Chapter 4
FOUR
Alexia
I stand in the bathroom, fully dressed, staring at my own reflection in the mirror for almost ten minutes before it becomes impossible to deny that it's getting beyond ridiculous.
Look, I'm not hiding. I am preparing myself. Those are two distinctly different things. One is smart, prudent, cautious, everything the adults told us to do. The other is cowardly. I pick not that one.
The sounds beyond the bathroom door suggest that at least two of my impromptu, temporary housemates are already awake, going back and forth between their rooms and the hallway, without too much conversation. Going through the process of getting ready for the day.
My palms spread out down the front of my shirt, and I check my reflection again, making sure I don't have toothpaste smeared somewhere, and that my buttons have all been slotted through their corresponding holes.
And then I give my nervous reflection a nod, and try to remember that I'm almost twenty-five years old, with an almost postgraduate qualification in international power dynamics and I have, surely, handled much worse than what awaits me beyond that door.
I leave the sanctuary of the fogged-up bathroom and wander towards the kitchen.
Marcus is at the stovetop, mumbling something about brown versus white eggs.
He's wearing a tight white tank top, an unbuttoned red plaid shirt pushed up to his elbows, his work boots already laced, and faded, worn jeans fitting in all the right places.
It's a look that works for him, a little too well, to be honest. It's like he walked directly out of the builder version of GQ. Something I'm sure he knows.
Rhys sits at the breakfast nook in a charcoal grey suit, completely ignoring Marcus other than to pull the sports section out of the newspaper and slide it across the bench. They still get a physical newspaper. I didn't know people still did that.
Marcus gives the pan a prod with the spatula, tops a coffee with frothed milk, and sets it in front of Rhys, who lifts it with a mumbled thanks, eyes still on the paper.
Eggs land on a plate and are slid over to Rhys, who, too slow to respond, gets a sharp rap on the hand with the spatula.
He finally looks up, almost remorseful, mumbles something like appreciation, and Marcus beams before turning back to the stove.
I'm almost reluctant to break up the little domestic tableau.
Before I can retreat to my room, Zachary comes up behind me, hair still wet, wearing a crisp royal blue polo shirt and beige trousers. His eyes practically leap out against the colour. Takes me a second to catch my breath. How could I forget how blue they are?
Oh, because I'd made myself forget. Glad I was more successful than I thought.
"Good morning, Lex, how'd you sleep?" he asks as he fastens his watch, giving me a soft smile.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Zachary Wren. Here. Asking about my sleep. Who slept across the hall. Who's standing there staring at me, waiting.
Shit. Say something, Alexia, you idiot.
Er, how about... Oh, I know. "Yup," I say out loud. Well, that should do it.
He frowns. Huh. His eyes are as beautiful when they're looking confused. Interesting. "I asked—"
"Hey, you two, come have some breakfast," Marcus interrupts, waving us over with spatula still in hand, before Zachary can finish his sentence.
Saved by the kitchen implement.
Zachary sighs and gestures into the kitchen. "After you."
I give him a tight smile and walk up to the breakfast nook, impressed by the spread: toast, eggs, a bowl of fruit, two tubs of yoghurt, a jug of orange juice.
I don't usually have breakfast; I'm lucky if I wake up early enough to grab a cup of coffee before making a mad dash to the bus.
Early bird, I am not. Night owl, I very much am.
But something about the smell of the cooking eggs and the food in front of me has my stomach rebelling and I hug my arms around my midsection before the gurgling I feel becomes the growling they can all hear.
Marcus plops a cup of black coffee onto the counter in front of Zachary. "Hey, what are you doing up so early? Other than when we have to catch an early flight, I can't remember the last time I saw you before noon."
Zachary takes a sip of his coffee and flicks through the newspaper sections Rhys has finished with. "Hmm? Oh, no real reason, just thought I'd go to the bar to make sure all the things we discussed yesterday are being implemented smoothly."
Marcus frowns. "Hunter's got it sorted. I mean he's already there to meet the plumbe—"
"I'll feel better if I see it myself. Can't a guy check on his own business?
" Zachary snaps. The impatience in his voice isn't something I'm used to hearing.
From grumpy Rhys, sure. From the ever cool and even-tempered Zachary?
Never. Apparently I'm not the only one who notices.
Rhys glances at Zachary over the top of his paper.
