Reject My Alpha President (Iris and Arthur) novel Chapter 66

Iris

It’s late, and I’m still up reading. The crickets are chirping outside, the room illuminated only by the faint glow of the lamp on the bedside table. Miles is fast asleep beside me, curled up beneath the covers.

I started reading the book from the beginning, since I forgot most of the plot. I forgot how funny and romantic it is –it’s a love story about a farmer hiring a nanny after his wife passes away, and the two of them slowly fall in love. It’s sweet, meaningful, and makes me laugh on more than one occasion.

But it’s not just the book that makes me smile. It’s the way that sitting here, propped up in bed with a romance novel in my lap, reminds me of days gone by.

Sure, I might have been in my old bedroom back then, not the guest room. And Miles wasn’t here then. But everything else is the same—the faint hum of the city below, the crickets, the trees rustling in the breeze through the open window.

That is, until I hear the sound of glass shattering downstairs, followed by a curse.

I frown, quietly closing the book and carefully slipping out of bed so as not to wake Miles. I pad down the hall- avoiding all the creaky floorboards out of a habit that I long since forgot about–and make my way downstairs.

The first thing I hear is Arthur’s voice muttering strings of curses. When I peek around the corner to the living room, I see Arthur crouched with his back to me in front of a mess on the floor. It looks like one of his highball glasses fell and broke, dark brown liquor spilling across the hardwood.

He’s picking up shards of glass, and he doesn’t see me.

I almost go to him and offer to help, but for some reason, I don’t. Rather, I watch covertly from around the corner as he picks up the shards, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. I can’t quite make out what he’s saying aside from a curse word here or there, but he sounds frustrated. And his hands are shaking ever so slightly, which is strange for him.

When he stands, he sways slightly as if drunk.

I quickly hide behind the wall, pressing myself to the wallpaper as he shuffles into the kitchen. His footsteps sound slow and heavy. So he is drunk.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that Arthur always loved an expensive drink at the end of the day when we were together. He used to pour himself a glass of bourbon, and I would have some red wine, and we would nurse our drinks slowly in front of the fireplace while listening to music on the record player. I never saw any issue with that.