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Hi?Just like that? Sweet and in awe? It was nothing like how we’d spoken to each other for weeks now, her enthusiasm as candid as Mila’s, whose wide eyes stilled on Alex as he lifted the cigarette from her fingers.
“Gemma doesn’t like the smell of smoke,” he growled, extinguishing her black Sobranie onto the linen tabletop.
Of course he knew that about Gemma, but then again, it wasn’t a secret. Regardless, he was better than me in this moment, bold enough to correct Mila in something I should have but was too distracted to do so. All I could focus on was how Gemma stared at Alex. Her chin dropped, her eyes stitched from his shoulders up. I wanted her to stare at me the same way I did her, with complete amazement, because she looked so beautiful, and I wish I could say that out loud, not just to her, but to everyone, to be that annoying husband that points and boasts, “See her? Isn’t she perfect? That’s my wife, the girl with flowers on her dress and in her heart.”
But all the lovely compliments I had for her began to compete with the anxiety of making a stern first impression with Alex, thinking and assessing all at once, determining his and Gemma’s dynamic like an ill-prepared computer. I hated to admit it, but I felt overwhelmed.
“Alejandro, this is my best friend, Parker Jones, and this… is his girlfriend, Camilla.” Gemma rose from her seat, making the uncomfortable introduction. God, hearing the word best friend killed me, each syllable like a thousand pounds on my chest, and despite having already described myself in the same way, I didn’t want Alex to hear it.
I fixed my face as he made his way towards me, his dark, unreadable eyes meeting my own. He was fucking tall, wearing a black suit with even blacker tattoos, his confidence placing my insecurities back to the feeling I had when I was in front of Claire’s awful green door.
“Mr. Jones.” He reached out, his calloused hand meeting mine, his overall appearance as carefully crafted as his Omega watch.
“Mr. Rivers.” I shook his hand, our unanimous strength fastened like the yank of a leather belt. “I’m happy you could join us. You’re very hard to get ahold of.”
“Still am.”
“And yet here we are, finally meeting. This must be important to you,” I said, giving him one final grip of our handshake before sitting back down.
“Perhaps. Mainly curiosity is what brought me here. That and appreciation…” He took a purposeful long look towards Gemma, scanning the entirety of her gorgeous, fitted dress. I stopped myself from snapping my finger, directing his attention like the pull of a leash.
I realized quickly that this wasn’t just a meeting, this was the life cycle of a trial: one with opening statements, evidence, and closing arguments. It all focused on the mental deliberation of one judge, and one judge alone: my Gemma. I could be domineering in court, but place me next to her, and I was always on the cusp of crumbling.
Every move counted.
“Did you say appreciation?” I adjusted my hands into a steeple. “I like that answer, it’s a little odd, but funny. Especially because of how awkward this could be.”
“Is it?” he asked.
“I’d imagine so, given our relationship, or, the lack thereof.”
“Don’t take it personally. My attention is typically more narrowed, but I wouldn’t miss this for the world, considering there’s a lot to be grateful for.”
“I’m sure that’s not because of me.” I laughed to myself.
“No. Not particularly, but it could be.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“That’s the perfect way to describe us.” Alex uncorked the tequila bottle by his side, commanding the attention of the room with the clank of crystal shot glasses. “I don’t need another friend, but outside of business, there’s no reason for us to dislike each other. Things can be both burdensome and rewarding… just like this,” he tilted the bottle. “Did you know it could take twenty years to make a single batch of tequila? Eight of those just for the agave to mature,” he asked Gemma, grinning only for her.
“That’s not too long, given it takes people their entire lives sometimes.” Gemma answered in my direction, her role in this immediately clear; she was acting as Alex’s defense.
“Agave can be mature, but maturity by itself doesn’t give you tequila.” I said, watching Mila’s studious gaze as she made meticulous, mental notes on everything we said. Being discreet was an absolute requirement.
“You’re not wrong. You have to harvest it, cook it, shred it, ferment and distill it, but most importantly, and what really separates it from the rest, is its age.” Alex seemed pleased, as if distinguishing us apart, inspecting the nauseating translucent liquid against the fireplace.
And did he really have to mention age? He had well over a decade on Gemma and me, and I supposed he thought it meant something. Maybe that’s why he seemed so confident, or perhaps maybe he was just a good actor. Gemma never showed an interest in older men before, and sure, she was old enough to date who she wanted, but the visual of Alex with her felt like complete robbery.
“Age is good. However, it’s gross when someone wants it before it’s ready. You know, younger than expected,” I jabbed, fighting to keep my eyes from moving towards Gemma.
“It’s old enough…” Alex added, “I’d know. I made it myself.”
Gemma reached for his knee, leaning in with the widest smile. “Wait, is this the project you’ve been working on?” she asked impressed, her enthusiasm deflated me.
She obviously knew of some backstory, and my mind immediately pictured her and Alex together, exchanging pieces of their past, tucked away in his penthouse—or worse—his bed. The unstoppable image caused my heel to bounce.
“I’m proud to say, yes. It took years to perfect. It was completely frustrating and painful to work with, but the best rewards often are. You’d think I hate it by now… but in fact, I appreciate the hell it put me through.”