His eyes then accidentally meet mine and he immediately goes back to his paper.
Marcus lifts his hands in surrender and takes a step back, gesturing with his head towards the pan of eggs.
Zachary shakes his head. "Nah. Just the coffee. Thanks," he says with a tilt of his lips, almost in apology.
Marcus finally turns to look over at me. "Eggs?"
"I'm fine, thank you," I answer.
I don't know why, it feels safer not to ask for anything, expect anything, rely on them for anything. Once bitten, twice shy.
"I don't usually have much more than a fruit cup or cup of tea for breakfast, not usually awake early enough for anything more than that," I overexplain.
He ignores me completely and makes me a full plate anyway — eggs, toast, two rashers of crispy bacon — sets it on the island and gestures at the stool. My mouth floods. I can't remember the last time I had a full breakfast. Years.
"He's a great cook," Zachary says, watching me looking down at the food in front of me. "I mean, I know he looks like he'd burn cereal, but he's actually become pretty good in the kitchen."
Marcus scoffs, joins us with his own heaped plate, hip against the island, shovelling food into his mouth. "That's because if I wanted to eat well around here, I had to learn myself. You're all useless in the kitchen. Don't think we used the microwave that first year."
I take a tentative bite of the eggs. They're excellent, which is surprising and annoying.
I look up to see Marcus watching me and he grins. "Good, huh?"
Ugh. Still cocky beyond compare. But I'm no longer the naive, starry-eyed, nineteen-year-old I was when I last saw him.
Making a show of taking another bite, I then slowly put down my fork and give him a nonchalant shrug. "They're okay. A little bland but maybe you meant for them to be that way?"
"Lies!" He grabs my fork, scoops up some egg, tastes it himself, as if checking for a bad batch.
"They're amazing. Do you know how many scrambled egg recipes I've tried?
" He stares at me, incredulous, and I return the look with another shrug.
"This is Gordon Ramsay meets RecipeTin Eats. I'd beat them both in a cook-off."
I swallow down the urge to smirk, even as Zachary snorts under his breath next to me.
"If you say so," I say flatly, and grab the toast to take a bite, giving a little sound of appreciation. "The toast is good at least. Is it Wonder Bread?"
This time Zachary doesn't even bother trying to hide his response; he spits out the coffee in his mouth.
Marcus almost chokes, sputtering at my response. He rounds the island and stands next to me, picking up a slice of bacon and holds it to my lips. "Firstly, I made that sourdough myself. Now, take a bite of this and tell me it's not the best bacon you've ever had."
His arm grazes mine as he leans in closer, hovering the bacon right up against my lips.
I get a waft of his body wash, and it takes everything not to close my eyes and let myself be enveloped by it.
It's mingled with his aftershave, and it's something quintessentially Marcus.
And it yanks me into the past, a moment six years ago when he was standing about as close to me as he is now.
My cheeks suddenly blaze with heat, and my eyes flick up to meet his. Hazel eyes pinned to mine, looking right through me.
But before I can say or do anything, there's the sound of metal on tile, a stool screeching on the kitchen floor before it clangs loudly to the ground.
I jump back, hand to my chest, as we look over to see Rhys on his feet, also looking down at the stool now rocking back and forth on its side on the ground.
"Sorry, must've gotten up a little too quickly." He clears his throat as he reaches for his glass of juice and downs it in one gulp. "I'm late for work."
With that, he grabs his phone off the counter, shoves it into his pocket along with his keys and walks out of the kitchen without another word or glance at anyone.
Silence descends on the kitchen, and no one looks at anyone else for a moment. And then I take his cue to leave.
"Thanks for breakfast. Leave the dishes, I'll do them when I get home later."
Marcus frowns. "No, you don't have t—"
I give him a cutting look. Like the one I gave him yesterday when I said I'd contribute with groceries. He closes his mouth and nods. Well, at least I have that one weapon at my disposal.
Because I think I'm going to need it.
Living here for the next week with Marcus, Zachary and Rhys? I'm going to need every piece of armour I can muster if I want to get out in one piece.
Rhys is following me.
I don't notice it immediately. I'm too busy running through the orientation schedule in my head, eight thirty arrival, HR meeting to sign the relevant forms, introduction to the department head and project coordinator, lunch, meeting with some employee counsellor.