- Boston -

I'm nothing more than a couch potato during my days off.

Typically, being a journalist and all, the work of writing news updates, releasing featured stories, and blackmailing people is never put to an end. Well, the blackmail part, that's not a daily occurrence for me, but I do it more often than I should. I'm not proud of it. Aside from that, I am a busy man who loves my job. But sitting, no, lying down on the couch all day while watching the highlights from last night's game against the Los Angeles Lakers and the Phoenix Suns is the only thing I want to do today.

The Lakers triumph with a staggering twenty-six-point lead over the Suns. I remember being a little kid, watching LeBron James send the Miami Heat basketball team to the NBA finals. I wanted to be him. But boy, was I wrong. I was not fit to be a professional athlete.

It took me nine years to figure that out.

High school was the peak of the end of that awful professional dream I had. I auditioned for every team imaginable: varsity, junior, varsity, alternates; the list went on. I was so bad and unskilled that the head coach refused to let me be the water boy. Instead, he nudged me to the diamond in my sophomore year. He suggested that I try my hand at pitching at the baseball field since I was so incredibly good at throwing a ball than aiming it at the hoop.

Then, all of those baller fantasies came true.

I was a bona fide prospect. An All-American with a bright future ahead. That is until senior year rolled around and I stumbled, and it wasn't just a regular trip up—it was a freefall.

I fucked up.

The time investment, the sweat and grit, my reputation, shattered.

That's when the problems began. My world started to spiral. A maelstrom that leads me here to the present day.

But I will save that chapter for another time.

I snapped back to the fifty-inch, fading out my past. The final seconds of the game unfolded. A replay of the show-stopping dunk by King James was happening. I sat up from the dent in the chair and watched—then the screen went black.

Not again, I think to myself.

Why does she keep doing this?

"Oh, come on, Alexa!" I whined. My head rotates to the left, only to find my fiancée toying with the remote, tossing it nonchalantly onto the leather cushion of my grey sectional. "Was that necessary?"

I tilted my chin up to Alexa. She flips a lock of her freshly flat-ironed hair over her shoulders. I unmindfully eyed the remote on the sectional before casting up to reunite my attention. It's hard to ignore the selection of breakfast in her care. The menu consisted of burnt toast, thick bacon, and scrambled eggs currently known as my biggest enemy. A picturesque of the items that give me heartburn and indigestion.

"Buon appetito, tesoro mio!"

"Grazie," I bounced back. I was picking up on the Italian she studied in her free time.

Che schifo, I thought, inspecting the plate.

Scientifically, cooking scrambled eggs are pretty easy, right?

You crack open the egg into a bowl, whisk them together, then pour into a heated nonstick pan. Let the eggs cook for a minute or two, then scramble them to your liking. And if you're feeling fancy toss in a few extras—cheese, chives, garlic, or pixie dust (my mother's way of saying salt and pepper).

Voilà! It is as simple as that!

But if you are a disaster in the kitchen like Alexa, it's completely understandable.

Now you see, Alexa is culinary-challenged.

The nearest hospital may become your dining room or an early deathbed. I know it sounds dramatic, but I'm dead serious. The kitchen seems more like a battlefield. I'm fighting for my life at least twice a day. And if I'm lucky, maybe once. Bare minimum.

After settling in a comfy spot, Alexa jolts out her cell phone. "That's enough. Let's go through everything one more time before I go to my meeting."

I aimlessly nudged my scrambled eggs around, hoping they would magically pull a Thanos, and with one snap they were gone. The eggs were colder than an iceberg, overcooked, and inedible. Alexa's culinary skills are twice as better suited for ordering takeout than operating the use of a stove. But she does receive an A+ for the effort added in. I'll give her props in that case.

However, cooking isn't Alexa's expertise—she's got some other amazing talents, including placing an online order for takeout on a cell phone.

Now, personally, for me, that's a talent.

Speaking of phones, I scoped the small screen and frowned witnessing a long list of activities planned for the next two weeks. And it was jammed-packed. If I didn't know any better, I would think I was dropped off at the military base. No secret to anyone that Alexa was the lieutenant of planning—courtesy of her father's genes.

I nodded, munching on my stale scrambled eggs while she rattled off another overwhelming list of activities.

"Sure, go ahead." My words were slightly muffled while I lunged for my cold drink to pipe the chewy eggs down my throat. Hopefully, those won't come back up later.

Alexa pursed her lips to gather her thoughts.

"Okay, so we have an early brunch lined up with my dad on Wednesday. On Thursday, we have a meeting with my dad's assistant to discuss the details of an upcoming hotel renovation project. And . . . on Friday, we need to meet with the wedding planner I'm considering," she rallied.

I gently placed my glass of water on the table.

"Hold on, you hired a wedding planner and didn't think to tell me?"

"Well, technically, I haven't made the final decision yet. However, I've narrowed down our options. With Blair's guidance, of course."

Typical, Alexa. Always one step ahead of everything — leaving me in the dark as usual.

"Our options?" I raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realize it was a joint decision."

Could it really have slipped Alexa's mind that I, her soon-to-be better half, might want a sliver of say in the wedding planner pick? And then, have the audacity to let Blair—Miss Prying-Eyes—weigh in over mine? Our communication had never been the greatest, but this was a new low and a real head-scratcher.

Alexa nodded. "Duh, it's our wedding, and your opinion matters too, you know. After all, it is our special day."

"It certainly hasn't felt that way."

