Page 54 of Billionaire's Second Chance

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” She placed one hand on the door frame and the other on her waist.

“I believe welcome is the word you’re looking for,” I said and approached her with open arms.

She broke into a smile and hugged me. I sorely needed that. Quinn could be the toughest Alexander on the surface, but we knew each other’s soft spots better than anyone else.

“If I didn’t know any better,” she said as she let go. “I’d say you look heartbroken.”

“Can I at least come inside the house before you start grilling me?” I gently nudged her out of the way.

“Not until you tell me what you’ve done to my brother,” she laughed.

“Give your brother a break, Quinn.” Mom appeared behind her, dressed in a flowing floral gown.

I walked past Quinn to hug my mother. She still managed a firm hug for a woman approaching her seventies. Her dull blonde hair had a warm coconut scent.

“Hi, Mom,” I forced a joyous smile, knowing my father wouldn’t be too far behind her.

“Come inside. Your father is famished already,” she ordered, confirming my suspicions.

Francis Alexander always argued that I inherited my sense of style from him. To an extent, he wasn’t wrong. The lobby of their house was finely designed, with seventeenth-century Italian paintings hanging from the walls above vases shipped from different parts of Asia.

“He still has this here?” I pointed to the life-sized painting of my father in the living room.

Quinn rolled her eyes. “Of course. You know how vain all the males in this family are.”

“Not me, Quinn,” I scoffed.

“Tell that to your Balenciaga shoes, custom tees, and the one you’re trying to impress,” she continued to annoy me.

I walked past my sister’s sarcastic smile, Mom’s arm hooked in mine.

“So, when are you gonna tell us who she is?”

“Come off it, Quinn,” I grunted.

Mom patted my hand. “Let your brother be, Quinn. He hasn’t even been here five minutes.”

“Where’s Dad, by the way?” I asked.

“He should be down any minute now,” Mom said.

I pulled a chair to the right of Dad’s chair for Mom and sat next to her. Quin sat on the opposite end, to Father’s left. Her questioning gaze didn’t, for one, leave mine.

“Some famished man he is.” Quin rubbed her hands together. “I say we dig in.”

“Quin.”

“What? I’m hungry.”

Dad’s slow steps announced his presence long before his sweeping amber floral scent did. His brown zip-up sweater and clean shave gave him a younger appearance. Mom stood to welcome him while Quinn and I remained sitting.

“Hi, Dad,” I greeted him.

He sat at the head of the table and nodded my way. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Francis!” Mom scolded him. “Damon is free to come and go whenever he wants.”

“Damon understands.” He smiled at me. “Don’t you, son?”

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