4. Alessandra
CHAPTER FOUR
alessandra
“You had one job.”
I glare at the internet router.
Every Thursday , I meet with my team.
We go over upcoming proposals, reflect on recent investments, and check in with each other.
Most of them are based in New York , and this is the first meeting we’ve held virtually.
Everything was going fine until it wasn’t.
The buffering symbol has been taunting me for an hour, and the service isn’t strong enough to connect to my hotspot.
Stupid small towns.
I was already behind thanks to moving last week and Thanksgiving .
Some would call me a workaholic.
From the few men I’ve dated in the past, apparently being career focused is an unattractive trait to have as a woman.
Boohoo, to their masculinity.
Argiros Enterprises is a huge, multinational company.
My mother’s father started it in the sixties and it quickly grew into the multimillion-dollar organization it is today.
We’re well known for our chain of boutique hotels across the globe, but we have our hands in a few other pots too.
My parents met when my dad moved to Athens on a whim, working for my grandfather fresh out of college.
What started off as a summer romance quickly turned into a transatlantic love story until my pappoús gave his blessing for them to wed.
They married two months later, and to many people’s surprise, Dad took my mom’s name.
When my father was offered the opportunity to take the company stateside, my mom didn’t hesitate to follow him.
We’re always looking for new investments, keeping track of up-and-coming markets.
Which is where I come in as senior associate.
I’ve traveled the world hunting for new opportunities, and I’m itching to get back out there.
Admitting defeat, I pack up my laptop, headphones, and water bottle before heading downstairs.
Living above the bakery was inconvenient at first, but not now I remember they have free Wi - Fi .
Five steps is all it should take for me to enter the bakery.
Only I barely make it inside thanks to the line of people backed all the way to the door.
It’s busy. Really busy.
There isn’t a free table, and from the frazzled look on Quinn’s face, serving customers as quickly as she can, there won’t be space for a while.
Stepping back outside, I hike my scarf up over my ears to fight off the bitter temperatures.
While coming up with a new plan, I take in the surrounding buildings.
Mismatched brickwork and brightly colored storefronts line either side of the street.
Dark blue state flags flap in the wind.
Everywhere you look, there’s signage about fresh lobster or fishing trips, a nod to the town’s backbone.
The streets are quiet, but a few people stroll down the hill toward the sparkling bay .
I’ve always loved the ocean.
After spending my summers on the island of Paros , where my mom was born, the smell of salt air and strong winds blowing through my hair always calms me.
Here , it feels different.
It’s clean and crisp like Greece , but without the stifling heat, you can take in the other scents.
The subtle smell of pine, salty tang of low tide, and fresh seafood.
Suddenly I have a hankering for oysters.
I know exactly the place I can get them.
It’s more spacious than the bakery, but as I make my way toward the redbrick building, I pray it’s as busy so I have an excuse not to go in.
The glass door swings open, the bell above my head notifying the hostess of my arrival, and my prayer goes unanswered.
It’s almost three p.m., so the lunch rush is over, leaving plenty of unoccupied tables.
The decor is exactly what you’d expect to find from a seafood restaurant in coastal New England .
The whitewash paneled walls and exposed brick create a rustic vibe, with the fishing gear and vintage photos giving it character and authenticity.
The wooden bar is clearly handmade and unique.
Everything about the interior is cozy and welcoming.
I straighten when the smiling hostess jogs my way.
“Table for one?” she asks jovially.
She’s young—fresh out of high school young.
Nodding, I point to a two-seater table adjacent to the bar.
“ That one would be great, if that’s okay?”
“Sure thing.” She grabs a menu and escorts me to my seat.
“ Theresa will be your server today. She’ll be right over. I can get you started on a drink now if you know what you want?”
I quickly scan the laminated menu.
“ I’ll get a ginger beer with a slice of lime, no ice, please.”
“Perfect. If you need anything, my name is Sandy .”
Once seated, I unpack my laptop, connect to the internet, and flinch when I see the number of unread emails.
One hour offline and I’m swamped with requests.
I dive straight into reading, flagging, forwarding, and responding.
My drink arrives, and I order half a dozen oysters with horseradish ice.
It’s easy for me to switch off and give my undivided attention to my work.
Within forty minutes, I’ve conquered almost half of the emails as the noise of customers and silverware fades.
