Fake Empire(11)

“You could skinny dip.”

I snort. “I bet you’d like that.”

“Yeah,” Crew replies, stopping beside me. “I would, actually.” His voice has turned deep and husky, and it wreaks havoc on my insides.

Crew grew up surrounded by the same beauty I did. I’ve seen women flit to him like moths to a flame for years. There’s no way he’s not getting laid on a regular basis. I didn’t expect he would act like I’m anything different—like I’m special. He’s probably not, and I’m misreading his tone because I’m tired and hungry and more susceptible to feigned honesty than usual. Because I am attracted to him.

“You have to buy the cow first, honey.” I continue our nickname game with an indifferent tip of my glass. It doesn’t matter what he says. What he thinks. What he suggests.

“I signed, pumpkin,” he replies.

I don’t respond. He did, and it made me wish I’d never made the changes to our prenup in the first place. I wasn’t worried Crew would try to seize control of Haute. I am worried it’s made things uneven between us. His refusal was supposed to give me reason not to trust him. Instead, I feel indebted. No gift comes without consequence, in my experience.

Crew hums as he looks outside. “Unseasonably chilly tonight.”

“Feel free to take your weatherman audition elsewhere.”

This time, the hum almost sounds like a laugh. “I was referring to your personality, dear.”

That quip isn’t deigned a response. I’m on edge enough tonight as it is. My mother and Crew’s stepmother manufactured this evening. Now that our families have announced our engagement, the Kensingtons and the Ellsworths are supposed to look like one big happy family.

I’ve met Crew’s father and stepmother before. His father multiple times, his stepmother just once. Candace Kensington is twenty-seven, only two years older than me. Perky and blonde and far more interested in her stepsons than her husband, based on my interpretation of the family dynamic during the last hour. Or the lack thereof.

I watch Crew as he takes a sip of whiskey. “Have you slept with Candace?”

He doesn’t react as he swallows, which is disappointing. I was hoping for a dramatic cough or two.

“My father’s wife?”

“Your stepmother. Yes.”

Crew chuckles. Rubs a hand across his clean-shaven jaw. I wonder what he’d look like with stubble, just a little less put together.

“Why are you asking?”

I shrug as I sip more champagne, noting the lack of a no. “Just trying to figure out how much messiness I’m marrying into.”

“It’s a mess,” he replies. “Not messy.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means it’s nothing you can’t handle and nothing you can change.”

“How vague and mildly complimentary of you.”

Crew smirks. “Come on.”

He starts walking across the marble floor toward the twin curved staircases. I follow, mostly because I’m sick of staring at the pool and in no hurry to return to the stiff small talk taking place in the drawing room.

My heels hit the smooth rock with a light tap that echoes through the cavernous space with all the subtlety of a gunshot.

The Kensington estate is stunning, but I can’t muster any genuine appreciation. I’ve been in—lived in—mansions just as large and ostentatious as this one. If you stare at shiny objects for too long, they lose their luster.

I’ve been here a handful of times over the past decade. All the visits were for parties or formal events. Never when the enormous house was empty—of people and of anything besides a wide assortment of antique furniture and priceless art.

The hallway overlooking the pool and grounds is sized similarly to a hotel ballroom, with glass doors that rise to meet the ten-foot ceiling.

Halfway to the staircases that bookend one end of the hall, my stomach growls—loudly.

“Hungry?” There’s stifled laughter in his voice.

“I hate caviar.”

“I don’t think anyone actually likes caviar. You just choke it down.”

“I never swallow because a guy says so.”

Crew clears his throat. Coughs. Laughs. “Good.”

He takes the comment in stride, and it makes me want to push him further. I pegged Crew as brash and bossy, not easygoing. Maybe he’s only like that at work. In bed.

I shove that last thought far, far away. I knew I was attracted to Crew. He’s objectively gorgeous. But I didn’t know I would be attracted to Crew. Admiring a guy’s ass is different from noticing how he acts. What he wears. What he says.

Watching his Brioni-clad back alter course and turn down another marble-lined hall, I’m unsettled by how much of a distinction I can suddenly find between attraction and interest.

Walking into the gourmet kitchen provides a welcome distraction. I barely have a chance to take in the crystal chandeliers, marble backsplash, and shiny appliances before Crew turns to the right and opens a sliding door. He flicks on a light, and we’re in a…pantry.

“Cool,” I drone. “I love spending time amidst non-perishables.”

“How does that silver spoon taste, Ellsworth?”

I have to bite the inside of my cheek so he doesn’t know I find him funny. Or worse, clever. “Better than yours, Kensington.”