Chapter 36
Alex
It just sort of happened.
I didn’t want to be away from Carrie’s all week, but being home had been nice.
The routine of uni, making dinner with Mum, and spending evenings prepping Dad for his interview had grounded me.
I even used the laptop Carrie gave me to build him a proper CV.
Seeing his experience laid out in black and white filled me with a fierce sense of pride—he was far more skilled than anyone gave him credit for.
I spent hours in the uni library following the librarians' advice to make sure it looked professional.
I just wanted him to put his best foot forward.
When the doorbell finally rang, I found myself grinning like a total idiot, sprinting toward the hallway before the echo even faded. I had missed her.
I had stolen moments where I could at uni, of course, but that was Dr. Carter.
That was the woman I had to pretend I wasn't staring at as she lectured, the woman whose mouth only slightly twitched when she caught me looking.
I had definitely been the needy girlfriend, bombarding her office for a few stolen kisses or that one heated moment against her wall that left my knees weak for the rest of the afternoon.
But Carrie Carter was a professional; no matter how much I begged her the other day, she just called me a brat and held me at arm's length while I pawed at her shirt.
I was obsessed with her. (Though I swore, she almost gave in.)
I pulled the door open and just stared. She was standing there with her hair in that half-up, half-down style that made her look younger and devastatingly sexy.
She was wearing black jeans and a crisp white shirt tucked in at the front—a "French tuck," she’d called it.
Thank you, France. She had a suit bag hooked over her shoulder, looking formidable and perfect.
“Are you going to let me in?” Carrie smirked.
Nope. I didn’t care that I was only in my socks.
I stepped out onto the path, forcing her to step back in amusement as I pulled the door shut behind me.
I basically attacked her. She didn't drop the suit bag or lose her footing, but she eagerly indulged me, cupping my face and kissing me like I needed her oxygen to breathe.
When I finally pulled back, she was breathless, shaking her head.
“Oh,” she cleared her throat, her eyes dark. “One would think you’ve missed me.”
“I’ve missed you desperately,” I smirked, hooking my fingers into her belt loops to pull her flush against me.
“Alex,” she warned, though her voice was soft. I sighed. Yeah, I knew. Not now.
I let her go but caught the tip of her nose with a quick kiss before leading her inside. My dad was in the kitchen putting the kettle on, a knowing smirk on his face. “I thought I was going to have to throw a bucket of water over the pair of you.”
I bit my lip, fighting the urge to blush, and gave him a playful shove. “Shut up.”
Carrie neatly lined up her boots in the hallway—it was so cute how she tried to maintain an air of order even in our chaotic little house.
She joined us in the kitchen, the suit bag now draped over her arm.
“So, Phil. I have a few options for you. Would you like to try them on before or after lunch?”
“Maybe after,” I interjected with a grin. “Just to make sure they still fit after he’s had his fill.”
Dad pointed a teaspoon at me threateningly. “You’re pushing your luck, girl.”
Carrie caught my eye, a private spark of mischief in her gaze, as she draped the bag carefully over the banister. “After lunch it is, then.”
She wandered into the lounge, greeting my Mum with an ease that suggested she had been doing this for years. I watched her go, realisation hitting me like a physical weight. This was life then. My parents, her, and me.
God, I was so stupidly in love with this woman.
Lunch was a simple affair—a basic pasta bake that Mum and I had thrown together—but Carrie ate it like it was a five-course meal at the Savoy, engaging Dad in a conversation about the nuances of soil pH that had him beaming.
When we were finished, she didn't let me lift a finger alone. She insisted on helping clear the plates, following me into our cramped kitchen. As soon as we were out of my parents' line of sight, she leaned in, stealing a quick, firm kiss that tasted like home. Tingles all over.
"I've got the drying," she murmured, snapping a tea towel over her shoulder with an efficiency that made me grin.
I plunged my hands into the soapy water, scrubbing at the pasta dish.
The kitchen was so small we were practically hip-to-hip, her shoulder brushing mine every time she reached for a plate.
She surveyed the tiny counter space, the mismatched tiles, and the ancient drying rack with a thoughtful, calculating hum.
"You know," Carrie said, her smirk audible even though I was looking at the bubbles. "If this kitchen were just a few feet wider, I would insist on buying you a dishwasher. It’s a tragedy that you have to scrub these by hand."
