Chapter 6
ALFIE
“Brother,” I answer, already sensing a headache forming behind my eyes. I’m tidying up my room before leaving for this meeting with Janine when something possessed me to finally answer his calls. Maybe after running into Ethan this morning, I feel like I can handle all kinds of weird.
Earlier this morning, I’d been taking advantage of what I thought was an empty house.
Freddie was at work, Troy at Camp Pinehaven, and Ethan supposedly back with his family for summer.
With hot water running down my back and steam filling the bathroom, I’d felt the tension from my research melt away.
I’d strolled out of the bathroom without bothering to grab a towel. The freedom of having the house to yourself, there’s nothing quite like it. I was halfway down the hallway, humming a beat that had gotten stuck in my head, when I collided with something solid.
“Holy shit!”
“Oh my god!” Ethan slapped his hands over his eyes. “Dude!”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I grabbed the nearest object, a sweatshirt, and covered myself.
“Plans changed! I’m back already, baby!” Ethan was still covering his eyes, though I swear I saw him peeking through his fingers. “Why are you naked?”
“I thought I had the house to myself!” I backed toward my room. “You could’ve warned us you were coming back!”
“I did! Check the group chat!”
“Stop peeking!”
“I’m not peeking!” But he definitely was peeking. “Though I gotta say, hitting the gym’s really working for you.”
“Oh my god, shut up!” I finally reached my door. “We’re never speaking of this again.”
“Too late! Already texting the group chat!”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Just saw Alfie’s—”
I slammed my door, Ethan’s laughter echoing down the hallway. My phone buzzed almost immediately:
UMS LADS
Ethan
i just saw the craziest thing
Troy
what???
Freddie
***
Ethan
let’s just say our boy’s been working out
Alfie
I will murder you in your sleep
Troy
WTF are you talking about
Some things really should stay out of the goddamn group chat.
“Well, if it isn’t my little bro!” Drake’s voice drips with the kind of manufactured tone that comes from too many corporate leadership seminars. “You know, normal people actually call their family sometimes.”
I grunt noncommittally, picturing him in his corner office, adjusting his Rolex with one hand while he signs acquisition papers with the other. If people think I’m an asshole, it’s only because they’ve never met Drake. He’s the kind of guy who peaked in his MBA program and never shut up about it.
“Fascinating critique of my communication skills,” I mutter. “Was there a point to this call?”
“Oh, there absolutely is.” His tone shifts, and I can hear the smirk. Classic Drake, always thinking he’s got the upper hand. “Remember last summer? That delightful evening at the vineyard?”
My stomach drops. Fuck. He’s talking about the night I got spectacularly drunk on overpriced wine and made possibly the stupidest bet of my life.
I really need to stop getting drunk and fucking things up.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I lie, even though the memory’s already surfacing like a bad hangover.
“Really? Because I distinctly remember you saying—what was it? Oh yes. ‘If I’m still single next summer, I’ll come to Portugal and give Marcie a real chance.’ Ring any bells?”
“I was drunk,” I protest. “That doesn’t count.”
Double fuck.
The Spencer family summer tour of Europe. A tradition as pretentious as it sounds, where my parents drag us to various villas to network and day-drink with other obscenely wealthy families. This year’s destination? Portugal. With the Bollingdons.
The Bollingdons. Old money, older attitudes, and the proud owners of both a yacht collection and a desperate desire to merge our families through marriage.
Drake’s already doing his part, engaged to Lisa, Marcie’s best friend.
And I’m the last hold-out, constantly dodging their not-so-subtle attempts to push me toward Marcie Bollingdon herself.
Marcie, who my mother calls “a lovely girl from a good family.” Which is rich-person code for “has the right connections and won’t embarrass us at charity galas.”
“Listen,” I cut in before he can start lecturing me about family obligations. “I can’t make the trip this summer. I’ve got research commitments.”
“Research?” He says it like it’s a dirty word. “You’re still playing with rocks?”
“Conducting a geochemical analysis of—” I stop myself. No point explaining the intricacies of my research to someone who thinks science is something that happens in pharmaceutical commercials. “Yes, Drake. I am, in fact, still playing with rocks.”
“Not a problem, little brother!” His tone is too cheerful. I immediately tense. “If you can’t come to Portugal, we’ll bring Portugal to you.”
