Page 18 of A Foolish Work Flirtation

He smiles, and my gaze is drawn to his playful expression. “Before that, when I said you sugar-coat things.”

I touch my collarbone. “Politeness is a good thing. It allows others to feel safe and reveal their thoughts.”

He nods. “I agree. But at what cost to you? I’m not suggesting you become rude or disagreeable. I suggest you reveal your thoughts more often instead of staying silent or shrugging.”

I look at him. “Fine. I’ll tell you the unvarnished truth, but you may not like it.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “I can handle it.”

I pick up my coffee. “I need to start organizing my thoughts. Maybe you can make some eggs and bacon for us?”

He smirks. “Whatever you desire, Immy.”

I walk over and glance down at papers scattered across the table. Unfortunately, my mind isn’t on what needs to be done today. Instead, I’m thinking about what I want to command Alex Stern to do.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I head upstairs to see some of the bedrooms, taking the floor plan. The guests are arriving tomorrow. I wish I had asked Kate more questions. I know she is now recovering. Hopefully, after a night in the hospital, she’d start to heal.

I open the bedroom door and step inside. It looks spacious but sparse—the bed doesn’t have linens, and the nightstands are empty. Checking the closet, I see that it doesn’t have any supplies. I look at a few other rooms; they are all the same. I’m sure Kate placed an order for linens and flowers.

Walking down the center staircase, I hear Alex calling my name.

I smell bacon, and my stomach grumbles. Getting to the kitchen, I notice two plates with flatware on the island.

Alex pours coffee into two cups. He looks relaxed.

I sit on a stool by the island and ask him, “Why do you go by Alex instead of Lorimer?”

He places scrambled eggs onto my plate, along with two pieces of bacon and buttered toast. “I spent most of my childhood with my father, and he didn’t like the name Lorimer.”

“Why would he have named you that?”

He pours more coffee for each of us. “He didn’t. My mother named me after her father and grandfather. I didn’t meet my father until I was three. By that time, Regina was tired of being a mother and wanted to return to acting.”

I narrow my eyes. “You call your mother Regina?”

He sits next to me and bites into a piece of toast. “I didn’t see her much until I was sixteen.”

I tilt my head. “Why?”

Without looking up from his plate, he says, “My father was bitter that she kept me a secret and made it difficult for her. He refused to let me leave Ireland. She is English, and he was Irish. She visited twice a year. Summer and Christmas. My father died when I was sixteen, and my maternal grandparents sent for me.”

I pick up my fork and take a bite of the scrambled eggs. “That’s terrible. And then your mother and grandparents called you Lorimer?”

He nods and keeps eating.

“You must miss him.” I can’t imagine losing my father at such a young age.

He stops eating for a moment. “Who?”

I look at him. “Your father?”

He looks at his plate. “No, I don’t miss him. He didn’t want a child. He didn’t have much of a family. He was an artist who turned into a bitter alcoholic. He lived in a rural area. After he dismissed the nanny when I turned seven, I lived a solitary life. I rarely saw him. If I did, it was not good.”

I put my hand over my heart. “I’m sorry. That sounds dreadfully unfair.”

His expression became cynical. “I survived. I vowed I’d never live in the same place for long. I started the adventure company on a lark, but it worked. Plenty of other people want to travel to exotic locations and experience something new.”

I eat another bite of scrambled eggs. I don’t look at him. Instead, I think of the little boy who grew up without much love or attention. I know from teaching that such situations can emotionally scar young children. That level of hurt stays with someone. It makes sense that he wants to rely only on himself and doesn’t trust others.

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