Fake Empire(53)

Crew pushes away from the wall, looming over me. For one wild, thrilling second, I think he’s about to kiss me. Force me to admit I do want him here. Instead, he turns to his right, toward the exit.

“You’re leaving?”

One eyebrow cocks infuriatingly as he glances back. “Using the restroom. Is that allowed, honey?”

The harshest word in the sentence is the sweetest. The honey slaps. Our nickname game was entertaining. But after hearing him call me Red with feeling, with genuine affection, honey just sounds insulting. I sigh, the fight draining from me as his bitter tone registers. That’s one of our many problems: one of us is usually in the mood to spar. “You can leave, if you want.”

I’m not only talking about the restaurant, and I know he realizes that when determination flashes across his face. “I’m not a quitter. For better or worse, Red.”

“I thought the only vow you meant was for richer.”

His lips twitch, his bad mood temporarily fading like the sun peeking out behind clouds. “You’re still wearing your sticker.”

“Huh?”

Crew steps forward and tugs the green admission sticker from Versailles off my dress. I snag it from his fingers before he can crumple it.

He watches me tuck it into my clutch with an unreadable expression. “It’s okay to care, you know.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Crew counters.

Then he leaves me standing here, gaping after him like a goldfish.





You wouldn’t know it’s summer based on the iciness in this car. The rest of dinner with Jacques went smoothly. Crew stayed quiet as Jacques and I went over everything that needs to get taken care of this week.

I hoped Jacques was oblivious to the tension simmering between me and Crew throughout dinner. But he whispered Amore is not easy, ma cherie in my ear as we said our goodbyes, making me think you might have needed to be blind and deaf not to notice we weren’t behaving like newlyweds. Jacques laughed at the scowl I answered his advice with.

After dinner, the driver drops us off back at the hotel. I stride across the marble lobby, not bothering to wait for Crew. I need some space. Unfortunately, his long legs carry him into the elevator mere seconds after me. The golden doors slide shut slowly, sealing us inside, and we begin to rise.

I expect him to talk, but he stays silent, leaning against the shiny metal wall and acting as though I’m not standing two feet away.

We arrive at the top floor of suites a couple of minutes later.

“You have my room key?” I ask when the doors open, annoyed I had to break the silence first. He was the one who checked us in. Unless I want to sleep in the hallway or pat him down like a police officer, I have no choice.

Wordlessly, Crew plucks a plastic rectangle from his pocket and hands it to me. I nod a thanks before I head toward the number emblazoned on the plastic. I hold the key against the sensor. It flashes green, allowing me inside. I shut the heavy door behind me and lean back against it for a moment. What a day. Parts—most—of it were good, which is bittersweet. I’ll remember his pissed-off posture in the car just now when I think of climbing the Eiffel Tower side by side. My fault.

I head deeper inside the plush suite, kicking off my stilettos with a heavy sigh that doesn’t release any tension. My bags have all been piled in the living room, next to unfamiliar luggage that should not be in here. I turn around at the same time as the door beeps again. Crew enters the room.

“What are you doing in here? I thought you had your own room.”

“There were none available,” Crew says breezily, pulling off his suit jacket and tossing it across the back of the gilded couch.

“You’re lying,” I inform him, crossing my arms.

“Am I?” He gives me an infuriating smirk.

“You’re not sleeping in here.”

“Why not? Worried you won’t be able to control yourself, Red?”

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. “I’ve controlled myself for the month we’ve been married. So no, I’m not.”

I expect him to bring up how loudly I moaned next to my parents’ pool. The only reason we didn’t have sex that night was because he didn’t have a condom and thinks I’m sleeping with a surgeon. Rubbing up against him wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of self-control. But instead of a reminder, all he says is, “Great. I don’t see what the problem is then.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch.” Fuck. I don’t negotiate. Ever.

Crew’s triumphant smirk is maddening. He untucks his shirt and starts unbuttoning it. Looks at the fancy Victorian-style sofa that appears about as soft as a wooden board. “The bed looks more comfortable.”

“I’m sure it is. If you want a bed—” Another suggestion to get his own damn room dies on my tongue as he discards his khaki shorts and strides to the bed in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. My mouth goes dry as he climbs in on the side of the bed I usually sleep on.

Golden skin rippling over defined muscles assaults my vision and hijacks my thoughts. He did most of the exploring the last time he was shirtless. I’m ogling and he appears indifferent, climbing into bed and rolling onto his stomach. He tugs a pillow under his head, closes his eyes, and that’s it.

No touching. No teasing. No taunting. No talking.