so.” His gaze flicked down again, slower this time, tracing the line of my slightly sweaty tee where it still clung tight across my chest from the drive, and then back to my face. “Your room’s still yours. I didn’t move or touch anything.”

“Thanks.” I grabbed my duffle before the air could get any heavier and headed for the stairs. My heart was thudding too loudly in my ears. I told myself it was just the weirdness of being back, just the echo of old routines, and that the last time I’d lived here he was still married to my mother.

The hallway upstairs smelled like clean sheets and aged pine. My door was ajar, and I pushed it open. I stood there and looked around.

Nothing had changed.

Lavender walls, a white iron bed with the quilt Mom pieced together when I was twelve and my desk still littered with charcoal stubs and half-finished sketches from senior year.

The corkboard above it held the same faded concert tickets, Polaroids of me and friends I barely talked to anymore, and the dried corsage from prom.

I dropped my bag and sat on the edge of the mattress, letting the stillness press all around and let it all sink in.

Back when I was eighteen, and they’d just gotten married, Marcus had been this quiet, towering, constant presence in the house. He ran his own construction company with the same steady focus he brought to everything else.

He’d be gone long hours, and when he walked through the door, everything smelled of sawdust and sweat.

Marcus was never cruel and never raised his voice. But his protectiveness was something else. If a boy called me after ten, Marcus would appear in my doorway, arms folded, asking who it was in that calm, unhurried tone that made the guy on the other end stammer.

If I rolled in past curfew, he’d be on the porch swing, not raising his voice, just watching me walk up the path with those gray eyes until I felt small and guilty and oddly flushed.

Mom never cared much. She’d scold me for five minutes, then got over it.

I used to resent how aware I was of him. The way his shirts pulled tight across his chest when he lifted something heavy. The low sound of his laugh when Mom teased him. And the casual way he’d ruffle my hair, his palm lingering a beat too long on the back of my neck.

I told myself it was normal, that every girl noticed the grown men around her when she was first waking up to her own body.

I packed it away when I left for college, buried it under dorm parties, late-night cramming for exams, and the slow drift of Mom and Marcus’s marriage falling apart. But memories like that don’t vanish.

I crossed to the window and looked down.

Marcus was hauling the last of my things out of the trunk.

He carried a suitcase in one hand and my plant in the other.

As if he sensed me watching him, he stopped and glanced up.

He didn’t smile, just held my gaze for a long second, and then carried it all up the steps without breaking stride to disappear inside.

My stomach did a slow, uneasy flip.

I turned away and started unpacking. I went through the motions of hanging clothes, plugging in my charger, and setting my laptop on the desk. I tried to anchor myself in routine. But every creak of the floorboards downstairs reminded me he was moving through the house.

By the time I went back downstairs, the sun had slid lower in the sky, covering the living room in warm gold. Marcus was in the kitchen, shirt stretched tight across his back, rinsing a glass at the sink. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

He gave me a small smirk and turned to face me. “Was gonna throw burgers and potatoes on the grill. Beers with dinner. Nothing fancy.”

“Sounds perfect.”

He dried his hands on a dish towel, grabbed the items for dinner, and headed for the back door. I followed him onto the deck. The late-summer air was thick, cicadas droning in the trees. He lit the grill, flames whooshing up, and I leaned against the railing, watching the easy way he moved.

“You still grill?” I asked.

“Pretty much. Beats heating the kitchen. It’s already hot as hell.” He glanced at me. “When do you start your new job?”

“In a month. Told them I couldn’t start right away, so I had time to help you pack up the house.”

“You’re a sweet girl,” he rumbled out, and I felt my body heat. “What’s your degree again?”

“Got a job at a little marketing firm downtown. Good pay and benefits. I’m excited.”

“You should be. You’ve always had an eye for it.” His gaze caught mine and held. “Always noticed the details.”

The words landed heavier than they should have, and I felt heat crawl up my neck. “Thanks,” I murmured.

He turned back to the grill, but the silence between us didn’t lighten.

It coiled. When the burgers and baked potatoes were done, he plated them and carried everything inside.

I followed, hyper-aware of how close we were as we passed in the doorway, the brief brush of his arm against mine sending a sharp jolt through me.

We ate at the old oak table, the same one that had the chipped edge and wobbly leg.

He asked about how college overall went for me, about my friends, and if there was anyone special.

I kept my answers light. School took up most of my time, so I was single and only had a few close friends.

Not much time for parties and dates when I had a career to plan.

He nodded and focused solely on me, but his gaze kept drifting to my mouth when I talked, to my fingers wrapped around the beer bottle, to the sliver of skin where my tank top strap had slid down my shoulder.

We cleared the dishes in silence. I rinsed, he dried, and when our elbows touched once, neither of us pulled away. The contact was warm and comfortable.

When the last plate was stacked, Marcus leaned back against the counter, arms crossed again.

“You okay being back here?” he asked, quieter now. “It’s not too weird given the situation?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s… strange. But a good strange. Brings back a lot of happy memories.”

He studied me for a long moment. “If it feels too strange, say so. I’ll give you space.”

“I don’t need space,” I said, the words slipping out faster than I meant them to.

His jaw flexed, and something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, or maybe it was something darker.

Finally, he said, voice lower, rougher, “Good.”

He said only that one word, but the air between us stilled for a heartbeat before it slowly charged with something I could almost taste on my tongue. “Marcus…”

My former stepfather pushed off the counter, took one slow step closer, but didn’t touch me. He stood a few feet from me, close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off him and smell charcoal smoke and clean sweat on his skin.

“It’s been a long time, Lila,” he breathed. “I’m glad you’re back where you belong.”

My breath hitched. “Yeah.” It was all I could say, and I was surprised I’d been able to form a coherent word given how flustered I felt.

He looked down at me, his towering height making me feel small, petite even. His gaze searched mine. For one suspended second, I thought he might close the last bit of space between us.

Then he stepped back. “Get some rest,” he said, turning toward the hall. “Big week coming up.”

He walked away, and I stood frozen in the kitchen, heart slamming against my ribs, skin buzzing like static.

I stayed there a long time, staring at the empty doorway, replaying every glance, careful word, and fraction of space he’d closed and then opened again.

A part of me—the part I’d tried to forget—wasn’t sure I could keep it buried any longer.

Because my thoughts about my former stepfather crossed every line. I felt ashamed and guilty for thinking these things about my mother’s ex-husband, but they were so strong, so present, there wasn’t any way for me to stop them.

And I didn’t know if I wanted to.