Chapter 8
ALFIE
My sketchbook is overflowing. Not with landscapes or figures, but with her.
Page after page of her. The way the light gets tangled in her hair.
The way her hands move when she’s talking too fast, lost in something that sets her on fire.
The look she gets right before she tells a joke.
She’s everywhere, in every stroke of graphite, every smear of charcoal.
And I don’t know if I’m trying to capture her or if I just can’t stop.
Now she’s walking ahead of me, ponytail swinging, completely unaware that she’s already taken up permanent space in my mind. And my fingers twitch. Not just to sketch her again. But to do something about it.
But it’s not just her. It’s the mural. The thing that’s been hijacking my thoughts, keeping me up at night.
For the first time in years, I actually want to create something.
Not just precise, sterile technical drawings of mineral formations.
Real art. But this—this isn’t technical drawings or sterile sketches.
This is something raw, something that leaves me exposed.
The sort of art that peels you open, that shows the world what’s going on inside your head.
And the scariest part? I don’t know if it’s the art or if it’s her.
But, Spencers don’t do vulnerable. We don’t show our hand, don’t let people see the mess behind the mask. Art used to be my rebellion against that - my way of making sense of things when words fail. The way I survived growing up in a house where feelings were treated like weaknesses to be managed.
I was seven the first time I really created something. Not for school or because someone told me to, but because I needed to. It was the same day I first understood what Spencer love looked like.
I found my father with his secretary in his study.
The image still makes me queasy and my head swim.
The painting I created that night wasn’t pretty, it was dark colors and harsh lines.
It still sits in the back of my closet at home.
My mother thought it was lovely, hung it up for a while.
She never realized it was my way of processing what I’d seen.
Yeah, I know how it sounds. Poor little rich boy with daddy issues turning to art for therapy. Classic troubled heir bullshit. Doesn’t make it any less true.
Tara spins around, somehow managing to make even that look graceful despite wielding a trash picker. “I think we’ve done enough of this today.” She glances at the half-full trash bag between us. “Coffee break?”
Something in her voice—hopeful, casual—makes me pause. I should say no. Troy’s told me to back off and he’s made it clear what he will do to anybody who hurts his sister. Instead, I hear myself say, “Yeah, okay.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Drake. Again. I silence it, but not before Tara notices.
“Someone important?”
“Nobody,” I mutter, shoving the phone deeper into my pocket.
We’re halfway to CC’s when it buzzes again. “For fuck’s sake!” I growl pulling it out to silence it but the text preview catches my eye.
Brother
Booked the Airbnb for next weekend. Can’t wait to meet this girlfriend you keep talking about. Mom’s thrilled too.
They’ll be here next weekend, and I have no fucking clue what to do.
“Oh-kay.” She draws out the word, but doesn’t push.
We order—black coffee for me, peppermint tea for her—and find a spot outside in the sun. The silence between us is surprisingly comfortable. Tara usually fills every space with chatter, so this quiet is rare. Nice.
“You know,” she says finally, “I get family stuff. My family can be pretty dramatic sometimes.” She emphasizes the word like it’s an inside joke. “And it can be tough. You don’t have to talk about it, but... I’m here if you want to.”
Maybe it’s the way she says it—no pressure, just an offer. Or maybe it’s the sun making everything feel softer. Either way, I find myself talking.
“It’s my brother, Drake.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
Yeah, I think, because he’s a douchebag I’d rather not claim as my own.
“Yep. And he’s telling me how excited he is to come next weekend and meet me and my girlfriend.”
She jerks in surprise, tea sloshing over the side of her cup. “Oh shit! Fuck, oh god.” She scrambles to contain the spill, cheeks flushing.
“It’s fine,” I say, fighting a smile. “Just watering the grass.”
“I’m such a klutz!”
Before I can think better of it, I grab a napkin and reach for her hand. Her skin is soft, warm against my palm as I wipe away the tea. The touch feels more intimate than it should, electricity shooting up my arm. Her fingers twitch in mine, lingering a moment too long before she pulls away.
