Page 9 of The Stranger
Chapter 4
Spencer
Ifeel like a complete and utter fool standing on a stranger’s doorstep with a bunch of roses in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. This is not the kind of thing I do.Ever. I can tell you how I ended up here, though … tears, a fucking bucket load from my mother. I don’t do well with emotional females at the best of times, especially the woman who gave me life. As she was the better parent out of the two, I’ll always have a soft spot for her. She has been to hell and back in recent years, especially since the divorce.
You know what I also have a soft spot for? The underdog. When my mother went into great detail about Delilah St. James’s backstory—which she learnt during a long luncheon I had no knowledge of until today—my heart again went out to her. I may be a ruthless businessman, but damsels in distress are another one of my weaknesses. Throw my mother’s waterworks into this mess, and frankly, I didn’t stand a chance.
Did I want to come here tonight? No way in hell, yet here I am about to put on a show in front of that evil sister of hers, and the fuckface Delilah was recently engaged to.
I take a moment to drink her in as she stares at me unblinking from the doorway. She is young—far too young for me—in her early twenties at best, but one thing is for sure, the photos on Facebook don’t do her justice. She’s breathtaking. Sinfully so … all doe-eyed and fresh-faced.
And possibly jailbait, Prescott,I remind myself.
Fuck, I shouldn’t have come.
My eyes move from her face and down the length of her body. Her long hair is pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, and she’s dressed in an oversized black hoodie that is accompanied by a pair of tight, faded jeans with rips in the knee. Her feet are bare, and her toenails are painted a bright pink. Not only does she look every bit her age, but I like that she made zero effort to impress me.
“Oh my God, Mr Prescott,” she whispers, taking a step in my direction and grasping hold of the sleeve of my black cashmere sweater. She’s clearly panicked, and I’m forced to roll my lips to hide my amusement when her pretty blue eyes widen to the size of saucers. “I was expecting your mother.”
Of course she was, which my mother failed to mention. She played me, and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.
In hindsight, I should’ve known better, especially when she magically produced the bottle of wine and flowers that I brought along with me. In my defence I was too preoccupied planning my escape from the blubbering. She missed her calling and would’ve made a tremendous actress.
Out of my peripheral vision, I see movement. A woman, who I presume is Delilah’s sister, is now standing at the end of the hall with an equally shocked expression on her face. I’m forced to do the only thing I can. Tuckingthe chilled bottle of champagne under the same arm that’s holding the flowers, I wrap my free hand around my fake girlfriend’s tiny waist and draw her petite body into mine.
“Your sister is watching,” I mumble into the crook of her neck, and fuck me, she smells divine. Like sweetness and innocence. “And you probably should call me Spencer if we have any chance of pulling this charade off.” When she lets out a tiny squeak, I’m powerless to hold back my grin. Releasing her, I hand over the flowers. “These are for you, sweetheart.”
“Mr Prescott,” the evil blonde utters, rushing in our direction. Unlike her sibling, she’s dressed in an outfit that leaves very little to the imagination. She’s busty; they are practically spilling out of her dress—not that I’m looking, they’re just hard not to notice. Her hair is down and perfectly styled, and her face is caked with makeup. She’s pretty. Some may even say gorgeous, but I’d choose Delilah over her any day of the week. I prefer my women more natural … and far less calculating. “What are you doing here?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to see my girlfriend.” I glance down at Delilah, winking as I casually drape my arm over her shoulder, tugging her protectively into my side. I don’t miss the blush that creeps up her cheeks as I do.
“Your girlfriend?” her sister screeches.
“Delilah didn’t tell you we were dating?”
“No,” she says, frowning. “You can’t be serious … you’re actually datingher?”
“I’m deadly serious,” I growl. “One glance and I was smitten,” I lie.
My eyes move back to Delilah and she no longer looks traumatised or mortified … she’s smiling up at me, and what a beautiful smile it is.
This would be up there with one of the most awkward moments in my life. I’m not the only one feeling uncomfortable, though. Delilah has spent most of dinner with her head bowed while she pushes her food around her plate.
Her evil sister looks downright miserable, and her fuckfaced ex has spent the entire time sending longing looks in Delilah’s direction and shooting me daggers. I still can’t fathom why her parents thought throwing these two scumbags a celebratory welcome-home dinner was a good idea. Talk about rubbing salt into the wound. They should be ashamed of themselves for making their youngest daughter sit through this.
As if sharing a meal with them isn’t enough, her father keeps quizzing his eldest daughter about their holiday and their plans as a couple moving forward. Frankly, I find it all rather tactless. I want to lash out at these people for their insensitivity, but for Delilah’s sake, I bite my tongue.
“So, what do you do for a living, Spencer?” Mrs St. James asks.
“I run my own company,” I reply.
“What type of company?” Mr St. James chimes in.
“Remember when I did that internship at Prescott Enterprises last year, Daddy?” the evil sister says. “That’s Spencer’s company.”
“You’re familiar with both my daughters?”
“I don’t remember ever meeting Abigail,” I say truthfully.
