Fake Empire(35)

Contributions? I glance at Scarlett as loud applause sounds around us. “You wrote a check?” I ask, quietly enough no one else at our table can hear.

“It’s a fundraiser,” she whispers back in the you’re an idiot tone I’m becoming quite familiar with. “Of course I donated.”

“You could have told me. It looks strange for us to make two separate donations.”

“I didn’t feel like elbowing my way past the blonde.”

I want to scoff at that, but I keep a smile pasted on my face instead. It remains in place for the rest of Jennifer’s speech and through dinner. I’m seated next to Howard Burton, a hedge fund manager a few years younger than my father. He prattles on about market trends while I shove lemon risotto and seared duck into my mouth.

Once dinner ends, seats get rearranged. Howard and his wife gravitate toward the silent auction set up in the next room. Scarlett is talking with Katherine Billings, who is sitting on her other side. I’m about to go get another drink when Asher takes Howard’s empty seat.

I raise both eyebrows at him. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight.”

He slouches in his seat. “Eh, changed my mind.”

“Your dad?”

“Yep.” Asher rolls his eyes. His father loves the status of getting invited to events like this, but rarely has the follow-through to actually attend. It’s the same reason Asher ended up working at Kensington Consolidated—his father ran a thriving company into the ground, thanks to sheer neglect. And he always expects Asher to step up and save his ass.

“Let him handle his own messes, man.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Asher replies. We both know he won’t. “Hannah is here.”

I stiffen at the attempt to change the subject and to gauge my reaction. “Yeah, I know.”

“She pissed?”

I shrug. “She’s not thrilled.” I look over at Scarlett to confirm she’s still talking with Katherine. She’s not. Katherine is gone, and Scarlett is scrolling on her phone. Her expression is blank, giving me no indication of whether she’s listening to or absorbing our conversation.

Asher makes an annoying humming sound in response.

Scarlett stands. “Excuse me.”

I watch her walk away, then look back at Asher. “Thanks a fuck ton for that.”

He looks confused. “Since when do you care what a woman thinks?”

“Since I married one,” I reply. “I’m stuck with her for more than one night.”

“You said you barely see her. That you’re leading separate lives.”

“Both true.”

“So? Stop making an effort. I invited her to the climbing gym, and she left after fifteen minutes. Doesn’t seem like she’ll care about Hannah or not.”

“She won’t.” That’s all I say though. I don’t explain I inexplicably want her to care. That jealousy—an emotion I’ve always abhorred in women—would thrill me coming from Scarlett.

“Then what’s the issue?”

“Just…don’t mention other women around her, okay?”

He studies me for a minute before he agrees. “Fine.”

I feel his eyes remain on me as I make a point of looking around. A string quartet has set up in the corner and started playing, providing a muted soundtrack to the evening. A few couples gravitate toward the dancefloor and begin to twirl.

“How’s the sex?”

I say nothing.

Asher scoffs. “Come on, Kensington. You’re not the shy sort.”

“It’s different, and you know it.”

“Different because you don’t know?” he teases.

I rub my finger against the rim of my glass.

Asher laughs. “Holy fuck. You don’t.”

“It hasn’t come up,” I mutter.

“How the fuck does having sex with your wife not come up?”

I stand. “I’m getting a refill.”

But rather than head for the bar, I somehow end up approaching Scarlett. I interrupt the group she’s talking to with a polite smile.

“Would you like to dance, dollface?”

“Sure, sugar.”

As soon as we’re out of earshot, she mutters, “Dollface? That’s your worst one yet.”

“Funny. I think sugar might be my new favorite.”

Scarlett looks away, but not before I catch the ghost of a smile. She never attempts to hide any negative emotions, I’ve noticed. When she’s angry or upset, it’s all on display. It’s the few pleasant moments we’ve shared that she schools her reactions to.

As soon as we reach the dance floor, I test the theory. There are about a dozen other couples dancing, most of them middle-aged or older. All waltzing with a respectable distance between them.

I spin Scarlett so our chests are touching. Her expression doesn’t change as we begin to dance, nor as I tighten my grip on her hand and her waist. My thumb leaves her palm and drifts down to her wrist. The only jewelry she’s wearing tonight is a pair of diamond earrings and the rings I gave her, leaving the smooth skin below her palm bare. I settle my thumb on top of her pulse point, feeling it pound at a rapid pace.

I smile, feeling her heart race. She may not want to want me, but she does. I know the feeling well.