I clear my throat. She tucks her hair behind her ear.
“I, um, didn’t know you had a girlfriend.” Her voice sounds strange.
“I don’t,” I say. “That’s the problem.”
Her brow furrows. “Oh. Okayyy... Are you going to explain? Or should I guess why you’ve created an imaginary girlfriend called Crystal?”
“Crystal?”
“Yeah.” She waves her free hand expressively. “This is the beautiful, busty woman I picture you with. Great personality, obviously.”
I nearly choke on my coffee, eyes automatically dropping to her impressive rack before I can stop myself. Thankfully, she’s looking away, still rambling about my hypothetical girlfriend.
Don’t go there, Spencer. Don’t even think about going there.
“Anyway,” she continues, “so Crystal’s a smokeshow. Why’d you make her up?”
I sigh, turning my coffee cup in my hands. “It’s... complicated.”
“Try me.”
“You’re going to think it’s stupid.”
“Alfie Spencer,” she says, leaning forward, “I am currently wearing underwear with days of the week on them because I think it’s cute. I don’t think anything is stupid.”
My brain short-circuits at the word ‘underwear.’ My dick twitches and I have to cross my legs to hide my very noticeable reaction.
“Okay,” I say, mostly to distract myself. “My family is old school.” She nods, waiting. “Like, really old school. My parents have this thing about bloodlines and alliances. They always planned for me and Drake to marry into the right families, make the right connections.”
Her face stays carefully neutral, which somehow makes it easier to continue.
“Drake’s followed the script. Got engaged to the perfect society girl.
But I have zero interest in dating anyone my parents pick, let alone marrying them.
” I take a breath. “There’s this woman, Marcie.
Their best friend’s daughter. They’ve been pushing us together since we were kids, but she’s.
..” I search for a diplomatic way to say ‘entitled nightmare’.
Truthfully, Marcie’s not that bad, but the whole ‘being destined for each other’ thing has always put me off. “She’s not my type.”
“Can’t you just tell them that?”
“Yes and no. I have. They don’t listen.” I tug a hair at the nape of my neck. “Then last year I made this stupid drunk bet with Drake. Agreed that if I was single this summer, I’d give it a real shot with Marcie during the family vacation.”
“So, you told him you’re not single because you’re dating Crystal?”
“Right.”
“Hm.”
“What’s ‘hm’?”
“Well”—she wraps her hands around her tea—“why can’t you just be honest? Tell him you don’t have a girlfriend but also don’t want to date Marcie? Really, how important is a bet?”
If only she knew. In my family, a bet isn’t just a bet. It’s binding. Sacred, even. Grandpa drilled it into us. ‘Spencers keep their word. Follow through. Never make promises you can’t keep.’
“In my family,” I say carefully, “bets are important.”
“Well,” Tara says, stirring her tea absently, “you’ve got yourself in quite the pickle here, Spencer.”
“Thanks for that brilliant observation.”
“Have you tried dating apps? I bet there are plenty of girls who’d love to help you out.”
I can’t help the way my face twists. “Yeah, because ‘Must be willing to face Spanish Inquisition from old money family’ makes a great Tinder bio.”
“Could be worse. Could be ‘Must love black clothing and emotional unavailability.’” Her eyes sparkle with mischief.
“Not helping.”
She leans forward, and I catch a whiff of her shampoo. Roses and vanilla. “Seriously though, you could find someone. There has to be—”
“I can’t.” The words come out sharper than intended. “I can’t just... subject some random person to my family. To their scrutiny, their expectations, their—” I stop, realizing I’m saying too much. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying me with those big brown eyes that see too much. “But you can’t ignore it either, right?”
“Nope, they’re coming next weekend.”
The phone is heavy in my hand as I stare at Drake’s contact.
Just call him. Tell him there is no girlfriend.
