“Fuck!” he spits, stumbling back.

“Oh, shit! I’m sorry!” I hold my arms out, hands splayed in front of me.

“No, it’s okay. It’s okay. You startled me,” he says, smoothing out his sandy blonde hair.

“Are you Aleck? I’m Winter, Sondra’s friend. Well, maid of honor. I just got here. I wanted to say hello. I guess I should have announced myself first.”

The handsome jockey takes a deep breath and shakes his head with a smile.

“I’m Trent, Mr. Fox’s assistant. I’m getting his things set before he arrives. He’ll be in a bit later.”

“You’re kidding.” I snort. “He had his personal assistant put away his underwear so he didn’t have to do it himself?” I roll my eyes.

Trent chuckles, his smirk dripping with amusement. He’s handsome. Miss Front Desk is right, he’s tiny, but handsome.

“Let me ask you something, Trent…” I plop down on the bed, noticing it’s a memory foam mattress. Holy hell. I may never leave this place. “What would make you choose the larger room for him? A man whose getting ready routine probably consists of scratching his balls and combing his fingers through his hair?”

Trent leans against the doorframe of the en suite, his smirk widening into a full-blown grin.

“Oh, he’s going to like you.” He pushes off the door frame, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Mr. Fox requested the larger of the two rooms.”

“Oh, he did, did he?”

Trent nods. “His getting ready routine is a little more extensive than that. He likes his space. And his privacy.” His smile turns devilish. “You’ll see.”

Hmm, I suppose I will see. I suppose. I. Will.

Bring it on, Fox.

THREE

WINTER

After spending the afternoon moving Aleck Fox’s things from the room he so shamelessly requested, to the room more adequately sized to fit his lacking humility, I unpack my suitcase. Ignoring the realization that Aleck’s stuff looked more natural in this setting than mine, I hang my clothes in the too-large-for-my-stuff walk-in closet.

He has more creams than a French whore. Creams for his face, his hair, his cuticles. A night cream for this, a day cream for that. Two different SPFs: one for his face, but then one specifically just for his eyelids.

His electric toothbrush situation took up more space than my entire makeup collection alone. In the closet, he had a whole drawer dedicated to his watches. His watches. He’ll be here for two weeks. Why does he need twenty-seven watches?

Ten different pairs of leather dress shoes. One pristine pair of sneakers that have likely only seen the plush carpets of his in-home gym. Sixteen suits, four V-neck sweaters, countless collared shirts. Dolce & Gabbana, Gucci, Brioni, Valentino, Prada… Zero T-shirts, zero jeans, and certainly nothing resembling shorts. Except for his Saint Laurent swim trunks which probably cost more than a month’s rent in my apartment building.

And the underwear I mentioned to Trent? Only black boxer-briefs. Rolled, not folded.

Two words come to mind when thinking about my new roommate: High Maintenance.