Fated An Alpha Male Romance - K. Alex Walker Page 0,3
my sister Gia met her now - husband Eli, Grandma Evelyn had claimed that they were “rooted.” Now, Gia and Eli had a marriage so passionate that it was as though you could reach out and grab a handful of it.
Unfortunately, despite the strength of my grandparents’ love and all of the people they always had around, my grandfather had still died alone. He’d pulled into a vacant parking lot after suddenly taking ill only to end up suffering a massive heart-attack. It had been a long holiday weekend so his body wasn’t discovered until the following Monday. As a beloved man across the nation, the funeral had been widely televised and even people that hadn’t personally known him had bawled liked children.
Grandpa Ellis’ death changed my grandmother, but in a way that made me believe that all those years she’d spent smiling, shaking hands, and rubbing elbows had been covered in plastic. In the last couple of years, Gia and I were continuously being introduced to the woman our grandmother truly was underneath the pearls and rouge — the woman in the picture we found of her on a beach when she was younger in a passionate lip-lock with our grandfather…topless.
“Good evening, ladies.”
Dr. Ethan Stewart poked his head inside my office door and I stopped myself before I let my breath catch in my throat. We were coming up on the end of an extremely long day, but even with eyes that reflected hours filled with fussy patients and their belligerent parents, he still pulled off attractive extremely well. His grey eyes, sun-kissed complexion, and chocolate-brown hair made him look more like the feature of a Calvin Klein ad than a Johns Hopkins-educated physician.
Grandma Evelyn flitted over to him, leaving me with a whiff of the expensive rose-scented perfume she constantly tried to sneak-attack me with because she’d claimed it was a surefire man-getter.
“Hello Ethan,” she greeted, extending her hand. He gently pressed his lips to the back and she giggled like she always did whenever Ethan touched her. His eyes then found me at my desk.
“How was your day, Alexandra?” he asked.
“Probably the same as yours, Dr. Stewart,” I answered.
A touch of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “You can call me Ethan, Alexandra.”
“You always say that, but it’s not very professional.”
I also chose not to add that it was because I always referred to him as Ethan in my dozens of fantasies which, most of the time, left me hot and bothered with several minutes missing out of my workday. In my head, whenever my hands were in his hair as he licked a trail down the middle of my body, his name flooded from my lips like water.
“How about if I call you something else?” he added. “Maybe Alex? Or Xandra?”
“We call her Alle,” Grandma Evelyn blurted out.
“Alexandra is fine,” I jumped in, knowing that if I let her talk too long, we’d end up somewhere in the middle of a story about me running around naked during a diaper refusal stage when I was a year old.
She sighed and moved over to the pitcher on the table. “I brought this for you two. By any chance would you happen to have some glasses, Ethan?”
“I have some in my office,” he replied. “Will you have a drink with me Alexandra?”
Grandma Evelyn frowned until I was forced to submit.
“Just one drink,” I caved.
She clapped her hands. “Excellent.”
“Will you have one with us?” Ethan asked her.
“Oh no,” she immediately came back. “I have to get back before her father comes looking for me.”
Ethan disappeared, reappearing a few moments later with a couple of long-stemmed glasses between his fingers. He moved over to the desk and the scent of spice and sandalwood wafted underneath my nose. I forced away one of my usual fantasies — the one where he’s behind me with his erection pressed against my butt, his fingers in my hair, and his lips sucking my neck — before I became completely consumed by it.
“I’ll do the honors,” Grandma Evelyn offered, filling the two glasses with equal amounts of the pitcher’s mysterious contents. It looked a lot like sangria, but Grandma Evelyn wasn’t the type of woman that would show up at my office across town toting something that was “just sangria.” With her, it was never “just soup” or “just stew.” A few hundred years ago, she would have been burned at the stake as a witch.