Page 62 of The Boss and the Wedding Mess
“How lucky I cleaned yesterday,” I mutter as I let him in and switch on the light. Oof. That’s blinding.
“Where should I put the bag?” he asks. I take it from him.
“Make yourself at home. Bathroom’s across from the bedroom, and this is the living room.” I point in each direction. “I’ll take this to my bedroom first.” Alex nods, and I slip away quickly.
I hurry past the living room and bathroom into my bedroom, where I scoop up the pairs of underwear I’d tossed beside the bed instead of into the laundry basket. The bag lands neatly atthe foot of the bed. A quick spray of room fragrance—and I head back out.
Alexander is standing in the kitchen, fiddling with the coffee maker. Okay. He reallydoeswant that drink.
“Would you like one too?” he asks, glancing over at me.
“You’re my guest. Sit down.”
More caffeine now? That’ll keep me awake all night. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing—depending on whether he plans to stay.
Instead of sitting, he leans casually against the counter, eyes locked on me. The way he watches only makes me more nervous. My hand slips, and I end up spilling a little coffee.
Chapter 18
Alexander
This little liar. Typical woman with her littleshittytests. I wonder if I’ve passed them all. I would’ve loved to take her right there on the hood of the car—or in the backseat at the very least. Instead, I’m standing here watching her shaky hands as she tries to measure coffee grounds into the machine.
It’s cute that she’s pretending to be tipsy, but she’s not fooling me. Still, I’ll play along—it’s entertaining either way.
“You’ve got a nice place,” I say, looking around more closely. She has plenty of houseplants, and the space is clean, organized, and functional. But there are also lots of personal touches—like the large board on the wall opposite the counter, covered withphotos of her and her best friend. “I don’t see any pictures of your brothers or parents,” I remark.
“Hmm, yeah…” she mumbles, adding water to the machine before switching it on and opening the fridge. “I could make us something to eat. Or I’ve got chips, if you’re in the mood?” She’s trying to change the subject.
“You don’t get along with them?” I press. Her rigid gaze gives her away. Sure, she’s had a few drinks, but not nearly enough to not know what she’s doing.
“It’s complicated,” she admits, pulling out a salad in a red bowl. She stirs it with two large spoons. “Chicken, cucumbers, lettuce, corn, and kidney beans. Very high in protein,” she explains.
“Except for the corn,” I point out. Then I add, “But I’d love some.”
“Dressing? I have light honey-mustard, or homemade yogurt.”
“Yogurt.”
She’s dodging my question again. “Do you find it uncomfortable to talk about your family?”
“Is it that obvious?” she asks nervously, though she’s still smiling. Looks like I hit a nerve. London takes two smaller bowls and fills them generously. She hands me one with a fork.
“Must’ve been hard growing up with three older brothers,” I say.
“Yeah, true.” She gestures toward the couch and heads there. I follow, the coffee brewing behind us. We sit down, only about twenty inches apart. “Vanessa says I sometimes act like a guy, because I always had to hold my own when I was younger. There wasn’t much time to be a girl.”
“Strict father?”
“Oh yeah.” She raises her brows and widens her eyes. Must’ve been bad.
“No mother to intervene?”
“I love my parents and brothers, really. But I’m glad I don’t have to be around them all the time. My father would have loved a fourth son, and that’s how he raised me. He hated when I wore dresses. When puberty hit and I wanted makeup, he was devastated. When my brothers wrestled with me—even if I was crying or hurt—he cheered them on and told me to fight back. But how could I, when they were so much stronger? I was always covered in bruises. They didn’t know their own strength. It was like locking a Pomeranian in a room with three pit bulls.”
“Did they hurt you on purpose?” I ask, shocked.
“No. We were kids, and they were boys. Later, when we were older, we argued a lot. One would hold me down while another took something from me—even if it was just dessert. They were always a unit. Still are today. It’s like I never really belonged. Sometimes…” She pauses, poking at her salad. “Sometimes I think I was adopted. My parents treat them so differently—muchmore love, more affection. They always ask how my brothers are doing, what they’re up to. Everything revolves around them. Family parties and events are planned around their schedules, never mine. But I’ve gotten used to it.” She smiles bravely. “You can’t choose your family. Over the years, I’ve built my own. My best friend Vanessa—Nessa—is like the sister I never had. I wish we’d met sooner. That would’ve been amazing.”
