Chapter 3
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He shrugged awkwardly. "Someone usually prepared it for me."
"Of course they did." I sighed, walking over to take over the task. "Watch and learn. Water goes here, coffee grounds here, press this button. Not rocket science."
Alexander nodded earnestly, as if I were teaching some complex theory. "Water, grounds, button. Got it."
A week had passed, and Alexander Barrett, former billionaire, was now my apartment's official roommate. It was a strange period of adjustment. For me, getting used to sharing my space again; for him, learning to live without housekeepers, chefs, and drivers.
"I'm going job hunting today," he announced, sipping the freshly brewed coffee. "Any suggestions?"
I pulled milk from the fridge, considering. "What practical skills do you have? Besides inheriting wealth and wearing expensive suits?"
He clutched his chest in mock hurt. "Hey, I have a business school degree. I understand finance, marketing, corporate management."
"That's great, but do you have work experience? Actual work experience?"
His expression told me the answer was no.
"Maybe start simple," I suggested. "Coffee shop, bookstore, somewhere that can hire you quickly."
"Coffee shop," he repeated as if it were an alien concept. "I can do that."
Looking at his confident expression, I couldn't help but laugh. "Do you know how to make a latte?"
"No, but I can learn. I'm a smart guy, Emma."
"Sure, Harvard boy." I handed him a piece of toast. "Finish breakfast, and I'll help you write a resume. One that doesn't mention you're the heir to Barrett Industries."
He took the toast, his fingers lightly brushing mine. The simple contact made my heart race.
"Thank you," he said softly, "not just for the toast and resume. For everything."
I turned to organize the sink, not wanting him to see me blush. "Don't make a big deal of it. I'm just making sure you can pay rent soon."
That evening, Alexander returned looking exhausted. He collapsed on the couch, tie loosened, hair disheveled.
"Twelve interviews," he groaned. "Twelve. Not one success."
I turned from my easel. "What happened?"
"Apparently, I'm 'overqualified.'" He made air quotes. "Or they think I'll leave as soon as I find something better. One coffee shop manager asked me outright if I was an undercover TV show."
I couldn't help laughing. "Well, you don't exactly look like a typical barista."
"What do I look like, then?"
I put down my paintbrush, studying him seriously. "Like someone who's never washed his own clothes."
He blinked, then laughed too. "Fair enough. So teach me."
"Teach you what?"
"How to wash clothes." He stood up. "Teach me everything I need to know. If I'm going to survive in this new world, I need to learn the basics."
And so began our first "Normal Person Life 101" lesson. I took him to the laundromat in the basement of our building, showing him how to sort clothes, use the right detergent, set the appropriate water temperature.
"This is more complicated than I imagined," he admitted, watching the machine spin.
"Wait until you see the dryer," I teased. "That's where the real challenge begins."
While waiting for the clothes to finish, we sat in the laundromat's plastic chairs, sharing a bag of chips. It was a strange moment of intimacy—the former billionaire and me, in a noisy laundromat, discussing the merits of fabric softener.
"You know," Alexander said suddenly, "this is the first time I've felt like a real person."
"As opposed to what? A robot?"
He smiled, shaking his head. "As opposed to a character. The Barrett heir, board member, perfect gentleman at charity galas. None of that was really me."
"So who is the real you?" I asked, suddenly serious.
He thought for a moment. "I'm not sure. But I think I'm finding out."
That night, I taught him how to cook pasta—the simplest dinner, but a whole new experience for him. His onion-chopping skills were concerning, but his enthusiasm made up for his lack of technique.
"You know," he said, stirring the sauce, "I've never actually cooked before. Our chef wouldn't allow anyone in his kitchen."
"So how does it feel?" I asked, leaning against the kitchen counter watching him.
He looked up at me, a genuine smile on his face. "Like freedom."
In that moment, I felt something loosen in my chest. Perhaps, just perhaps, this Alexander Barrett without wealth and privilege was more authentic, more appealing than the billionaire had ever been.