That is until a booming, carefree laugh pulls my attention to behind the bar.
And my eyes land right on Dimples .
I already knew he worked here, so I’m not surprised to see him, but I slump down in my seat, using my laptop as a shield.
He’s dressed in a fitted gray athletic T -shirt, hair hidden under a backward baseball cap.
He chats and jokes with the bar staff, easily making them laugh.
His attention snags on the few tables in here and he greets them cheerfully, like old friends.
You wouldn’t dare make eye contact with someone on the subway back home.
When the server dropped off my food, it was hard not to grimace when she asked me a slew of questions about where I’m from, how long I’m here, and what my plans are.
Small towns are hive inducing.
Booth nudges a man a little older than him and they talk in hushed voices.
The other guy pulls out his phone and shows Booth something on the screen, immediately changing his demeanor from happy to pissed.
He rips the cap off his head and pulls at his hair in frustration.
“Are you fu—” Booth’s eyes dart around the room before his volume drops, but still loud enough for me to hear.
“ This is the fourth time this month they’ve bypassed me and gone straight to you, Pat . I’m sick of it.”
Subtly, I lean forward to eavesdrop some more.
The blond guy— Pat , which I presume is short for Patrick —remains calm .
“Don’t worry about it.” He lays a hand on Booth’s tense shoulder.
“ I’ll email them back and ask them to reconsider.”
“I am worrying about it. This is our restaurant; not theirs. That oven was only two hundred dollars above the budget,” Booth seethes.
“ I’m not sure how much longer I can continue doing this.”
Patrick’s face drops.
“ What do you mean?”
Booth shakes away his annoyance.
“ Nothing . Forget about it.” He bends the bill of his hat and fits it back on his head.
The movement causes his forearms to flex and I’m ashamed to say I salivate a little as I lean forward to get a better look.
Theresa, my server, chooses that moment to come clear my table.
“How was everything?”
Smiling, I tap the metal bowl filled with empty oyster shells.
“ They were divine. When were they caught?”
“Oh, I’m not sure.” She nibbles her lip.
“ Let me ask Chef .”
Panic sets in.
“ No , no. It’s fine. Don’t bother him.” For the love of god, don’t let him know I’m here.
She smiles, and collects my empty dishes, unblocking my view of Booth .
His lower half is hidden, until he shifts to the right, giving me a glimpse of everything.
And I mean everything .
Tight , black spandex highlights every sinewy muscle, curve, and dip of his thighs, ass, and…
bulge. The cycling shorts stop above his knees, showcasing toned calves dusted with dark hair.
It’s almost unfair that he’s able to pull them off.
On anyone else, they might look ridiculous.
I realize I’m ogling and turn to find Theresa watching me, watching Booth .
“He’s so hot. He and my older cousin were in the same class,” she says with flushed cheeks.
Voice even, I ask, “ Can I get the check, please?”
“Sure?” She juggles the dishes with one hand, while reaching into her apron.
The dinging of the bell from the kitchen distracts her, and in slow motion, I watch as she clips the edge of my glass and the fizzy, cloudy liquid spills over my laptop and legs.
The smash of the glass on the floor and my loud “ Fuck ” draw everyone’s attention in my direction.
Including a pair of bright blue eyes.
“Oh my god, oh my god. I am so sorry.” Theresa stares at the mess with wide eyes, lip trembling.
This industry is going to eat her alive if she cries over a spilled drink.
The hostess dashes over with hands full of paper towels, and my cheeks heat.
Nothing about this is low key.
Ginger beer soaks my jeans, no amount of rice is going to fix my laptop, but all I’m concerned about is getting out of here.
“It’s fine. You’re fine.” I grab some money from my purse—leaving them a generous tip—and stuff my belongings away.
Not daring to look up, I throw my coat on and go to hightail it out of here when a tall frame blocks my exit.
“Shit. Are you okay?” Booth asks, concerned.
Poking him in the chest, I huff.
“ You owe me a new laptop.”
He freezes, perplexed, then has the audacity to throw his head back in laughter.
“ Me ? What the hell did I do?”
Shit.
I’m basically admitting that his muscles distracted me and that is something that would inflate his ego to an immeasurable size.
Not wanting to look ruffled, I purse my lips.
“Seriously, though.” He steps forward.
