Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(8)

He was headed for the kitchen, but he looked at her over his shoulder. “Huh?”

“You ever wish things were different?”

“What? That we weren’t the children of Governor Brady Rexford and former debutante Ursula “Fancy” Rexford, the de facto king and queen of North Carolina?” He shrugged. “What’s the point of wishin’? Things are what they are.”

Hillary ran a hand through her almost-black hair. “I don’t know. But wouldn’t you just like to go to a bar in jeans and a T-shirt and get drunk on your twenty-first birthday? Like every other normal person in the world?”

He turned to face her, his voice gentle. “We’re not normal, Hills. Never have been. We’re Rexfords.”

“Yeah,” she said, forcing a smile, though her eyes remained troubled. “I know.”

He reached for arm and squeezed it. “It’s a party, sis. Buck up.”

“Sure.”

“Catch you later?”

“Yeah,” she said, giving him a thoughtful look before climbing the stairs.

He watched her for a moment before sailing through the mansion’s entry hall, continuing through the west sitting room, to the dining room, then through the swinging doors and into the kitchen. Inside, it was a flurry of activity: twelve vases were lined up on the table as a florist created a dozen matching arrangements; caterers arranged baskets of rolls and manned the twin ovens. When Erik’s mother had inherited this house from her parents, it had been half the size, and equipped for the needs of a single family on vacation. But after his father had been elected to the state legislature, Fancy had renovated it into a showplace, complete with an industrial kitchen that could handle catering for huge events.

Good thing too, Erik thought dryly. Since his father’s ascension to governor, last November, Fancy’s entertaining efforts had gone on steroids. Seemed like she was hosting some sort of celebration or fund-raiser every other week. His birthday party tonight, for instance, had nothing to do with him. It was just a vehicle for his parents to schmooze and network. With a possibility of two terms in office before he was ineligible for reelection, Erik knew, his father was casting his eye at the White House eight years from now, and that would take a lot of support. President of the United States. Brady Rexford’s lifelong dream.

Erik scanned the heads of the catering staff for a strawberry blonde ponytail. Finding none, he was about to leave, when he was distracted by a loud voice, exclaiming over the hum of activity, “Honey, those look heavy! Let me get one of these fellas to help you!”

Whipping back around, he caught sight of the freckled fisherman’s daughter just inside the kitchen door, holding a white Styrofoam cooler that was wider than she was.

“Oh, no, ma’am,” she said, her voice breathless as she set down her burden. “Only four left. No big deal.” Though she was red-cheeked and sweating, she smiled. “It’s good exercise.”

“You islanders sure are hearty,” noted the woman, who wore a white chef’s jacket. “You ever need a job, you come find me.”

The girl grinned, her green eyes sparkling. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll go get the rest now.”

She disappeared back through the door, and Erik surged blindly across the kitchen to catch up with her, running outside and rounding the house.

“Hey! Wait up!”

She stopped in her tracks and turned, her eyes widening as she looked at him. “You.”

“Me,” he said. “From the balcony scene, remember?”

She nodded slowly, then turned away from him, gesturing to the boardwalk. “I have to . . .”

“Deliver crabs. I know.”

Glancing back at him, she scanned his face, and he got his first really good look at her . . . and quickly realized that his little mermaid wasn’t just pretty. She was a knockout.

Her pale, peachy skin was dusted with freckles, and her sea-green eyes were even greener up close: the color of the Sound in the sun. Her hair, pulled back in a neat ponytail, was reddish-blonde, and soft, straight wisps escaped from behind her ears to frame her face. She was small—maybe five foot four—but he could tell she was athletic and strong, which he liked. His gaze dropped her to chest, which rose and fell under her black shirt. The white button between her tits pulled just a little, and Erik’s mouth watered as he tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, unable to look away.

“I . . .,” she said, her voice breathy. “I have to . . .”

He looked up, and his eyes slammed into hers.

For a second, he had a wild notion that he should kiss her.

It came on him like a freight train, and he couldn’t ever remember having to fight so hard against an impulse. His gaze flicked madly from her eyes to her lips and back to her eyes, which seemed as mesmerized with him as his were with her.

“I’ll help you,” he murmured.

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“Sure. If we each carry one, it’ll only be two more trips.”

“Nope,” she said again, turning away from him to speed-walk around the pool, back toward the boardwalk.

Erik stood frozen, confounded by her reaction.

Unaccustomed to being refused anything by anyone, this situation was especially puzzling because he was just trying to give her a hand. Did she think he had ulterior motives? He tilted his head to the side, checking out her perky ass in too-tight jeans that somehow managed to stay on the safe side of trashy because they were paired with clunky rubber boots. He shook his head and grinned. Damn, but she was the cutest fucking thing he’d seen in a long, long time.