MR. RIGHT AND THE CRAZY TOMBOY

GLITTER, GALL AND GUTS

MR. RIGHT AND THE CRAZY TOMBOY

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CHAPTER FOUR –

GLITTER, GALL, AND GUTS

Alex Kingsley didn’t do mess.

Not in his life.

Not in his penthouse.

Not in his perfectly ironed Tom Ford suits.

So naturally, he hated mornings like this—when his daughter insisted he attend a “royal tea party” dressed in a glittery sash that read ‘Daddy Queen’ and drink imaginary tea from a chipped plastic cup shaped like a unicorn.

He sat stiffly in a gold-trimmed child-sized chair, one leg crossed, trying not to get glitter on his Rolex.

“Pinky up, Daddy,” four-year-old Arabella commanded in her sing-song voice.

“I am the CEO of a billion-dollar empire, sweetheart,” he muttered under his breath.

Arabella narrowed her eyes.

Alex sighed and obediently lifted his pinky.

“I said pinky UP, not slightly tilted. Do you even know how to tea party?”

Alex clenched his jaw, gave a stiff nod, and drank his invisible tea with all the dignity of a man signing a hostile takeover deal. He hated disorder. He hated glitter. And most of all, he hated being interrupted—which, of course, meant the elevator dinged right on cue.

He didn’t need to check who it was. That storm always came in heels.

Veronica Mireaux—fashion icon, chaos incarnate, and mother to his daughter—strutted into the room without so much as a knock.

Arabella clapped. “Mommy!”

Alex stood, glitter on his shoulder and a frown carved into his face.

Veronica’s eyes danced across the tiara on his head. “Wow. Mr. Ruthless turned into Barbie’s sidekick.”

He yanked the tiara off. “Don’t start.”

She plucked an invisible thread from his lapel. “I just came to discuss Arabella’s attendance at the Parisian Gala. She’ll need a proper etiquette coach and wardrobe—”

“She’s four. She doesn’t need to walk a runway, Veronica.”

“She needs culture. Class. Poise—”

“She needs a childhood,” Alex snapped. “And I will not have you parading her around like one of your damn accessories.”

Veronica smirked. “Don’t get emotional. It’s beneath you.”

“No, you are beneath me,” he said smoothly, deadly calm.

Arabella blinked between them. “Is Mommy leaving again?”

Alex crouched down and kissed her forehead. “Yes, princess. Mommy’s got a new red carpet to roll across.”

Veronica scoffed, turned on her heels, and flounced out with a click-clack of indignation.

The second the elevator doors closed, Alex exhaled like a dragon through his nose.

He was back in control.

He always was.

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Later That Day – Brooklyn

Jayda kicked the football straight into Julius’ stomach and laughed when he groaned and dropped to his knees like he'd been shot.

“Told you not to challenge me, cupcake!” she called, spinning the ball on one finger like a Harlem Globetrotter in ripped jeans and a sleeveless hoodie.

“You’re not normal,” he wheezed.

“Normal’s for losers,” she smirked, high-fiving her teammate before cartwheeling off the field barefoot.

A crowd had gathered—again. It always did when Jayda went full tomboy tornado. The guys on campus couldn’t decide if they were terrified of her or in love with her. Either way, she didn’t care. She had two part-time jobs, a sick grandma, and grades to protect. She didn’t have time for weak egos or pretty lies.

Her best friend Nia jogged over, snatching her water bottle.

“You’re gonna kill someone out here,” Nia said.

“They knew what they signed up for.”

“Jayda... you got a text.”

Jayda grabbed her phone. One message. One name.

Alex Kingsley.

She almost laughed.

This man—this arrogant Wall Street king with ironed hair and an ego the size of Manhattan—had been texting her daily. Not romantically. Not directly. But something in between curiosity and control.

Alex: Do you always play football like you're tackling world hunger?

Jayda: Only when rich guys are watching.

Alex: Correction. CEOs. Rich guys don’t have taste. Or power.

Jayda: Wow. You ever hear yourself and not cringe?

Alex: I hear myself and wish the world could keep up.

Jayda barked a laugh. “This man needs therapy.”

“Or a good kick in the ego,” Nia said.

Jayda chewed her lip. The truth was... he intrigued her. Not because of his money. Not even the power. But because he was so wrong for her—so wrapped in pride, rules, arrogance—and still, she couldn’t stop herself from replying.

Jayda: Don’t choke on your suits. Real people breathe, y’know.

He replied instantly.

Alex: That’s what I like about you, Brooklyn. You’re not real. You’re wild.

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Meanwhile – Upper East Side

Back in his penthouse, Alex tossed his phone onto the desk and smirked. No one ever talked back to him like that. Not board members. Not models. Certainly not women from Brooklyn in muddy sneakers.

She didn’t flirt. She challenged.

She didn’t melt. She mocked.

And he found himself... addicted.

“Still texting your tomboy girlfriend?” Bryce asked, bursting into his office without knocking.

Alex’s younger brother was wearing gold headphones and no shirt.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Alex snapped.

“You sure text her like she’s the stock you’re about to buy out.”

Alex ignored him, pulling up a document on his laptop.

“She said you were pretentious, didn’t she?”

“She said I sound like a bottle of imported ego.”

Bryce laughed so hard he nearly dropped his protein shake. “Dude. She’s perfect.”

Alex leaned back, eyes narrowing. “No. She’s unpredictable. Unruly. Impossible to manage.”

“Exactly.”

Alex frowned. “That’s not a compliment.”

“It is for someone like you.”

Just then, Arabella raced into the room, tiara askew, cape trailing behind her.

“Daddy! My dragon ate the sofa!”

Alex blinked. “What?”

“She pretended,” she clarified, crossing her arms. “Now the sofa’s lava.”

Bryce grinned. “Better jump, Big Bro.”

Alex—CEO, billionaire, conqueror of empires—stepped on the damn coffee table like it was a cliff edge.

“Happy now?” he asked.

Arabella nodded. “Very.”

And then, the phone buzzed again.

Jayda had sent a selfie. Dirt on her face. Mud on her cheek. A victorious middle finger held up next to her football trophy.

The caption?

“Brooklyn wins. Again.”

Alex stared at it for a long moment.

Then he typed back.

Alex: You’re trouble.

Jayda: I’m your worst decision.

Alex: You might be.

He leaned back.

He couldn’t stop this train if he tried.

And he didn’t want to.

But trouble?

Trouble was just beginning.

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