Alex's POV
When I got home that evening, the first thing I noticed was that the door to my penthouse was slightly ajar. I frowned, stepping inside cautiously. My penthouse wasn't the kind of place anyone could just waltz into, not unless they had the security clearance—or, in this case, the spare key I'd stupidly handed over to Michael.
Sure enough, I found him lounging on my couch, a glass of red wine in hand, belting out some old rock ballad in an off-key voice that made my ears hurt. The worst part? He was raiding my wine bar like he owned the place.
"Really, Michael?" I dropped my bag by the door, kicking it closed with my foot. "I knew giving you the key to this place was a mistake."
Michael grinned at me, unabashed. "Oh, come on. I was bored, and your place is way more comfortable than mine." He took another sip of wine before adding, "Besides, you're never here anyway. Someone has to keep it from gathering dust."
I rolled my eyes, tossing my keys on the counter. "You know there's a difference between keeping a place dust-free and draining my wine collection, right?"
He laughed, setting the glass down with a dramatic flourish. "Relax, Blackwood. I'm doing you a favor. Wine tastes better when it's shared, don't you think?"
I shook my head but couldn't stop the small smirk tugging at my lips. Michael had always been like this—an annoying, freeloading thorn in my side, but also one of the few people I could actually tolerate.
As I shrugged off my jacket and headed to the fridge for a bottle of water, Michael flopped onto the couch, legs sprawled out like he owned the place.
"So, what's the plan for Sunday?" he asked, watching me as I unscrewed the cap of the bottle.
"Sunday?" I raised an eyebrow, taking a long drink.
"The party, man! Don't tell me you've forgotten." He leaned forward, his expression animated. "It's going to be epic. You're coming, right?"
I sighed, already regretting the answer I knew I was about to give. "Fine. I'll come. I don't have anything planned anyway."
Michael grinned like he'd won the lottery. "That's the spirit! I knew you couldn't resist a good party."
"Let's be clear," I said, pointing at him, "I'm going for the drinks, not the company."
He laughed, waving off my comment. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, bro."
I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was getting late, and I was starving. "Please tell me you cooked something," I said, knowing full well what the answer would be.
Michael gave me an exaggerated look of horror. "Cook? Me? You know I can't cook to save my life."
"Great," I muttered, rubbing a hand over my face.
"But hey," he added with a shrug, "we can order pizza. I've been craving pepperoni all day."
I sighed, already pulling out my phone to place the order. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"Hey, I'm a guest," he said, smirking. "The least you can do is feed me."
"You're not a guest," I shot back. "You're a squatter. There's a difference."
He chuckled, unbothered, and went back to scrolling through his phone.
The pizza arrived about half an hour later, and we sat at the kitchen island, devouring it straight out of the box. Michael, as usual, had a running commentary about everything—from the quality of the crust to the state of my fridge, which he claimed was emptier than his love life.
"Seriously, Alex," he said between bites, "how do you live like this? No snacks, no leftovers… it's a wonder you're not starving."
"I'm busy running a company," I replied dryly. "I don't exactly have time to stock up on snacks."
"Yeah, yeah," he said, waving a slice of pizza for emphasis. "Mr. Big Shot CEO. You know, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you were trying to become a full-fledged robot."
I rolled my eyes but didn't respond. Michael loved to needle me about my workaholic tendencies, but he didn't understand what it was like to shoulder the weight of an entire company—a company that had once been my father's pride and joy.
After we'd finished eating, I left Michael in the living room to his usual antics and headed to my bedroom. A hot shower was exactly what I needed to clear my head.
The steam and scalding water did little to ease the tension in my shoulders, but at least it gave me a moment to breathe. By the time I stepped out, towel slung around my waist, I felt marginally better.
I changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants, then grabbed my laptop from the nightstand. There were emails I needed to get through—mostly updates from the company's board and reports on ongoing projects. I settled into the chair at my desk, scrolling through the seemingly endless stream of messages.
Running the company had been a challenge from the start. I'd been thrown into the role of CEO after my parents' deaths, with little preparation and even less enthusiasm. But it wasn't just a job—it was a legacy. I owed it to them to keep it going, even if it meant sacrificing my own peace of mind.
By the time I shut my laptop, it was close to midnight. Michael was still sprawled on the couch, half-asleep with the TV playing softly in the background.
"Are you seriously staying over?" I asked, leaning against the doorway.
He cracked one eye open. "What gave it away? The fact that I'm already lying here, or the fact that I'm too lazy to move?"
I shook my head, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "You're unbelievable."
"Love you too, bro," he mumbled, turning over.
As I headed back to my room, I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of comfort. Michael's presence, annoying as it was, reminded me that not everything in life had to be so damn serious.
But as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind drifted back to the girl from school—the one with the midnight-black hair and piercing blue eyes.
I hated how she'd managed to get under my skin in just one day.
But I hope to see her again.