Page 5 of Xander

“It’s avant-garde,” he said, not budging. “Like Gallagher.”

“The guy who smashed the watermelons?”

That pissed him off. Unlike the actress from earlier, he didn’t want to apologize or take time for some introspection at a pricey wellness retreat. I honestly wasn’t sure what he expected from me as his publicist. I could do a lot of things, but I couldn’t clap my hands and undo a concussion.

I saw Jenna approaching and shifted my cell phone to the other hand. This call had already gone on for a lot longer than it should have. Then again, if everyone who made mistakes simply said sorry and moved on, I wouldn’t have a job.

“All right,” I said, as much to Jenna as to the client. “Well, maybe we can say that you meant to gently toss the microphone to an audience member, to put them on the spot. As a joke. But the stage lights were hot, and you lost your grip⁠—”

He gave an angry squawk, which I ignored.

“Why don’t you draft your version of events, and we can send it to one of the papers asking for your version of what happened?” I’d have to research them all and see which of them had done the least unflattering report of his behavior. They’d be the least likely to stretch the truth to his disadvantage. “I’ll call you tonight. Yes, Jenna?” I asked, hanging up with relief.

“Mrs. Maxwell, I finished the bedrooms and the front hall, and the grocery delivery just came. Everything’s been put into the fridge and the pantry.”

“Wonderful. Great work.” There was an odd look on her face. “Is there something else?”

She hesitated. “Mr. Maxwell had most of Xander’s old things boxed up and put in the attic a few years ago. His room’s, um, empty.”

“Oh.” I frowned. How untapped could his room look? “What about pictures? Or he must have posters on the walls.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing in there other than a bed and a nightstand. Mr. Maxwell had me remove all the posters and pack away any photos of Xander.”

I suddenly realized I hadn’t seen any photos of Xander in this house. Odd. “Why would he do that?”

Jenna shrugged.

“Bring a box of his things down from the attic,” I murmured unsurely. Xander might be more upset about us going through his things a second time. He was cagey when we first met, seemingly shocked that I’d looked into something as simple as his dining choices. I couldn’t imagine his rage for going through his personal belongings.

On second thought, I could.

When I first met him, Xander was in college and too old for the usual ground rules set by parental figures. I tried to befriend him instead. Not a difficult task to accomplish since I admired him for his endless dedication to hockey, how he looked out for his younger brother, and his resilient devotion to his mother’s health.

Xander’s maturity was so evident that it never occurred to me to treat him as anything but an equal, and I was over the moon when he claimed I was one of his closest friends. Our interactions weren’t a farce on my end; Xander was the only person I counted on to help me navigate the complicated parts of Henry’s life.

Everything fell apart out of the blue. Xander started doubting my intentions to marry his father, and his friendship turned into distrust. I didn’t understand what I did wrong and felt the carpet had been yanked out from under my feet.

As I ate dinner alone that night, I had plenty of time to contemplate Jenna’s words. She was right about Xander’s room. The spacious bedroom looked like an expensive white cell, with a king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton sheets taking center stage. I could still see lighter patches on the walls where posters and medals had once hung.

My god, it was depressing. I wasn’t even going to sleep in there, and it made me feel sad for him.

He was going to hate it.

He was going to hate me… for the second time.

I can handle this, I told myself. I repeated the thought later that evening when Henry rolled into our room past the respectable hour of the night.

I thought about it again while clipping mint—a smell he’d found pleasing in the past—and putting the vases of aromatic greenery in Xander’s empty, musty room in a last-ditch attempt to inject some life and color into the space.

I was still thinking about it when I heard a heavy series of knocks on the door that suggested a certain level of self-assurance.

The prodigal son returns, I thought, wondering why Jenna wasn’t getting the door. I belatedly remembered that I had sent her off to the local bakery to pick up tonight’s dessert.

In bare feet, I padded to the door down the long, cold marble hallway. I could see my stepson’s blurred shadow in the beveled sidelights adorning both sides of the heavy doors. I pulled the door open and found myself at eye level with his chest. He was wearing what appeared to be an old band T-shirt and filled out his distressed jeans in a way that seemed downright indecent. The old fabric of his shirt strained at the seams when his arms shifted impatiently, adjusting the duffel slung over his shoulder.

Like his father, Xander was a large man with a tall, muscular frame, but playing hockey professionally had given his body a new definition. I had a glimpse of it in the gym selfie, but it was different in person. A photo couldn’t loom over you like this, taking up space in a way that felt like a threat. A photo didn’t give off bestial heat and the sharp, distinctive scent of sandalwood.

I felt my face heat. His green eyes sparked with an intensity that seemed to burn, even as it left me feeling frozen inside. It felt like he could read my mind, and I resolutely kept my eyes on his face, determined not to let them drift. A humorless smile tilted at the corners of his full, chiseled lips.