Since the day I met Alexandria "Alexa" Vanderwood, she has exemplified perfection in every aspect of her life. Her attention to detail is unparalleled, a trait she has honed meticulously over the years. Our paths intertwined during our junior year of college, and from the very first day, our connection was unequivocal. I, a budding journalism student, and she, a loyal business administration major, seemed like opposites, yet our shared passion for knowledge brought us closer than ever. It was while grilling an interview with her father for the university journal that he realized I was 'more' than a match for his daughter.

Fast forward, I took it upon myself to pop the question to her during a birthday dinner just a couple of moons back. And ever since, she has both been extremely happy and giddy. And me? I've kept my emotions under lock and key. A front-page story that's staying in the shadows.

That's the scoop, and it's staying under embargo.

I tried to finish the last bite of my breakfast without the urge to gag—a wrestling match. The texture was not it. Containing the unpredicted takeoff, Alexa flashed me with her beaming smile and approached and I immediately forced the bile back down.

"Oh, baby, don't be so dramatic," she jokingly chides, enveloping me in a warm hug. My hands rest comfortably around the slim of her waist.

"Besides, I haven't officially hired anyone yet, but I have a feeling that the wedding planner we're meeting with on Friday will be perfect for the job."

"Tell me a little bit about her. What makes her work so special?" I am quite curious myself.

"For starters, she's originally from Tallahassee but now resides here in Miami. She's our age, but she has already planned over a dozen weddings in the past year or so. Her work is exquisite."

"Impressive doesn't cut it."

Her eyes sparkled. "Oh, babe, her work is beyond compare. I can't wait to meet her in person."

"Same here," I retort. "By the way, what's her name? I'd love to look her up later."

Alexa brow crinkled in thought. "You know how I can be when it comes to names."

"Trust me, I would know firsthand. Do you remember when we first met in American History, and you kept calling me Bolton for an entire week?" I recall, standing to my feet to put away our plates and cups.

I sneakily tossed my uneaten portion in the trash.

"I do," she smiled at the memory. "I still feel bad about that till this day."

"Don't be" — I paused, hearing a buzzing noise — "Is that your phone?"

Her orbs lure over the counter, drawn to the table in the dining room. With a brisk movement, she dashed towards her device and snatched it up eagerly. "Hi, dad!" she exclaims, those being her introduction words.

While I'm busy loading the dishwasher with our dishes, Alexa and her dad continue their conversation. It's fascinating how they maintain a strong bond despite their contrasting personalities. Her father, driven by ambition and money, stands in stark contrast to Alexa's down-to-earth and humble nature. Alexa finds joy in appreciating the small things in life, much like her mother. It's heartwarming to see her carry on her mother's spirit.

Suddenly, Alexa lets out a loud sigh, breaking me from my daze. "This is kind of short notice, but we'll see if we can make it," she says, glancing back at me.

There's a brief pause before she concludes the conversation with a simple, "See you then."

Unintentionally, I slyly closed the dishwasher, pretending not to be invested in the scene. Eavesdropping has become a quirky little habit of mine and I blame it on my so-called 'journalistic instincts'. Take the other night, for instance, when I conveniently 'overheard' Oaklyn at the Mediterranean Breeze, flipping out over the pricey dressings. I can't blame her, though. In this booming American economy, even the simplest pleasures like food come with a hefty price tag.

Hopefully, I can explain it to Oaklyn further when she joins me in bed. And trust me, my satisfaction is priceless.

"Everything okay?" I questioned.

The blues of her eyes met mine. She positioned her hands on her hips, stroking her blond locks. I knew this gesture all too well—something was bothering her. And on my day off the last thing I wanted was a stressed fiancée raining on my parade.

Alexa moves forward. Resting her elbows on the modern marble countertop and groans.

"No, there's been a change in plans."

I lifted a brow. "Like what?"

"Dad has to host a charity event for some nonprofit organization in Nevada and is not going to be in Miami for the rest of the week, meaning that everything I had planned is either canceled or postponed," she rambled.

"Not everything can go according to plan." My back brushes across the cool marble.

"I know, Boston. It's just he wants me to learn the basics of what he does and how can I learn and adjust if he's not here to guide me. Things are tight and we are on a timely —"

I hushed her mid-sentence.

"Alexa, relax, we're still able to meet with the wedding planner. That's something, right?"

She pouted and gave me puppy eyes. "I guess, but it gets worse."

"Worse? How?" I posed with confusion.

Alexa massages her forehead, weariness on her face. "Instead of brunch on Wednesday like we planned, he wants to have us over for dinner tonight. How do you feel about that?"

"I don't mind. It's better than ordering takeout for the millionth time this week." I met her around the bar. "But I'm not seeing the issue here. Dinner sounds great."

I'm lying.

That's a terrible idea.

As I hold her waist tenderly, she leans in and plants a sweet peck on my lips.

"She's going to be there," Alexa murmurs.

"Well, obviously she's going to be there, Alexa. It's your dad's wife. When has she not been anywhere without him?" I remind her of her father's new marriage.

Truthfully, Alexa was being a bit of a drama queen when it came to her assumptions about the new Mrs. Vanderwood and I could already predict the encounter going left. Adding to their feud, I had my own set of unresolved issues with her father—which is a different ball game.

Retreating, Alexa's expression hardens. Words seem to ricochet off her, going in one ear out the next.

"I hate her," she declares flatly, ending it there.

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