20. Breaking the Bachelor Pact
20
brEAKING THE BACHELOR PACT
ALEX
Two days after meeting Mac's family and somehow surviving a level of Italian hospitality that would overwhelm lesser CEOs, I find myself doing something I haven't done in twenty years: packing for a romantic weekend. Actually, first attempting to pack, then calling Emma in a minor crisis about appropriate casual wear for romantic—and not business—mountain getaways.
"The cashmere collection is on the left," she directs through speakerphone while I stare at my walk-in closet like it's a hostile takeover negotiation. Through my penthouse windows, Seattle sparkles under fresh snow, the mid-December morning crisp and bright. "Though maybe avoid the gray one. It looks too much like your office suits."
"I own casual clothes," I protest, though the fact that I needed to clear two board meetings and a shareholder call just to take Friday off suggests otherwise.
"Of course, sir." Her tone suggests she's humoring me. "Just like you 'casually' researched every restaurant within fifty miles of your cabin and had the kitchen fully stocked with Ms. Gallo's favorite wines."
"That's just good planning."
"Mm-hmm. And the call to her grandmother about proper pasta-making techniques?"
"Cultural research."
"The fact that you're taking a personal weekend for the first time in five years?"
"Coincidence."
"And the way you keep smiling every time she walks past your office?"
"Emma."
"Just saying, sir. For someone who claims the bachelor pact is still intact, you're showing some very specific behavioral patterns."
My phone buzzes – Grayson, right on cue:
GRAY: Connor says you're taking Mac to the mountain cabin. THE cabin. Where we made the bachelor pact. Feeling symbolic much?
I ignore it, but another immediately follows:
GRAY: Also, heard you survived dinner with her family. And by "heard" I mean "read Keith's surprisingly detailed social media thread about your 'journey from corporate adversaries to star-crossed lovers.'
I try to rub away the impending headache I know is coming.
"The blue cashmere," Emma decides through the speaker. "And those jeans that don't look like they've never seen the outside of a boardroom."
"I have jeans like that?"
"Your personal shopper bought them last spring. Tags still on."
Fuck. I forgot. Because apparently even my casual wear needs professional intervention.
Another text arrives – Connor this time :
CONNOR: Grayson's plotting something for bachelor weekend. Says if you're breaking the pact, we're doing it with style. Should I be worried?
My jaw ticks at the mention of that weekend. The weekend before Christmas is when we always get together, when we use the holiday to do nothing but be us.
Three single bastards with a love of scotch and, in Connor’s case, bringing snow bunnies back to the hot tub.
But now the entire annual trip just feels…silly. Especially with Mac’s Nonna’s invitation to Christmas burrowing deeper into my mind.
Before I can respond, Mac's message pops up:
MAC: Keith is trying to organize a "revolutionary ski retreat" at the same mountain as your cabin. Coincidence?
I glance at the framed photo on my dresser – me, Grayson, and Connor at Stanford, drunk on cheap beer and cheaper dreams, making promises about success and independence that seemed so important at twenty-two.
Twenty-three years later, those promises feel like anchors rather than armor.
"Sir?" Emma's voice breaks through my thoughts. "The shareholders' report needs your signature before you leave."
Shit. Even romantic getaways require proper documentation.
I head to the office early, hoping to clear my desk before our afternoon departure. The city is just waking up, holiday lights still twinkling against the winter dawn.
Mac's already there, because of course she is.
"Your revolutionary is plotting something," she announces without looking up from her tablet. "He keeps asking suspicious questions about mountain access roads and snow-worthy berets."
"Your grandmother called with very specific instructions about proper altitude adjustments for pasta sauce. "
Now she does look up, fighting a smile. "You called my nonna about pasta?"
“What can I say? I’m good at homework."
"For a two-day trip?"
"I like to be thorough."
She stands, moving around her desk with that grace that still makes my breath catch. "Speaking of thorough... Amelia Zegen called again. About the blog's impact on corporate mental health policies."
Of course she did.
“You know, we don't have to?—"
"Go away together?" She stops in front of me. "Have a conversation about all of this? Figure out what happens when two colleagues can’t keep their hands off each other?”
"Is that what's happening?"
"You tell me." Her eyes meet mine, challenge and vulnerability mixed. "You're the one breaking a twenty-year bachelor pact to take me to your cabin."
"About that." I step closer, drawn like gravity. "There's something you should know?—"
A crash from the break room interrupts us. Keith's voice carries down the hall: "The revolution requires proper winter equipment! These berets are not snow-proof!"
Mac closes her eyes briefly. "Please tell me he's not?—"
"Planning to crash our weekend? Based on the ski gear in his office, I'd say that's exactly what he's planning."
"Perfect." But she's smiling. "Want to tell him the cabin's address is classified corporate information?"
"Already did. He said something about 'liberating romantic spaces from capitalist control.'"
"You know," she steps closer, straightening my tie in a way that makes it hard to think, "for someone who claims to maintain professional distance, you're surprisingly calm about all this. "
"All what?"
"The blog. The critics. The fact that your corporate culture consultant keeps causing revolutions and throwing champagne and making you break decades-old pacts..."
I catch her hands where they're still fiddling with my tie. "Maybe I like revolutions. And champagne. And breaking pacts that never should have been made."
"Even if it means risking everything you've built?"
"Mac." I tilt her chin up, making her meet my eyes. "You are everything I've built. The changes, the improvements, the whole damn revolution – it's all because of you. Because you made me see what needed fixing. What I was missing while building walls around success."
"Alex..."
"Come away with me." I rest my forehead against hers. "Let me show you the place where I made promises I'm ready to break. Let me?—"
"COMRADES!" Keith's voice shatters the moment. "The revolution has acquired snow-worthy transportation!"
Mac laughs against my chest. "We should probably?—"
"Handle that? Yes." I steal a quick kiss that turns less quick. "Before he requisitions the company helicopter."
"He can do that?"
"After seeing him teach revolutionary carols to the board? I'm not ruling anything out."
My phone buzzes again – multiple texts:
GRAY: If you're really doing this, then make sure the yacht you’re going to lose has extra staff. I like my eggs scrambled in the mornings.
CONNOR: What he said. Also, I've got dibs on best man. It was my idea to let you have the cabin this weekend.
NONNA GALLO: The pasta sauce recipe requires fresh basil. I've packed some with proper instructions. And remember - al dente is a state of mind, not just cooking time .
MAC'S MOM: Take care of my bambina in the mountains. And maybe talk about grandchildren? No pressure.
EMMA: Your 2PM shareholder call is moved to next week. I told them you're conducting a strategic retreat about corporate culture initiatives. Keith offered to provide revolutionary coverage.
I look at Mac, still in my arms despite the chaos around us, and make a decision.
“The blue cashmere," I text Emma as soon as my hands are free. "And those jeans I apparently own. Pack them."
Because some revolutions start with champagne.
And some start with breaking pacts that never should have been made.