Alex: Carah?
Alex: CARAH, COME BAAAAAAAAAAAAACK
14
THE NEXT TWO MONTHS DID NOT PASS IN A HAZE. ALEX’S presence wouldn’t allow for that, and neither would Lauren’s newfound attraction to him.
She might sometimes be tired from late-night walks, frustrated at the intractability and irascibility of her charge, and irritated beyond belief at his continual needling, but she was wholly present. Wholly engaged, body and mind. Wholly herself in a way she wasn’t with anyone but Sionna.
For years, she’d spent her daily life encased in a bubble of calm and neutrality and observation, but no more.
Alex punctured that bubble daily—hourly—with his sharp gaze, incisive commentary, and biting sarcasm. With his unabashed flaunting of his honed body. With the way he flung himself headlong at her and everything else he cared about in his life, like it or not.
Often, she didn’t like it. But she liked him.
Despite his quick temper and caustic sarcasm, despite the way her skin prickled in his presence, she’d never laughed more in her damn life, and she’d never flipped someone off more either. He loved aggravating her. Loved it.
With Dina, though, he was as soft as Captain Fluffytail.
Evidently, he’d first met his housekeeper on a tour of his charity’s shelters, and after hearing her story, immediately offered her work.
Dina was Lauren’s age. Beautiful, plainspoken, savvy, and confident. Engaged to a good, kind woman. Her own hero, as Alex might have said. But he’d been a supportive sidekick in her time of need, and Dina adored him for it. Sometimes, when Lauren saw the two of them together, laughing in the kitchen, sunlit and affectionate, the sweetness of the sight stole her breath.
The feel of her gorgeous blanket did the same, as she curled up beneath it every night, encased in soft warmth because of him.
This morning, however, he hadn’t stolen her breath. Just her patience.
“Finish your breakfast, Woodroe. We need to get going.” She tapped the edge of his plate, still half filled with velvety scrambled eggs and roasted herbed tomatoes. “You’ve already missed one appointment with your stylist, and from what you’ve told me, she’ll eviscerate you with her trimming shears if you cross her a second time.”
Also, he definitely needed a haircut and beard trim, stat. Con of the Gates, the annual fan convention for Gods of the Gates, began tomorrow, and at the moment, he resembled a particularly fetching hobo.
“Every time I try to look at you, my neck hurts,” he whined in between bites. “How am I supposed to eat under such inhumane conditions? And why are you literally the height of a growth-stunted mouse?”
They’d discussed proper usage of the word literally too many times. She wasn’t having that particular conversation again.
“Then don’t sit next to me on the bench. Take one of the chairs, where you won’t have to bend your neck so much to see me.” Once he’d scraped up the last of his meal, she removed his plate and stacked it with hers on their tray. “Or better yet, just don’t look at me.”
“But I like looking at you.” He stood with a luxuriant stretch. “And if I sat farther away, I couldn’t complain that you’re a literal pain in my neck.”
Automatically, she said, “That’s not what lit—”
Wait a second.
“Oh, I know what it means. I’ve always known.” He smirked down at her. “I just like fucking with you, Nanny Clegg.”
I will not toss him down this mountainside, she told herself. I will not.
His smile died, and his brows slammed together. “Uh, just to be clear, I meant ‘fucking with you’ in the sense of teasing you, not, um …”
Instead of shoving him over the cliff’s edge, as he so richly deserved, she elbowed him in the ribs. “I know what you meant.”
He yelped and cast her a wounded look as he clutched his side. Even though she’d put zero force behind the jab.
“Abject cruelty,” he complained. “Just for that, I’m not letting you carry the tray back to the kitchen, you vicious virago.”
Then he swept off in a dramatic huff, flawlessly balancing the tray on one arm like a seasoned waiter. Which, given his profession, he’d probably been at one point, now that she considered the matter.
Their debate over neck pain continued during the entire car ride to the salon, and even while he gave his keys to the valet.
Yes, curbside valet service. At a hair salon.
She sighed. Stars. Just like us, my ass.
As they neared the salon’s discreet entrance, bracketed by ornamental palms, she stopped and made her final stand. “By looking down, you’re at least working with gravity, Woodroe. When I look up at you, I have to fight against the laws of nature.”