Deal with the fallout. Tell him I am a grown man and I’m going to make my own decisions about who to date and they need to stop pushing me towards Marcie.
I thought about what Tara said, why can’t I just be honest?
Sure, he’s going to be on at me for not fulfilling my end of the bet, and I’ll have to put up with years of shit from him about it.
But I don’t really have a choice right now. I have no girlfriend and the 21st is fast approaching.
My phone buzzes, Mother’s face filling the screen. I almost decline it, but it’s so unusual for her to actually call me, rather than email, that I answer.
“Mother.”
“Darling. I’ve been thinking about you.”
Something in my lungs feel like they’re being compressed, an old, childish hope that never quite dies. “You have?”
“Of course. Drake tells me you’re doing so well. Your research, your new relationship...” She pauses delicately. “I can’t wait to meet her properly when we visit.”
Fuck. So, Drake’s already told them.
“Listen, about that—”
“It’s going to be wonderful. All of us at Mountain Springs. Such a cute little town. For the donor dinner, darling. The trustees are so looking forward to seeing you. And of course, they’ll want to meet your girlfriend. Drake says she sounds like a great woman.”
I grip my desk, papers crinkling under my fingers. “Mother—”
“You know how things are, darling. The Whitehalls were just saying at the club how concerning it is to see a future foundation trustee still... unattached. And the Blackwoods - you remember their donation last year? They specifically asked about your... situation.” Her voice turns sharp.
“Do you have any idea what it does to our reputation? The whispers at the club, the concerned questions about why my son can’t seem to maintain a proper relationship?
Drake managed it. The Whitehalls’ son managed it.
Even your grandfather understood the importance of appearances.
” She pauses deliberately. “Speaking of your grandfather’s legacy - the foundation’s grants are up for renewal.
Including the one funding your little project. ”
My stomach drops. “What do you mean?”
“Professor Hammond’s research grant,” she says it casually, like she hasn’t been orchestrating this all along. “Quite substantial, isn’t it? Would be a shame if budget constraints forced us to be more... selective.”
“You’ve been watching me.” The realization hits like ice water. “All this time, you’ve been—”
“Of course, I have, darling. A mother needs to look after her children’s interests.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “The research has potential, I’ll give you that. But potential only opens so many doors without the right support.”
I grit my teeth. “The work stands on its own merit.”
“Merit?” She laughs softly. “Your grandfather understood better than anyone - merit means nothing without proper backing. Why do you think he left the foundation in my care?” Her voice hardens.
“Someone has to maintain certain standards. Someone has to ensure the Spencer name continues to open the right doors.”
My jaw clenches. “Are you threatening to pull funding?”
“Threatening? Never. I’m simply reminding you how many worthy projects depend on the foundation’s support.
Professor Hammond’s summer research program, for instance.
All those brilliant young minds who might never get their chance without proper backing.
We support at least fifteen science projects around your grandfather’s interests. ”
Bile rises in my throat. She knows exactly where to press - not my ambitions, but my need to protect others’ opportunities. Grandpa’s legacy twisted into another weapon. I imagine all those people working on those projects that they probably worked their whole lives to specialize enough to work on.
“Anyway, I can’t wait to meet your girlfriend,” Mother continues. “I’m sure with proper guidance, she could learn to fit in.”
Of course, she’s already assuming whoever I’ve picked won’t live up to her standards.
I think about calling her bluff. About telling her there is no relationship, that I won’t play her games anymore.
But I see Professor Hammond’s face, imagine having to tell those students their funding’s been cut.
Because of me. Because I couldn’t maintain the precious Spencer image for one more year.
“Yeah, fine. It’ll be great,” I say finally, the words tasting like ash. “See you then.”
“Wonderful. We’ll be up next weekend then.” The warmth returns to her voice. “I really am proud of you, darling. You’re finally starting to understand how things work.”
The line goes dead, leaving me alone with the knowledge that I understand exactly how things work in my family. And I hate myself for still playing along. But it’s not like a have a choice.