Fake Empire(49)

“What are you doing?” I ask, pulling out my phone. “I can call—”

“Get in.”

“I have a car here.”

“I know you do. We rode here in it. Get in, Scarlett.”

Part of me wants to argue for the sake of it. I don’t like to defer to anyone about anything. But a bigger part of me wants to listen—craves the dominance Crew commands so easily.

Silently, I listen. He doesn’t walk around to the other side of the cab. I realize he’s waiting for me to slide over. There’s something normal about it, so different from the limo rides we’ve shared in the past. I slide, feeling the fabric of my dress bunch up around my thighs as I glide across the leather. Crew pays more attention to my bare legs than he did to the tennis match.

“Where are we going?” I ask as the car begins to move.

“You’ll see,” is all he says.

I focus on the scenery passing by. We drive by the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe. When the car stops, it’s by an even more iconic landmark.

I look at Crew. “Seriously?”

“Yep. We can send a photo to your mom to prove we went sight-seeing.”

At that, I smile. Reluctantly. Crew pays the driver, and we join the long line of people walking toward the Eiffel Tower.

“Have you climbed it before?” Crew asks as we walk.

“No,” I admit.

“Me neither.”

Crew navigates us to the one ticket window without a long line. I stare up at the wrought-iron lattice tower as he buys our tickets. Minutes later, we’re approaching the start of the steps. Crew is studying the map he took from the ticket window. It’s annoyingly adorable.

All of a sudden, he stops walking. “Shit.”

I stop too. “What?” I glance around, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

When I look back at Crew, he’s staring at me with wide, worried eyes. “You’re scared of heights.”

I stare back at him, shocked that he remembered. Then I smile. “It’s okay. As long as we’re not parachuting when we get to the top, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” He still looks concerned. “We can go do something else.”

It’s going to be a real challenge to see Crew as cold and callous ever again. “I’m sure. It’s more of a control thing. I have more faith in the Eiffel Tower staying upright than I did in that one rope at the rock gym keeping me in the air.” I don’t share the other difference between that outing and today’s: the state of my relationship with Crew.

Crew starts walking again. “Okay. Stairs or elevator?”

I wore flats today. Even if I hadn’t, I still would answer, “Stairs.”

He grins. “That’s my girl.”

I know he doesn’t mean it literally—at least I don’t think he does—but the words still send a silly thrill through me. Butterflies flock in my stomach like the most popular guy in school just handed me his letterman jacket to wear.

As we climb, more and more of Paris is spread below us. I spot Parc de Belleville and Champ de Mars. We reach the first observation deck and start up the second set of stairs.

“Do you work out?” I ask, halfway up the third flight.

Crew laughs. “Your pick-up lines need work.”

I roll my eyes because I’m too short of breath to scoff. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I do. You have a private gym, you know.”

“I know. I just don’t use it.”

“Yeah, I realized that when I cleared an inch of dust off the treadmill.”

I smile. “Bullshit. Martha would never let that happen.”

“Fine. It was more like a quarter inch.”

“When do you work out?”

He slants a glance my way. “After you leave. I work out, shower, eat breakfast, and then head into the office.”

“Why after I leave?”

His eyes are still on me. Mine stay straight ahead.

“You try to avoid me. I’m not going to make it more difficult for you.”

“I left for work at seven before we got married.”

I dance around what he’s really saying, and he doesn’t press the point.

We reach the next landing. Crew pauses. I halt too, watching as he grabs the railing with one hand and grabs his ankle with his other. He balances on one leg and bends the other back.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have an old knee injury. Just need to stretch for a minute.”

“A knee injury from what?”

“I played football in high school.”

I snort. “Of course you did. The patron sport of jerky jocks everywhere.”

“That’s awfully judgmental.”

“I am awfully judgmental.”

“Yeah.” He smirks. “I’ve noticed.”

I don’t like the familiar way he’s looking at me. And I like it too much. “So what happened?”

“Huh?”

“Your knee. What happened to it?”

“Oh. Chris Jenkins hit me with an illegal tackle junior year. I twisted a tendon, and it still flares up sometimes.” He shakes his head with a smile. “Asshole.”

“Is there film footage of you getting knocked on your ass?”