Chapter 4
697words
Alexander rummaged through the kitchen cabinets. "Found it!" he triumphantly held up a bottle of drain cleaner, then frowned. "Is this safe? It has a skull symbol."
"Safer than our current situation," I muttered, pulling my hand from the sink and shaking off water droplets. "Unless you want to explain why the bathroom sink is full of paint."
He raised an eyebrow. "You poured paint down the sink?"
"I was tired!" I defended myself. "And it was watercolor, I thought it would wash away."
Alexander shook his head, but he was smiling. "Alright, let the professional handle this."
"You're a plumbing expert now?"
"I watched a YouTube video." He said confidently, heading toward the bathroom.
Three weeks had passed, and we'd gradually fallen into a rhythm of sorts. Alexander went to work at a nearby bookstore each morning—a job he'd finally landed after fifteen interviews. The pay wasn't great, but enough for him to cover half the rent and basic expenses. In the evenings, we took turns cooking, though my "turns" were typically more successful.
To my surprise, Alexander was adapting remarkably well. There were comical moments, of course—like when he used too much detergent in the washing machine for the first time, filling the laundry room with bubbles. But overall, he showed an impressive ability to adapt and willingness to learn.
"All fixed!" he emerged from the bathroom with a victorious smile. "Water flows freely again."
"My hero," I teased, though in truth, I was grateful. Before he moved in, these household problems would typically linger for weeks until I was forced to address them.
"What's for dinner tonight?" he asked, washing his hands. "It's my turn."
"Anything but that 'innovative' pasta from last week."
He feigned injury. "That was an experiment!"
"A failed one."
He laughed, that genuine laugh that made his eyes light up. "Fair enough. How about pizza? I can pick it up on my way back from work."
"Deal."
Later that evening, we sat on the couch, sharing a large pizza while watching an old movie. There was something both comfortable and unsettling about this domestic intimacy. Sometimes, I would forget that this man sharing pizza with me had once been one of Boston's wealthiest bachelors.
"Do you miss it?" I asked suddenly.
"Miss what?"
"Your old life. The mansion, private jets, servants at your beck and call."
Alexander considered for a moment. "Parts of it. Not having to worry about money was nice. But most of it? No, I don't miss it." He turned to me. "You know, I've laughed more in these few weeks in your apartment than I did in the past five years."
"That says more about how miserable your past five years were."
"Or about how happy I am now." His gaze met mine, warm and sincere.
I felt my cheeks heat up and quickly changed the subject. "Have you contacted your father?"
His expression grew serious. "No. He expects me to crawl back and beg his forgiveness. But I won't do that."
"Even if it means losing your inheritance forever?"
"Even then," he said firmly. "I'm starting to realize that all that money and power never really made me happy. It just made me into the person my father wanted me to be."
I studied his face, looking for any signs of dishonesty. But I saw only sincerity. "So you'd rather work at a small bookstore and live in a rundown apartment?"
"With you? Yes." His answer was simple and direct, making my heart skip a beat.
Our eyes met, and suddenly the air was charged with electricity. He leaned in slightly, and I didn't pull away. But just at that moment, my phone rang, breaking the spell.
I quickly stood to answer it, feeling both disappointed and relieved. This was happening too fast, too complicated. Our lives were already entangled, and I couldn't risk making things more complex.
But that night, lying in bed, I couldn't stop thinking about that almost-kiss, and the warmth in Alexander's eyes when he said "with you."
