26. Alexis #3
Gabriel showers much more quickly than I do, but I still manage to dress in the time it takes him to finish—which is a relief, because at the sight of him shirtless and dripping, a towel slung low around his hips, I have half a mind to collapse onto the bed and beg him for more.
If I wasn’t wearing clothes, there would be one less obstacle to that outcome, and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.
As it is, I sit on the edge of the bed, pretending to fuss with the hem of my sweater, but my eyes betray me. They flicker up, tracing the droplets of water as they glide down his chest.
He raises an eyebrow at me, clearly amused. “Can I change in here, or do I need to hide in the bathroom?”
“You can change in here,” I say in a small voice.
Gabriel chuckles, and the sound sends a shiver down my spine.
It’s low and teasing, like he knows exactly what effect he’s having on me.
He walks over to the dresser, his broad back flexing with each movement, the muscles beneath his skin rippling as he rummages for clothes.
My eyes can’t help but follow him, taking in every detail.
“If you keep looking at me like that, we’re not going to make it out of this room anytime soon,” he tells me.
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh… or to admit how okay I’d be with that. “Oh, right. Like it’s my fault.”
“I think there’s plenty of blame to go around.”
I make a big show of scoffing, sitting on the edge of the bed as I check my phone. It’s seven-thirty, which means Peyton will be waking up soon to get ready for school.
“I’m just thinking about breakfast,” I say, forcing myself to sound casual.
“Sure.” He grins. “Nice save. I’ll check the kitchen and see what I can come up with. You can take a minute to… recover. If you need it.”
I toss a pillow at him, which he easily catches. “I’m fine, thank you very much.”
“Glad to hear it,” he says with a smirk. “Come on. Let’s head down.”
Mornings with Gabriel and Peyton have become a more consistent routine, the three of us finding a rhythm together.
Peyton comes rushing downstairs at around seven forty-five, ready for the pancakes that Gabriel whips up.
I run the coffee machine, the only kitchen task that anyone trusts me with, myself included. We all eat together at the counter.
Before Margaret arrives to bring Peyton to school, Peyton grabs my hand and leads me upstairs to her bathroom. She stands on her step stool in front of the mirror, beaming as she roots through her impressive collection of hair accessories.
“One of these,” she says, holding out a handful of colorful hair ties and clips.
I glance over the array of options, tapping my chin in mock seriousness. “Hmm, how about… this one?” I hold up a glittery purple butterfly clip.
Peyton claps her hands. “Yes! That one’s my favorite!”
She runs back downstairs with our selection. It’s my job to help her choose, but Gabriel still handles the actual styling.
When I rejoin them in the kitchen, she’s already perched on one of the counter stools, clutching the clip in her small hands as Gabriel stands behind her with a hairbrush. He gives me a bemused look as she enthusiastically explains the “vision” for her hair today.
“Daddy, you have to do the twisty braid thing! And then the clip goes right here,” she says, pointing to the top of her head.
“The twisty braid thing,” Gabriel repeats dryly. “Of course.”
I smother my laughter behind my coffee cup, watching as Gabriel dutifully brushes his daughter’s hair.
Margaret arrives around eight-fifteen to take Peyton to school, which gives Gabriel and me a few minutes to ourselves before he takes off for work. We finish our coffees, and I give him a kiss before we both head out.
My driver takes me across town, to the warehouse I’ve been setting up for my project. In lieu of work, I’ve been spending a lot of time lately getting my workshop set up, ordering materials and designing the interior.
It occurs to me as we roll up to the warehouse that I haven’t been to the office at Vérité in a long time.
Before my project, before Gabriel, that would have eaten away at me.
It’s not uncommon for my father to completely disregard my contributions to the company, and in the past, it’s eaten away at my self-esteem.
Every time one of my ideas was brushed aside or, worse, implemented without acknowledgement, it felt like confirmation of what I’d always feared: that I wasn’t enough, not for them, not for anyone.
But now, as I step out of the car and into my space, I realize something has shifted.
The warehouse is mine. Every choice has been mine. As much as I want to prove myself to the world, I don’t feel the same desperate urge to prove myself to my family anymore.
I have something I truly care about now, something beyond their expectations or approval. This space, this project—it’s a reflection of who I am, not who I’m supposed to be. An outlet for my passion instead of the source of my anxiety.
It feels better than I could have imagined.