Fake Empire(4)

“Underachiever.”

The left corner of his mouth creases with a hint of amusement as the bartender sets a fresh martini down in front of me.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

Crew holds eye contact with me with me as he reaches into his pocket. His hand emerges with a hundred-dollar bill, which he slides across the smooth surface. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir.” The bartender departs quickly, unwilling to give Crew a chance to change his mind. Even at a place as upscale as this, it’s an outrageous tip. People are happy to drop whatever amount they’re charged for overpriced liquor. More than the obligatory twenty percent tip to service staff is usually another story.

I say nothing. If he’s trying to impress me, money is the wrong way to do it. I don’t know what he’s trying to do. He approached me, all but confirming the outcome of our fathers’ conversation last week.

Crew watches me closely as I raise my glass and take a sip. A high-pitched, whiny voice interrupts our silent staring contest.

“Crew, you said you’d be right back.”

He acts like nothing was said. I hold his gaze for a few more seconds, then glance at the woman who’s approached us. The redhead who was hanging on him earlier has one hip cocked and a smile pasted on her face. Neither completely masks the irritation wafting off her—presumably about his choice to leave her side and approach me instead.

I savor another sip of my martini before acknowledging her unwelcome presence. “It’s rude to interrupt.”

The redhead gives me a snotty look. “And who are you?”

“Crew’s fiancée.” The two words roll off my tongue like I’ve said them before, even though I haven’t. They still sound strange.

That title shuts her up fast, especially when Crew doesn’t deny my claim. He just continues to watch me, unreadable emotions swirling in cerulean depths as he ignores her.

The redhead flounces off.

“Happy?” Crew drawls.

“Disappointed, actually. I was hoping she’d slap you.”

Another corner of his mouth curl. I’m beginning to think it’s his idea of a smile.

“So…” He steps closer.

I want to breathe, but there’s a brief moment where I can’t.

“You’re my fiancée now?”

“Aren’t I?” I take another sip of gin. At this rate, I’ll be finished with my second drink before I make it back to the booth. Maybe I’ll break my two-drink limit as an engagement gift to myself.

“Prenup paperwork is being drawn up as we speak.” Crew pauses. “Your father didn’t tell you?”

“The less he tells me, the more power he can pretend he has.” I look away, back at the long row of bottles behind the bar. “His secretary called my secretary about lunch. I’m guessing I’ll get the happy news then.”

“Glad to hear you and Hanson are closer than ever.”

I scoff. “Not all of us ask how high? when Daddy says jump.”

“Have you always had this much of an edge, or is it a recent development?”

“If you’d ever done more than compliment me on my dress in the past decade, you’d know the answer to that.”

Crew makes a show of looking the gold minidress I’m wearing up and down. “It’s shiny?”

“Have you always been this terrible at coming up with compliments, or is it a recent development?”

For the first time—ever—I get a full-blown smile from Crew Kensington. He looks damn good pouting. Amusement—genuine, not mocking—softens the sharper angles of his face. Throw on a backwards baseball cap and a t-shirt, and he wouldn’t look like a ruthless billionaire.

As quickly as the grin appears, it fades.

I want to stand here and coax another one out of him, which is what convinces me to leave. He’ll be my husband, and this is the first conversation we’ve ever had that encapsulates more than polite small talk. Curiosity is one thing, interest another.

“Thanks for the drink,” I tell him, then walk away.

Sophie is practically bouncing in the booth when I return to my seat. “Ah! What did he say?”

“He bought my drink and then gave me a half-assed compliment.” And confirmed our engagement is imminent and incoming, but I keep that to myself.

“Sounds like he likes you.”

“More like he’s trying to figure out how much of a pushover I am.”

Nadia laughs. “He’s in for a surprise, then.”

“Maybe.” I’m only half-listening now, busy scanning the tall tables below the wall of champagne bottles. It’s more than a maybe. Crew and I know a lot about each other. But we don’t know each other.

I’ve never wondered what he thinks of me—until tonight.

I’ve never considered he might surprise me—until tonight.

The two realizations are unnerving, uncomfortable. I don’t like the implications, and I need a distraction.

A group of guys strolls inside. One toward the front, a blond, makes direct eye contact with me. He’s wearing a full suit that looks custom made—tie, jacket, and all—which seems like trying too hard to me. If you have money, there’s no need to flaunt it. Especially in a place like this. But he has an appealing face and a decent body, which are my main criteria at the moment, so I smile at him. He smiles back. I look down, take a sip, and then glance back up. He’s still staring at me. I pretend to be self-conscious about his eyes on me, glancing away and shifting in my seat like the attention is overwhelming rather than exactly what I was hoping for.