1
Alex
My phone rings in my purse, blasting the Wicked Witch of the West’s theme song through the leather. I juggle my coffee while trying to dig out my phone, cursing myself for losing my headphones. Again.
“Hello, Mother,” I sigh as I bring the phone to my ear.
“Oh, now you answer.” That’s about as much of a greeting as I can expect from Alexandra the First. “I half expected to go to voicemail again.”
“You called me on a Friday morning at 9 A.M, right in the middle of tourist season. I’m a baker, Mom. I was working.” I’m almost always working, but I don’t tell her that.
“Yes, but why? I cannot for the life of me fathom why you’d move to Bumblefuck, Nowhere for a minimum wage job.”
I laugh, only because it’s the only way to keep myself from screaming. “I earn well above minimum wage, and I like living in Bumblefuck, Nowhere.”
I get a dirty look from a man passing me on the sidewalk, but I ignore him. My mother lets out a beleaguered sigh. “Are you at least coming home for Thanksgiving? You skipped the Hamptons entirely this year.”
“Do you really want me to come home?” I ask, already knowing where this is going.
“Of course, I do, Alexandra! Your father has an associate at the firm you should meet—”
“So, no. You don’t actually want me to come home for a visit. You want to set me up with the latest eligible bachelor in your circle. How many times do I need to explain this to you? I’m not interested in climbing the social ladder with you. I don’t want to meet your friend’s son, Dad’s lawyer buddies, or that doctor who gave you a boob lift last year.”
My mother sputters at me, but I keep going. If I stop, she’ll just lay the guilt on extra thick. “I don’t know how to make this any clearer, but I’ll try. I. Don’t. Want. To. Meet. Them. I don’t want to date them, and I certainly don’t want to marry one of them just so you can plan a big wedding. You realize I’m not a Barbie doll, right? You don’t get to do this anymore. If I choose to date someone, it’ll be on my terms, and I can promise you this: it won’t be a lawyer, an investor, a real estate developer, or a mother fucking doctor—OOF!”
One second, I’m walking down the sidewalk, the next I’m knocked on my ass by a fucking wrecking ball. The bottom of my coffee cup tips up, dumping the contents all over my front, and I wince as it seeps through my coat.
But the burning liquid is nothing compared to my shattered tailbone. Let me tell you a story about the human tailbone. That bitch has zero chill, and she does not appreciate being crunched against concrete.
“Fucking hell,” I moan, squeezing my eyes shut. The pain is a moving target, darting through my nervous system like an over-caffeinated lemur. Head—ow. Knee—ow. Ass—Double ow. Then I open my eyes, and suddenly the worst injury is to my pride. The man leaning over me, frowning in concern, is nothing short of a god.
Of course, he is. I know I don’t get to choose, but couldn’t the brick wall I hit have been a Danny DeVito stunt double? I’m in crippling pain and the last thing I need is the long lost Hemsworth brother watching me writhe around, swearing on the sidewalk with his unfairly sexy jawline. In fact, I would be forever grateful if he would just take his perfectly styled hair and pound pavement.
“I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” His voice is dark and smooth, pouring out of full lips. He looks me over with hazel eyes behind long lashes and runs a hand through his neatly trimmed, sandy blond hair. There’s even a little dimple in his perfect chin. His pea coat is buttoned up to his neck, a starched white shirt peeking out from underneath. He looks like a damned magazine ad.
I try to sit up, but he places a palm on my shoulder. “Whoa, there. Hang on. Take it easy.”
“I’m not a pony, asshole,” I say, brushing his hand aside and sitting up. The once-burning-hot coffee is now chilling through the layers of my coat, helped along by the crisp fall breeze.
He raises an eyebrow, and a little shiver runs through me. I’m choosing to blame that on the coffee. No way am I giving him credit. He holds out a hand to help me to my feet. I ignore it, standing on my own, but then I sway as my tailbone throbs.
He takes my elbows, steadying me. His hands feel good, strong, even through my coat. I can almost imagine how they’d feel gripping my hips… and then, to my immense irritation, my tailbone isn’t the only part of me that’s wet and throbbing.
Uh-uh.I shut down my long-neglected lady garage with a stern reminder that it doesnotneed a Mac truck. I can park a vibrator just as effectively. Let’s be real. The vibrator is almost certainly more satisfying.
“I’m fine,” I say, rubbing the back of my head with one hand and my tailbone with the other.
“Can I at least look at it?” he asks.
“My ass?” I ask, my eyes going wide. “No thanks.”
He laughs, running a thumb over his lips. “I meant your head. Let me take a look. I’m a doctor. You might as well let me put my degree to use.”
I fight the overwhelming urge to roll my eyes. In the history of mankind, has there ever been a doctor that didn’t have to constantly remind you of their profession? I’d put good money on no, and this walking Banana Republic ad is no exception.
“…I’m Branson. It’s Alexandra, right?”
“Just Alex,” I say with a slight wince. Internally I’m screaming. My mother goes by Alexandra, refusing to acknowledge anyone who shortens it. I once saw her slap a woman at the the country club who referred to her as ‘Allie.’