I scoffed, flicking a bit of foam at her arm. I turned to look at her, my expression a mix of amusement and a very clear warning. "Carrie, do not. Do not 'insist' on just buying a whole new house for us that happens to come with a built-in dishwasher."
She didn't even look guilty. She just caught the foam with the towel, her eyes twinkling with that dangerous, playful wealth of hers.
"Spoilsport," she mutters, though the look she gave me was pure, unadulterated affection. "I’m only trying to optimise your time, Alex. Think of the extra minutes we’d have for... other activities."
I rolled my eyes, though my heart was doing that familiar, frantic skip. "We’re doing the fashion show for Dad, and then you’re leaving for a bit so I can actually get some work done before my shift. No 'activities' whilst my parents are very much awake, Dr. Carter."
"We'll see about that," she whispered, her hand grazing the small of my back as she reached for the next plate.
It wasn't fair. I wasn't a sex addict, but a week without Carrie had been actual torture. If I weren't worried about my parents thinking I was a complete whore, I’d have dragged her upstairs right that second.
As the last plate was tucked away, Carrie didn't move. She boxed me in against the counter, her arms sliding around my waist to pull me flush against her. I let out a breathless chuckle, shimmying out of her embrace before I lost my resolve entirely.
"No," I said, trying to sound firm. "Dad needs to try these suits on now, or I’m going to be late for my shift."
Carrie let out a low, theatrical groan, her lips grazing the shell of my ear. "If you would just quit that job, Alex, imagine the plans we could be making for tonight."
I groaned right back, the temptation of it tugging at me. I indulged for a second, dropping my forehead onto her shoulder and breathing her in. "You’re impossible."
"I am in love," she countered softly, the sheer sincerity in her voice catching me off guard.
I shivered, the weight of the words anchoring me to the floor. "Me too," I whispered into the crook of her neck. "Come on. Suit time."
Carrie shifted back into her formidable, organised self.
She hung three separate suits on the banister, each with a matching shirt and a selection of ties.
She talked Dad through the fabrics and the cuts with the same precision she used to break down economic theory, treating him with a level of respect that clearly made him stand a little taller. It warmed my heart to see.
Once Dad disappeared upstairs with the first option, Carrie joined Mum and me on the sofa.
We sat in a row—a jury of three—waiting for the reveal.
The atmosphere in the lounge was thick with a beautiful kind of anticipation.
It wasn't just about the clothes; it was about seeing the man who had been the weary backbone of this family finally dress for the future he deserved.
"You ready, Phil?" Mum called out, her hands twisting nervously in her lap.
"Hang on, hang on," Dad’s muffled voice came from upstairs, sounding uncharacteristically flustered. "This tie is a bloody nightmare."
Carrie smirked, leaning back and crossing her legs. "Don't worry, Phil. We have all afternoon."
I rolled my eyes at Carrie's comment; I had to leave for my shift in less than an hour, and she knew it. But before I could snark back, the stairs creaked, and Dad reentered the room.
The air left my lungs. He looked incredible.
He was wearing a charcoal-grey wool suit that fitted him with a precision Richard’s clothes couldn't possibly manage.
The shoulders were sharp, the trousers broke perfectly at his shoes, and the fabric had that expensive, matte sheen of high-quality tailoring.
My heart sank and soared at the same time—these weren't Richard's old cast-offs.
Carrie bought these for him. She must have spent a fortune getting them based on the measurements I texted her, and she had played it off as a "loan" just to protect his pride.
I didn't even get a chance to throw Carrie a knowing look before she was off the sofa. She moved with effortless grace, stepping up to Dad to fix his collar.
"Hold still, Phil," she murmured, her fingers working the silk tie into a perfect Windsor knot. "A man of your experience shouldn't be undermined by a lopsided tie."
Dad stood there, unusually still, looking at himself in the hallway mirror with an expression that bordered on shock. Next to me, I heard a soft, choked-up sound. I turned to see Mum with her hand over her mouth, her eyes swimming with tears.
"Oh, Phil," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You look so handsome. Like the man I married all those years ago." She looked toward Carrie, her face full of a raw, quiet gratitude. "Whatever happens on Monday, seeing you with this chance... seeing you like this... it’s enough."