All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(34)

“You heard Sionna, huh?” She picked up her bagel and studied it, evidently deciding where to bite first. “Whatever. Feel free to call me Wren. It’s certainly better than Nanny Clegg.”

“Ice cold,” he whined through a mouthful of his own bagel. “Like chewing a glacier.”

When she failed to bite back more laughter, he was tempted to record the snorting merriment, just so he could replay it whenever he needed to smile.

He didn’t, since that would be creepy. But he tried to memorize the sound anyway, because soon enough, like the winter wren’s chirping song, it would be gone too.

LAUREN TRIED TO tell herself she wasn’t wearing her BE THE SHREW YOU WISH TO SEE IN THE WORLD tee on purpose, to please Alex. That would be a lie, however, since she definitely was. He just seemed to derive such joy from it. Even after three weeks in L.A. together, having seen all her T-shirts repeatedly, he grinned at the shrew tee’s appearance each time.

Other than that one evening, the previous week, when his brows had drawn together in thought instead.

“Do you consider yourself a shrew, then?” he’d asked. “Genuinely?”

They’d been watching the sunset from one of his outdoor sitting areas, and he’d been glancing toward her tee every so often, uncharacteristically muted.

She was honest in response. “Not particularly. But I’ve been called one before.”

He’d set his bottle of sparkling limeade down on the low, polished concrete table with extreme care, his jaw jutting beneath that beard. “By men?”

She nodded. “Most times. Usually when I refuse to go along with whatever a patient or coworker wants. I don’t tend to budge when I know something is wrong, so they call me a shrew or a bitch.”

There was an odd sound emanating from Alex’s chair. A rumble.

“It doesn’t offend me or hurt my feelings,” she added reassuringly. “If I get called a shrew or bitch for following my conscience and my training, so be it.”

“Well, that makes everything totally fine, then,” he said, his sarcasm thick enough to choke them both.

She needed to explain herself better. “It’s not right on a societal level or even a professional level, but it is fine on a personal level. It has to be, because otherwise I’d spend my life angry and sad, and I don’t want that for myself.”

Not that she’d successfully managed to avoid anger and sadness in her work, but that was a tale for another time, if she ever shared the story at all.

His hands were still curled into fists at his sides, and it was time to change the subject.

“Hey, Alex, I have a question for you. Are baps slang for something else in Britain? Because when we watch The Great British Bake Off, it seems like people get smirky when someone uses that term.”

Thoroughly distracted, as she’d intended—yes, she already knew baps meant breasts, not just hamburger buns—he proceeded to gleefully explain British slang to her, and the serious portion of their conversation ended.

That night, she’d lain awake again, wondering why he kept getting so angry on her behalf. Angrier than she’d ever been for herself.

She didn’t get it. But it did make her feel … warm.

Speaking of warmth, it was a chilly night in L.A. despite the daytime heat. She was making herself a cup of tea, and maybe Alex might want one too.

The door to the main house was unlocked. The alarm was off too, because obviously it was. Despite all his lectures and concern for her safety, the man refused to protect himself adequately. Since her arrival, she’d harangued him on the topic more than once as he’d rolled those expressive eyes of his.

He wasn’t watching a baking show in the great room, and he wasn’t working out in the gym, and he wasn’t reading in the library. There was no way she was venturing into his bedroom uninvited—or at all, she corrected herself; she wasn’t venturing there at all—so he was either somewhere on the grounds or in his personal office.

When she peeked inside the half-open door to that office, she spotted him behind his big desk, in front of his computer, typing away. After knocking lightly on the doorframe, she waited for a response and didn’t get one.

“Alex?” she called.

Still no answer.

Sometimes, he hyperfocused on certain activities, to the point where he wouldn’t respond to anything but physical contact. Accordingly, she came up behind him and reached out to touch his arm, only to see—

What in the world was he writing?

Because she was almost certain she’d just inadvertently read something about Cupid and lube and harnesses and dildos the width of a woman’s forearm, which—

Oh. Oh.

Her head gave a warning throb. “Are you writing fanfic, Alex? For your own character?”

That got his attention.

“What?” It was an absent question, devoid of his usual sharpness.

His head turned in her direction, his gaze fuzzy with interrupted concentration, and he sort of looked through her. Then his eyes focused and widened as he fully registered the situation. Immediately, he fumbled for the mouse and minimized his word processing screen.

“Oh, fuckballs.” He sighed. “How much of that did you see, Nanny Clegg?”

Letting out a breath through her nose, she pursed her lips. “Not much? Enough.”