Fake Empire(40)

Down here, in the dark, I feel different. I don’t feel on display. The compulsion to appear perfect and know exactly what to say is gone. Familiar warmth trickles through my veins as I drain my glass, lightening and loosening my movements.

I’m comfortable enough to chime in on Rachel and Penelope’s commentary. Soon, they’re taking bets on who is most likely to go skinny-dipping. I laugh as they recount previous years’ anecdotes while deciding who’s likely to go for a repeat.

“What about Crew?” I ask, when he’s the only guy they haven’t mentioned.

Rachel and Penelope exchange a look. “Crew never comes to the Hamptons in the summer,” Rachel tells me.

“Oh.”

“People had bets on today, you know.” She laughs at my surprised expression. “Don’t worry, I bet he’d be here. Only idiots didn’t. They’re the same people who call you a stuck-up bitch—they should know better.”

Penelope hisses, “Rachel!”

I don’t react. I know that’s how people see me. It’s different to hear it spoken in such blunt terms though.

Rachel shrugs. “What? It’s hard not to hate someone who gets everything she wants.”

My walls go up. “I’m going to find a restroom.”

The nearest house is the Kingsleys’—technically we’re on their stretch of private beach—but I don’t actually have any intention of going to the bathroom. I’ll stay long enough to make it clear no one chased me off, and then head back to my parents’.

My plan all along was to go to bed early tonight. For the first time, I’ll be sharing a bed with my husband. Ideally, I’ll be fast asleep by the time he heads to bed.

I pause by the fire. Now that the sun is gone, the heat from the flames counters the cool sea breeze.

“Got chilly, huh?”

I don’t turn right away. A second seems necessary. When I glance back, he’s closer than I expected. “You sure you never wanted to become a meteorologist? You seem to have a strange fascination with the weather.”

“I’m sure.”

“No one else finds your fascination strange?”

Crew sort of laughs, but it quickly turns into a sigh. “I don’t know what else to say to you, Scarlett.”

I look away, like I always do when we gravitate toward anything meaningful. “You don’t need to check in on me. Go have fun.”

He’s so close I can feel his sigh. His chest expands and his breath weaves through my hair as he exhales. I wait for his retreat—for his body to move away. Instead, he puts his hands on my waist and spins me around. So fast I have no time to react or protest.

We’re even closer now. Mere inches separate our faces as his hands loosen their grip on my hips. “I don’t do things I don’t want to do, Scarlett. If I don’t want to check on you, I won’t. If I don’t want to spend time with you, I won’t.”

“Okay.” I say the word softly. Too loud, and it might shatter this moment the way words have done before.

“Okay.” His echo is just as quiet.

The first firework startles me. It explodes in a spectacular display of sound and color, illuminating the shore and the sea and all the surrounds previously hidden by the night. The burning wood and the moonlight were weak in comparison. Distant strains of music from the house and the rhythmic battering of waves on the sand seem muffled.

Another explosion lights up the sky, sending pink arcs flying that fizzle and drift back down. Followed by another and another and another. Laughter and shouts are audible nearby, but I pay them no attention. I’m consumed by the sight of the dazzling display that keeps replacing the lingering smoke. I turn so I’m facing the fireworks, but I don’t pull away from his hold. I lean into it—literally—resting my back against his front. Crew’s arms remain looped loosely around my waist. Warm and secure and strong.

This moment feels magical, and I know it’s not the fireworks I’m watching or the champagne flowing through my bloodstream.

I resigned myself to marrying Crew. He was the best of decent options.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Our relationship is supposed to be based on mutual understandings and airtight legal documents. Not on trust and lust and all the other things squeezing my chest right now. Exciting, terrifying feelings. I can’t leave him, can never walk away. When he gets sick of being the doting husband and domestic life, I’ll be the one stuck waiting at home.

That will only hurt if I let it.

I tell myself I won’t, even as I relax my body against his and ignore the envious looks aimed my way. Crew may have married me for my money and my name, but he did choose to marry me. He doesn’t do things he doesn’t want to, like he just said.

“Who do you think came up with this?”

I tilt my head back so I can see his profile. “Came up with what?”

“The fireworks for the Fourth. What about a bloody war says let’s light up the sky?”

“They’re celebratory,” I reply. “My mom wanted fireworks for our reception.”

“Really?” His hand glides around the curve of my hip. It’s an innocent movement, a shift in position. Yet it sets my skin on fire. It’s been months since I had sex. I blame that for the awareness pooling in my stomach.