All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(2)

Today, he wasn’t bothering.

“Nope. It’s not clear at all,” Alex told Ron with a grin that stretched his face painfully. “To my absolute despair, I missed most of what you just said. My heartfelt apologies.”

As the syrupy sarcasm of Alex’s faux regret registered, Ron’s jaw worked. Lauren merely continued to watch them both, her odd, asymmetrical face expressionless.

Marcus, Alex’s best friend, would call this pushing the damn limits and tell him to bite his tongue and consider the consequences of further insubordination.

Play the film to the end, he’d urge. What happens if you don’t change the script?

They’d reached the final week of shooting for their series, which meant it was too late to fire Alex, but there could be other consequences. Fines. A smear campaign that would make future jobs hard to find. Even retaliation in the editing room, although Alex couldn’t imagine how his character’s arc could be more comprehensively ruined than it already was.

He should behave. He would.

Mostly.

“Perhaps you could sum up the situation with greater brevity?” He bent down and produced his phone from its hidden pocket in the quiver at his feet. “I’ll take notes this time.”

Ron’s face turned vaguely purplish, but that was it. The best Alex could do, given the mingled rage and despair and exhaustion incinerating his impulse control. Even Marcus’s admonitions couldn’t save him, not entirely.

Which was, again, why this whole plan—what he’d heard of it, anyway—was ridiculous. If his best friend’s urgings and his own self-interest couldn’t keep him out of trouble, how could one improbably short, round woman accomplish the task?

Besides, if they’d actually asked him what happened in that bar fight, they would know why he’d brawled and why he’d do the exact same thing under similar circumstances, consequences and minders be damned. Also why he hadn’t regretted his black eye or his torn knuckles for a single second.

Good thing his character, Cupid, was supposed to be injured during the climactic battle sequence anyway.

“Go on,” he said cheerily. “I’m listening now.”

Ron managed not to lose his shit again. Instead, a vein throbbing hard at his left temple, he took a minute to calm himself before speaking.

“From now until the show airs its final episode, Lauren will accompany you anytime you either leave the set or your home,” he finally gritted out. “If she can’t hack it, you’ll immediately receive another minder instead, so don’t bother trying to get her to quit. Lauren may be ridiculous, as you say, not to mention joyless, but you won’t like her replacement, I can guarantee that.”

Alex tilted his head.

That was intriguing. Was his Understudy Nanny particularly vicious? Or odiferous? Or maybe—

“No more bad publicity.” The showrunner’s pale eyes speared into his, commanding his attention. “Or you’ll suffer the full legal and professional consequences outlined in your contract. Do you understand now? Or shall I involve our lawyers in the explanation?”

Alex tapped out a note to himself on his phone. Choice of joyless bird-woman or smelly murderer as babysitter, now until show finishes airing. More trouble => lawyers. Ron = serial killer eyes.

“Is anyone staying in your guesthouse right now?” the showrunner asked.

Looking up, Alex found that disconcerting stare still fixed on him and answered without thinking. “No. My friend Faroukh booked a series, so he left last—”

Oh. Oh, fucking hell.

“Then Lauren will move in as soon as you two return to L.A. The show will pay you fair market value for the rental on a monthly basis.” Ron’s smile was smug. “Very convenient for everyone involved.”

Alex’s jaw hurt, and he flexed it. “And you expect this arrangement to last nine months?”

“Hard to say. But if it doesn’t, R.J. and I have already chosen our course of action.” With an impatient flap of his hand, Ron gestured for his relative to stand. “Do what my cousin tells you, or else. Lauren, go shake his hand.”

Up close, Alex could estimate her height more accurately. Around five feet, give or take an inch. And at this distance, her eyes were even more arresting. A clear, soft green with the slightest hint of blue, they were her only feature an honest observer could call pretty.

Her palm was ludicrously small, her grip firm as they shook hands. If she’d taken offense at her cousin’s blunt order or his description of her as ridiculous and joyless, she didn’t show it.

Because Ron didn’t seem inclined to do the job, Alex completed the social ritual.

“Please let me introduce myself.” After he let go of her hand, he swept her a mocking bow. “Alexander Woodroe, at your service. Or, rather, at your command. For the next nine months, evidently.”

“I know who you are,” she said without a hint of a smile.

Her voice was unexpectedly low and rich, and he straightened abruptly at the sound of it.

I know who you are.

It was a simple statement.

It was also a condemnation.

No doubt Ron had told her plenty. But she didn’t know Alex. She didn’t know the first fucking thing about him, and neither did her asshole cousin. Yet there they stood, allied in their judgment of him and what he’d done.