It’s not unusual for Wilder to call before handing the phone over to his mom.
“She’s busy making coffee. And arguing with a man. That’s why I called.”
“Is he a customer?” And why are my spidey senses tingling?
“I guess so,” he answers doubtfully. “I mean, he’s here enough. It’s the Australian I told you about.”
“Huh.”
“Jenner says he’s dreamy.” Wilder fake barfs. “And he said he’s seen the man’s face on a billboard.”
It was probably a wanted poster, knowing Jenner, Kennedy’s part-time barista.
“Why do you think he’s hanging around so much?”
“I don’t know. He seems to like it when Mom is mean to him. Do you think you could come home? Things are getting really weird around here.”
“Well—” Shit. Maybe men are like buses. We’ve both been waiting for one while going in different directions when they—the men, not buses—have turned up at the same time.
“Uh-oh. She’s just thrown a glass of ice water over his head,” the kid whisper-hisses. “That’s the second time this week,” he mutters to himself. “I gotta go, Aunt Holly. Can you at least give her a call and tell her she’s acting weird?”
I agree I will and take Alexander’s hand as he opens the car door.
“Everything all right?” He wraps his arm around my waist as we walk to the door.
“It’s hard to tell with my family.”
“Families are complicated,” he agrees as we step into the echoing hall. He puts down our bags and turns me to face him as my heart begins to cartwheel in my chest. “Are you ready to start a new adventure?” he asks, smoothing back my wild hair.
“With you? Absolutely.” He lowers his head, though I stop him, pressing my hand to his chest. His hard, unyielding, could-rent-the-space-for-advertising chest. His chest that houses his heart. A heart that is my home. “Do you have a crown?”
“I’m sorry?” He frowns down playfully at me.
“Never mind.” I shake my head. “Silly question.”
“I do have a crown,” he growls against my ear, making me shiver. “Though technically, it’s called a coronet.”
My head snaps back as I stare into his teasing expression. “You do?” My tone might be a little too excited for the moment, but the man has a crown! I reach around to slap his ass, but he winces as I end up catching him a little higher. “What is it?” I try to slide around him when he catches my arms. “I saw a bruise there—”
“It’s nothing. Just a bump. Now, what about this crown.”
“Well, if only you’d told me about it weeks ago—maybe that night in London? It might have saved us a lot of fuss.”
“I’ve enjoyed the fuss myself but go on.”
“Fuss, yes.” I get a little lost in his indigo gaze and the lick of warmth between my legs that look creates. I clear my throat. “Because I have this motto in life—”
“You have a motto? What a coincidence. I have one, too. It’s a family motto.” Pulling me under his arm. “Does yours have a heraldic shield?”
“If you stop interrupting, I might tell you.”
Alexander turns to face me, throwing back his head as he laughs.
“I’m sorry,” he says, assuming the appearance seriousness. “Please tell me about your motto, Holland.” His hands are warm against my hips, and as he begins to rub his thumbs over my hip bones, I go all melty and liquid between. Not that he can tell. Not the way I sniff, glance away, and then give a little shrug. Whatevs.
“It’s called . . . I just want to see what I can get away with. That’s it. That’s my motto.” His hands tighten as he slides me a sly glance. “And do you know what I’ve always wanted to get away with?” He shakes his head slowly like he thinks he knows exactly what I want to get away with. Or what he’d like me to. I tip up on my toes and bring my lips to his ear. “Falling in love with a man who owns a crown.”
His hands slide lower, cupping my butt and pulling me against him.
“You know,” his low tone rumbles, “I think you might be in luck.”
“No, Alexander.” I press a kiss to the little v against his collarbone. “I think I might be in love.”
“Oh, Holland.” His hands band at my back in a hug that’s nothing short of fortifying.
“I’ve been trying very hard not to fall in love with you, telling myself I wasn’t, that I couldn’t—”
“This is just perfect,” says a woman’s voice from somewhere behind his broad shoulders. Alexander’s hug turns to a hold, that kind that squeezes the air from my lungs.
“What is it?” I look up, realising his complexion is now the colour of milk, and the expression he’d been wearing, that sly amusement and joy, has gone. “Alexander?” I repeat. He doesn’t move when I slide my head around him. A caramel blonde stands on the stone steps. She looks at home there. Tall and attractive, she looks expensive from the roots of her shiny hair to the pointed tips of her even shinier designer high heels. She also looks familiar.