“What?”
“We’ll do a weekend at Mountain Springs before we fly out. Rent one of those fancy Airbnb’s near your campus. Give you a chance to spend some quality time with Marcie.”
My stomach drops.
“Drake—”
“She’s been asking about you, you know. Says she misses your stimulating conversations about... whatever it is you talk about.”
I resist the urge to bang my head against the desk. The last “stimulating conversation” I had with Marcie was about whether plants and rocks have emotions. She was serious.
“I can’t.” I hear myself say. “I’m seeing someone.”
The silence on the other end is deafening. Then Drake laughs, the sound sharp and dismissive. “Right. You. Dating someone. Good one, baby bro.”
“I am,” I say, irritation making me reckless. “She’s amazing, actually.”
“Sure, sure. Let me guess—some alternative girl with blue hair who reads tarot cards? Or maybe one of those environmental activist types who chains herself to trees? Isn’t your cute little campus full of those?
” His voice drips with condescension. “Save it, Alfie. We both know Mother and Father would never approve. Stop pretending with this little fling and just give Marcie a chance. She’s exactly what this family needs. ”
“She’s nothing like that,” I snap, anger making my voice sharp. “She’s beautiful and smart and completely normal.”
What the fuck am I saying?
“Oh really?” Drake’s tone shifts from dismissive to challenging. “Well then, this is perfect. We’ll all come up in two weeks. Meet this new lady friend of yours. Maybe she and Marcie can be friends.”
Shit. Shit shit shit.
“Two weeks?” My voice cracks. “That’s—”
“Perfect timing! Father’s between board meetings, and the Bollingdons are free. We can make a whole weekend of it.”
“Drake,” I warn.
“Can’t wait to meet this mystery woman, little brother.” His voice hardens. “Unless, of course, you’re lying. In which case, I’m sure Marcie would still love to go on a few dates.”
“You’ll meet her. Two weeks. Fine. I’ll see you on the 21st.”
The 21st of July. Fine. Perfect. I have two weeks to figure out what I’m going to do about this.
“Excellent! I’ll have my assistant make the arrangements.”
Drake’s mocking voice echoes in my head, drowning out whatever Janine is saying about campus improvement. Two weeks, baby brother. Time’s ticking.
Janine’s excitement for cleaning up trash around the grounds would be remarkable if I were actually listening to her.
Instead, I’m replaying this morning’s phone call. Imagining Drake going on about Portugal plans, about Marcie’s excitement, about Mom’s hints regarding grandchildren. As if Marcie Bollingdon and her perfect society manners are what I want in my future.
“Right, Alfie?”
I blink, realizing Tara’s looking at me expectantly. She’s wearing a pink lacy top, and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail with a few blonde strands shaping her face. It looks pretty.
“Sorry, what?”
Tara rolls her eyes, but there’s concern in them too. Probably because I’ve been acting like a zombie all morning. “Janine was asking about our schedule flexibility.”
“Oh. Yeah. Um, Tuesday and Thursday. Work with you?”
She blinks. “Uh, yeah. I think so. I can work that around my shifts.”
Janine beams and claps her hands together. She’s one of those overly cheerful administrators who probably organizes her paperclips by size. “Wonderful! Now, quick question, do either of you have any artistic abilities?”
“Nope,” Tara says immediately. “I can barely draw stick figures.”
“I do.” The words come out before I can stop them. Both women turn to stare at me.
“You... draw?” Tara’s voice is skeptical.
I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention. “I’m decent with paint.”
That’s a slight understatement. I’ve been painting since I was kid. Not that anyone here needs to know that.
“Perfect! Well, someone tagged the humanities building last night,” Janine says, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“And it’s... well. You should probably see it for yourselves.
It’s pretty big, takes up half of a wall.
It needs some paint to cover it right away, but why not use it as an opportunity to brighten the space. A mural would be ideal.”
“A mural?” Tara’s eyes light up, and something in my chest does a weird flip. “That’s so much better than picking up trash!”
“You’ll still be doing that too,” Janine clarifies, shuffling through her papers. “But yes, the mural could be one of your major projects. Alfie, I’m going to assume you can handle the artistic elements, and Tara, you can help with the preparation and planning.”