“ Leave your details and we can cover any repairs and your dry cleaning bill.”
“That’s not necessary,” I say flatly.
“ And neither are those shorts.”
The dramatic rise and fall of his eyebrows does nothing and slowly his smile disappears.
Booth stands there, hands fisted on his hips, proudly jutting out his lower body like a male peacock.
“ Do you like men who cycle? ”
“I prefer my men silent.” I cross my arms over my chest, annoyance heating my blood.
“ Don’t you have a job to get back to or the Tour de France ?”
“You’re funny.” He nods down.
I raise my chin. “ I’m flattered you remember where I work.”
This guy.
“Is there something more I can do for you?” I say, ignoring his flirting, just as he goes, “ You don’t like me, do you?”
I frown at him.
“ I don’t know you.”
With a casual shrug, he pulls out his phone.
“ How about we change that?”
“Oh my god, you’re trying to chat me up, even now?” I scoff and step forward, close enough that the scent of his body wash and something smoky fills my nose.
“ The dimples didn’t work on me. This isn’t working on me. And whatever you have planned next definitely won’t work on me. Quit while you’re ahead.”
A coy grin stretches across his face.
“ You didn’t forget about my dimples. That says something.”
“Good lord. Is there a repellent I need to buy to get rid of you?” I step back until there’s a healthy amount of space between us.
“ You’re insufferable.”
“My mom says it’s endearing. Plus , you intrigue me.”
“Become un -intrigued. Fast .” He doesn’t budge as I skirt around him.
“ Goodbye , Booth .”
“Hey, hey. At least tell me your name.” He cocks his head.
He could’ve easily asked Martin for my name the other night, and there’s a morsel of respect that he didn’t.
Ugh. Why am I still standing here?
“That’s not going to happen,” I tell him bluntly.
“All right then. I’ll take a guess.” He taps a finger on his chin, gaze tracking me from head to toe, only to linger on my face.
His obvious perusal makes my skin tingle, and I absolutely shouldn’t care what’s going on in that dumb brain of his.
“ How about… Silver ?”
My mask of indifference slips.
“ Silver ? Why would you call me that?”
“Your eyes. They’re beautiful. The way they shone in the sun that day…” Shaking his head like he’s getting carried away, he rubs his palms together.
Dare I say, I detect a little bashfulness.
A bit of my armor falls away at his compliment.
The irony of the nickname isn’t lost on me.
Not that he’d know that.
Goddammit , he’s making me soft.
“ I was half expecting a cheesy pickup line.”
“Well, I was going to save them for our date.”
“There will be no date,” I correct and take another step toward freedom.
“But I suppose you’ve earned it,” he continues, like I haven’t spoken, following me toward the door.
“ Is your dad a robber? Because he must have stolen those stars in your eyes…”
His voice fades as my face drops, spine going ramrod straight.
It’s a silly reaction and I’m quick to brush it off, just not quick enough.
Worry riddles Booth’s features, and he takes a tentative step forward.
“ Shit , did I say something wrong? That was insensitive of me. I should know better tha?—”
My hand shoots up, halting his apology.
“ I appreciate you coming by the other night to check on me. I should have said thank you. I’m not trying to be rude, but nothing I’ve said so far seems to work. You’re not my type. I’m only here short term. I’m busy. Understood ?”
It’s like shouting at a naughty puppy with the way his shoulders deflate, though I think it’s more to do with the fact he thinks he’s upset me than the rejection.
As much as I want to shut this conversation down, I can’t leave him thinking that.
Hoping to ease his mind, I soften my voice.
“ My dad is not a robber. He works in private equity and will probably never retire. But seriously, this”— I gesture between us—“is never happening.”
I could probably do with getting laid.
It’s been a couple of months, and the last guy I was with had his head so far up his ass he forgot to locate my clitoris.
Booth has nice hands.
I bet he’d find it.
No, no, no, no, no.
This isn’t on the agenda.
The hopeful gleam in his eyes eases my guilt and worries me.
Clearly nothing I say is going to deter him and now I regret being nice.
It has no benefits. He’s like a pesky bug.
A very handsome bug.
“You know what they say…” he drawls.
“No. I don’t. And neither do you. Don’t say it. Don’t be that guy.” I’m practically begging as I point a finger at him in warning, which he ignores. “Never say never.”