It’s Complicated (Her Billionaires #5)(59)
Author: Julia Kent

He didn’t want someone else right now.

He wanted Josie.

Pushing himself on her wasn’t his style. If she didn’t want him, he wouldn’t—couldn’t—be that guy. The one who weaseled his way in where he wasn’t wanted. Finding a side street that took him away from her building, his last glimpse of her red-topped figure made him wince with indecision.

And resignation.

The bottom line had to be pretty f**king simple: she just didn’t want him.

He could respect that.

For now.

But Alex wasn’t the type to walk away without answers. Checking his phone, he realized he had a plan staring him in the face. Today was his day off. He had one scheduled event.

And damn if he wasn’t going.

Chapter Eleven

Alex pulled into the parking spot in front of his grandfather’s apartment building, turned off his trusty ten-year-old Honda Civic and rolled his tongue between his teeth and his cheek. Unlike the last few trips to take Grandpa to the Alzheimer’s trial, this one he dreaded.

Never one to chase a woman to the point of ridicule, he had taken Josie’s hint after phone messages and texts went unanswered. Her sudden Ice Queen behavior—especially after the heat between the two of them—made absolutely no sense. Sure, it had only been a week, but a week without her felt like a lifetime, and it was killing him.

Time to act. Not wait.

As he climbed out of the car, the door creaked, a reminder to put some WD-40 on there. He stopped and sized up Grandpa’s apartment complex. It was small—only sixteen units—and income subsidized, which was a great help to Ed. Grandpa was the son of immigrants who had come to the Boston area seeking something better. Alex knew that the eighth-grade education that Ed had managed was a triumph—not something to be ashamed of—but five years ago, when Grandma had died and Ed found himself alone at the end of a long line of bills for her care, the best solution had seemed to be an apartment in a complex with other senior citizens.

His Social Security check and meager savings allowed Grandpa to live a comfortable life; when Alex had his own finances under control, the six-figure student loans were tamed to a number that didn’t make him gag every time he thought about it, he hoped to be able to help out Grandpa and his mom.

The building itself looked like just about any other building in Cambridge—brown paint, white trim, a long and narrow triple-decker, spanning far more of the backyard than you would expect. The front door bisected the entire building, splitting it down a long, narrow hallway with two front staircases at the entryway. Ed had scored a first-floor apartment, something that was hard to get. An old knee injury from fighting in Korea still plagued him occasionally, making everyone glad that he didn’t have to battle stairs on top of his other obstacles.

It was Grandma’s death that actually had made them all figure out just how mentally deteriorated Ed had become. What had been laughed off as his forgetfulness, while Grandma was still alive to compensate, had turned into whispered conversations between his mom and her sisters as they huddled around the kitchen table, looking at piles of bills that had gone unpaid, evaluating everything from the status of Ed’s wardrobe to the spoiled cartons of milk sitting between cans of penny nails at his workbench.

Alex had been an intern then, too busy with his own world and sheltered by his mother and the aunts who wanted to keep him on the fast track to physician success. It wasn’t until two years ago that anyone had bothered to bring him into the secret of Grandpa’s Alzheimer’s. Even then, it wasn’t until he called Grandpa’s property manager to get the front stairs fixed, citing ADA requirements with authority, that his mom and aunts had really realized he wasn’t Little Alex, needing to be sheltered, anymore.

Med school had taught him one important skill that had absolutely nothing to do with medicine itself—be the squeaky wheel. If a patient could not advocate for himself, it fell on a family member to do it. And for most patients, that was at least sometimes the case. Most family members, though, weren’t bold enough to ask for everything the patient needed. Grandpa’s family was no different—until Alex took control.

Alex had no problem being bold—he’d gone immediately into medical databases, found advanced research trials, made phone calls, shamelessly used his credentials. Funny how the title “Doctor” in front of his name led to instant respect on the phone. He had totally manipulated whomever, whatever, however, any system needed, to get Ed into his current research trial. And also to find a primary care physician who would do something more than prescribe what had become a brown bag full of conflicting medications that actually added to Ed’s addled state.

Seeing what everyone had thought was early-onset dementia partly reverse itself, little by little, as the med confusion had lifted, reinforced Alex’s boldness and further emboldened him to step into the role as family patriarch. His aunts had all had girls—everyone had called him Little Alex, the youngest of the cousins, his mom’s only child—so far. Only eighteen years older than himself, she was young enough to still manage another child if she wanted to.

The thought made him chuckle. Mom was forty-six, happily married to a man who had no interest in any more children. He’d been kind and pleasant when he’d entered Alex’s life his senior year of high school but the two had little in common. They were cocktail party guests at best, competitors for his mom’s attention at worst.

Ed’s door was painted China red, with a little sign that said Welcome. Rapping three times on the door, Alex waited, knowing Ed, clean shaven, freshly showered, and dressed, was sitting with his hands folded in his lap at the kitchen table. All ready for what had become one of his favorite events. You would never know that Ed Derjian had Alzheimer’s—but Alex did know, and that was why every month this trial became more and more important, as they hoped to unlock some kind of secret that would make them hang on to who Grandpa was.

The door opened slowly and Alex saw himself, about forty-six years in the future. Grandpa was about three inches shorter than Alex, with a full head of pure white hair. It was perfectly coiffed; a little bit of hair grease at the temples and around the ears to tame the little curls to smooth waves. Alex’s own chocolate brown eyes peered back at him, buried behind layers of wrinkles around the eyelids.

Ed’s practiced smile cracked into a wide natural grin upon seeing someone familiar. At the recommendation of one of the nurses, Alex wore the same outfit every time he came to pick Ed up. It had turned out to be an extraordinary tip. Now May was turning to summer, he was beginning to wish he hadn’t chosen his merino wool burgundy sweater—but he’d find a way to deal with it.