Page 30 of Alexander: Alexander's Story

“Not a princess at all, Angel.” His voice is slick, lapping up my spine. “The perk is we can take your top off in the spring.”

My cheeks heat, and he laughs. “Off the car. We’ll take the top off the car.” I sock him again, then turn up the music to ear-bleeding-loud the rest of the drive.

EIGHT

Alex

She hops out of the raised Bronco with ease, rounding the back to remove bags from the trunk.

Something about seeing herhere, I like it. It makes sense to me.

Then Blanks practically jogs to her side once he’s parked to help.

I don’t like that.

They spent the day together, and where I shouldn’t have given two shits, I find myself wishing, maybe, it had been me.

Or maybe I’m just projecting, worried history will repeat itself. A best friend, just a little too friendly to someone who meant a little more to me than I would let on.

I let the ax fall with more force than necessary, drawing their attention. Neither acts any sort of way about it. Emma eyes me, giving a soft tilt of the mouth in my direction. And then there’s Blanks with a gaze that says too much.

It’s on me to insert myself if I want. Or, I can hang back and watch this become something…More like them become something.

Dropping the ax, I grab the long sleeve I discarded earlier and wipe my face as I head in their direction.

I should leave them alone.

Yet, I move closer.

Why do I care again?

The image of her on her knees. Her straddling me in nothing but a towel. A hand traveling up and down my back.

I want to burn the images into my mind and erase them at the same time.

Even if I don’t, or shouldn’t, want anything with Emma, I know for a fact I don’t want her to have something with him.

“Busy day?” I ask once I’m close enough.

“Productive,” they say it in fucking unison.

Then they laugh about it. I have to fight the urge to turn and walk away.

“Need some help?” I stuff the shirt in my back pocket, reaching around Emma’s backside to pick up bags of…toys?

“Sure,” she says, her cheeks warming when my chest brushes against her back. I watch as Blanks eyes the interaction, knowing it wasn’t a fucking accident.

I slip my hand into the handles of the bags she’s holding, moving our hands against one another far more intimately than necessary. I’m gentle with her.

I’m trying to be gentle with her.

Inside the house, I drop whatever all this is on the dining room table, and Emma and Blanks do the same.

So you opening a toy store?I try the joke in my mind, but it sounds fucking lame. Because it is. I’m not exactly bringing much to the table conversationally. Not compared to talk-your-socks-off Blanks. He probably already has some endearing fucking nickname picked out for her.

“I was gonna go shower, but um, do you need help?” That’s the best I can do. Honestly, that’s all I’ve got. Maybe it’s because I’m a 42-year-old widower collecting failed relationships like military coins, or maybe it’s just me, but the tank is fucking empty. I don’t have witty comebacks and one-liners to throw her way.

“It’s just a lot of wrapping and then dropping it off at The Grounds tomorrow morning.” She shrugs, not answering one way or the other. But all I can think is:I can’t be seen at The fucking Grounds.What ifshe’sthere?