Tara turns to me, her expression a mix of surprise and something else I can’t read. “How did I not know you could paint?”
Because I don’t tell people. Because art is the one thing my family can’t touch.
“Never came up,” I say instead.
“Well, this is perfect timing,” Janine continues, oblivious to my discomfort.
“We’ve been meaning to do something with that wall for ages.
Even before the vandalization. We think it’s actually the perfect place for a message.
Something to inspire people. You two can work on designs, get them approved, and really make it your own project! This will be fun, won’t it?”
So. Much. Fun.
Tara’s practically bouncing in her seat now. “We could do something about environmental conservation! Or local wildlife! Or—”
“Let’s get through the paperwork first,” I cut in, but the corner of my mouth twitches up despite myself. Her enthusiasm is annoyingly infectious.
“So,” Janine says, pulling out more forms, “shall we talk color schemes?”
I catch Tara sneaking glances at me as Janine rambles about approved paint brands.
“Alfie?” Tara’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “Any preference on colors?”
I look at her, really look at her, and for a moment I forget I’m supposed to be pushing her out of my mind. “Whatever you want. Pink, probably.”
Her smile could power the whole campus.
Janine had the bright idea that we should kick off our community service immediately.
I watch Tara walking a few paces ahead. She’s bent over picking up trash, her shorts riding up her thighs, and I’m trying not to stare.
Failing miserably. She manages to make even this look graceful, which is just fucking unfair.
Her golden hair is shining in the sun and I think about how it might feel to run my fingers through it.
Or to gently pull on it while she backs up. .. I nearly snap my own picker in half.
And fuck, maybe Freddie’s right. Maybe I do like her. A little.
First, there’s the Troy factor. My best friend has made it crystal clear that none of us, especially not the guy with commitment issues, are good enough for his baby sister. Can’t even blame him. He’s probably right.
But the bigger issue? I don’t do relationships. Period.
Growing up watching my parent’s marriage was better than any anti-relationship PSA could ever be. The Spencer family guide to matrimony, treat it like a hostile corporate merger, with power plays and calculated moves.
My father was the hungry young entrepreneur, determined to make his mark in aviation.
My mother came with old money connections and even older family prestige.
He made her look modern and ambitious and she gave him access to conversations he couldn’t have dreamed of otherwise.
A perfect business arrangement masquerading as a happy marriage.
They had kids because that’s what society expected.
Two boys, perfectly spaced, like they were following some upper-class breeding manual.
I still remember overhearing my mother at one of her endless charity luncheons, telling her equally plastic friends how relieved she was that her “reproductive duties” were complete after me.
And now Drake. Different players, same game. He’s marrying Lisa because she comes with the right connections, the right background, the right everything. Like our parents. Like their parents before them.
Maybe it’s genetic, this inability to form real connections. Maybe the Spencers are just wired for strategic alliances instead of actual feelings.
Ahead of me, Tara turns and grins, holding up something she’s found with her picker. “Look! A perfectly good travel mug! After I sanitize it like fifty times, this might be totally usable.”
“Please put it in the bag, Tara. I can’t have you off sick with tuberculosis.”
She scoffs. “Don’t be cruel to the little mug; it hasn’t done anything wrong and still has some life in it.”
“It’s got a hole in it.” I step closer, enjoying how she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “Though I have to admire your dedication to trash collecting. Very thorough.”
“I’m thorough about everything,” she says primly, then immediately flushes as she realizes how that sounds.
I can’t help myself.
“Everything?” I let my voice drop lower, watching with satisfaction as her cheeks turn pinker. “That’s good to know.”
“I didn’t mean—” she stammers, her bright eyes wide, her blush a fiery contrast to her pale skin.
“You’re horrible,” she mutters, shoving the mug into the bag I’m holding.
“I thought you wanted me to talk more. Just making conversation.” I maintain my innocent expression even as I step closer. “About your... thoroughness.”
She shoots me a glare that would be more effective if she wasn’t still blushing. “Don’t you have trash to collect?”
“After you.” I gesture ahead with my free hand, enjoying watching her walk ahead of me.
And that’s exactly the problem. Because watching Tara get flustered shouldn’t make me feel this…warm.
I need to stop this before it starts.
Even if making her blush is becoming my favorite hobby.