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When we arrived at my apartment building, Alexander insisted on carrying my mother’s bags despite her
protests.
“I’ve been carrying my own luggage since before you were born, young man,” she argued.
“Which is precisely why you should allow me the courtesy now,” he countered smoothly.
She relented with a smile. “Well, when you put it that way.”
The elevator ride to my floor was mercifully brief. As I unlocked my apartment door, I suddenly saw my modest home through Alexander’s eyes: the mismatched furniture, the stack of books by the couch, and the small kitchen with its outdated appliances. It was a far cry from his penthouse.
But if Alexander noticed the difference, he didn’t show it. He set my mother’s bags down in the living room and glanced around with interest.
“Nice place,” he said, and surprisingly, it didn’t sound condescending.
“It’s small but comfortable,” my mother replied.
I glanced around our modest apartment, suddenly self–conscious about the worn couch and the chipped paint near the window frame. Alexander stood there in his thousand–dollar suit, looking completely out of place yet
somehow at ease.
“Mom, you should lie down and rest. I’ll make some tea,” I suggested, already moving toward the kitchen.
“Nonsense!” My mother waved dismissively. “You make the tea, and we’ll talk. I’ve been lying in a hospital bed for weeks. The last thing I need is more rest.”
Alexander chuckled. “She has a point.”
“Don’t encourage her,” I warned, filling the kettle with water. “Doctor’s orders were clear about taking it easy.
“Taking it easy doesn’t mean becoming a vegetable,” Mom retorted, settling into her favorite armchair. She patted the couch beside her. “Alexander, sit. Tell me more about this lake house of yours. Does it really have a private dock?”
I rolled my eyes as I grabbed mugs from the cabinet. To his credit, Alexander sat down without hesitation, looking ridiculously large on our small couch.
“It does,” he replied. “It’s been in my family for three generations. My grandfather built the dock himself.”
“How romantic!” Mom clasped her hands together. “Madison loves the water. Did she tell you that? When she was little, we couldn’t get her out of the pool.”
“Mom!” I called from the kitchen. “Alexander doesn’t need my childhood swimming history.”
“Actually, I find it fascinating,” Alexander said, his voice carrying that amused tone I knew all too well. “What
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else did little Madison enjoy?”
I groaned, dropping tea bags into mugs with more force than necessary.
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“Oh, she was always reading. Books everywhere! And so stubborn. Once she set her mind to something, there was no changing it.” Mom leaned forward conspiratorially. “She gets that from her father.”
“I can hear you!” I called out.
“Good! Then you know I’m not telling lies,” Mom shot back.
The kettle whistled, and I poured the hot water into three mugs, arranging them on a tray with sugar and milk. When I returned to the living room, Alexander and my mother were laughing about something.
“What did I miss?” I asked, setting the tray down.
“Just sharing some Wall Street gossip,” Alexander said innocently.
Mom nodded. “Did you know the CEO of Brightline Industries sleeps with a nightlight?”
“How do you know that?”
“I read People magazine,” she said with a shrug. “They did a whole spread on executive quirks.”
“Your mother is remarkably well–informed,” Alexander said, accepting his tea with a nod of thanks.
“I had ample time to read while in the hospital,” Mom replied, stirring sugar into her tea. “Now, Alexander, you must come visit regularly. Don’t be a stranger! In fact, you should come for dinner next week. I will prepare a lovely dinner for you.”
I nearly choked on my tea. “Mom, you can’t cook for a while. You need to rest and recover.”
“Nonsense! Cooking is therapeutic.”
“Not when you’ve just been discharged from the hospital,” I argued. “The doctor said to rest for at least two
weeks.”
Alexander set his mug down. “Sarah, I think rest is important right now. We can plan dinner when you’re feeling stronger.”
Mom looked disappointed but nodded. “Fine. But I’m holding you to that dinner promise.”
“I wouldn’t dare break it,” Alexander replied solemnly.
“Good.” Mom sipped her tea, eyeing us over the rim of her mug. “So, how long have you two been dating?”
I tensed, glancing at Alexander. We hadn’t discussed our “relationship” timeline in detail.
“Not long,” Alexander answered smoothly. “But it feels like I’ve known Madison forever.”
My mother’s eyes softened. “The best relationships often do.” She turned to me. “He’s a keeper, Madison. Don’t mess this up with your workaholic tendencies.”
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“Mom!”
“What? Someone needs to tell you these things.” She set her empty mug down. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will lie down for a bit. All this excitement has tired me out.”
I helped her to her feet. “Do you need anything else?”
“Just some peace and quiet,” she said, patting my cheek. “It was lovely meeting you, Alexander. Remember, dinner soon!”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he replied with a genuine smile.
Once Mom disappeared into her bedroom, I let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Alexander stood by the window, hands in his pockets, looking somehow both out of place and perfectly at home in my modest
apartment.
“So,” I said, gathering the empty mugs, “that happened.”
Alexander turned, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Your mother is delightful.”
I carried the mugs to the kitchen. “I can’t believe she invited you to dinner.”
“I can’t believe you collect magazines with my face on them.”
“I do not collect them! She exaggerates.”
“Mmm–hmm.” His voice was closer now, right behind me. “How many exactly?”
“Three. Maybe four.” I kept my back to him, rinsing the mugs with more concentration than necessary. “It’s
research.”
His laugh was low and warm against my ear as he leaned in. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
I spun around, finding myself trapped between his body and the sink. “We need to talk.”
“About your magazine collection?”
“About this whole…” I gestured vaguely between us, “situation. My mother thinks we’re dating.”
“Isn’t that the arrangement?” His eyes held mine, searching. “Exclusive. Together, Dating.”
“You know what I mean. She thinks it’s real.”
“And that bothers you?”
I pushed past him, needing space to think clearly. “Can we discuss this somewhere else? She might hear us.”
“Sure.”
“Let me just check on her first.”
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
