Fake Empire(57)

“I’ve seen the department reports. I know you do.”

“Why were you looking at the reports?” How? Those aren’t public record.

“I was curious. And I’m a Kensington.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re wondering how I got access.” She takes a bite of her pasta. Chews. Swallows. “That’s how.”

“Oh,” is my brilliant response.

She hasn’t shown any interest in Kensington Consolidated, but she’s right. As of our marriage, she gained a substantial share of the company. More than enough to gain access to company reports, or anything else she might request.

“I don’t think you should take it,” she continues.

“Take what?”

She rolls her eyes. “The Royce offer.”

“Really? I thought you’d want me to.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

“Because of everything you just said to me. About earning your own accomplishments. Not being my dad’s bitch.”

“I never meant any of that shit, Crew.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. I wanted to hurt you and I didn’t know how else to do it. Kensington Consolidated is your birthright. Your family’s legacy. You deserve it. Anyone else would destroy it.”

I process that. “What about Ellsworth Enterprises? I could say the same to you. You’re the sole heir.”

She shrugs. “We’ll figure it out when that time comes, I guess.”

“We, huh?”

Pink stains her cheeks. “If there’s a we, then.”

“I didn’t have a meeting today.” I blurt the confession with no prelude, no further explanation.

She studies me. “Where did you go earlier?”

“I read at a café for three hours.”

“Why?”

I know she’s not asking why I read. “I wanted to bring you here. I didn’t think you’d come otherwise.”

“I’m a Kensington now.”

I blink at another rapid turn in conversation. “Yeah, I know. I was at the wedding, remember?”

She doesn’t smile at the lame joke. “If rouge fails—if I fail—your last name will be associated with it. That’s why I got so upset in Paris. I don’t want you to be disappointed in me.”

I’m so stunned I can’t speak. It feels like I’m hearing these words through a wind tunnel—I don’t want you to be disappointed in me. From a distance and a shout. “Scar—” I clear my throat. Once. Twice. “Scarlett, how could you—I could never be disappointed in you, okay? I swear. You could murder someone, and I’d bury the body, no questions asked. If rouge doesn’t do well, I’ll be fucking proud of you for trying.”

A few seconds pass where she says nothing, and I become convinced I should have said nothing. They add up to fifty, and I spend most of them rewinding our conversation, spotting all the ways I could have avoided this.

“I spied on you.”

“What?”

She half-smiles and gulps more wine. “If we’re sharing secrets… When I was in Paris, I spied on you every night. Through the security cameras. With the time difference, I was back at my hotel when you got home from work. I spied. Every single night.”

“Why did you?”

“I was curious, I guess. What you would do. How you’d act. What you were really like.”

“And what did you learn?”

“Not much. You’re pretty boring.”

I smirk. “Not boring enough not to spy on, apparently.”

Making Scarlett blush might be my new favorite hobby. Every time, it feels like a gift. An accomplishment.

“Whatever.”

My grin widens. She laughs and looks away.

“You ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

I flag a waiter and pay the check, stealing glances at Scarlett the whole time.

By the time we leave the restaurant, it’s pitch black out. I didn’t realize how much time had passed. When I’m with her, I don’t focus on anything else. A disconcerting realization for someone used to being in control.

The later hour hasn’t dampened any activity. The streets are just as busy as they were earlier. We walk side by side, closer than is called for. I glare at every guy who does a double take at her.

Scarlett stumbles over absolutely nothing, and I reach out to grab her arm. She laughs. “I thought we didn’t touch.”

“You’re drunk,” I realize.

She thrusts one hand in my face, holding her thumb and pointer finger tightly pressed together right in front of my face. “Only this much.”

I tug them a few inches apart. “I think you mean this much.”

I’ve never seen Scarlett tipsy before. Usually, she’s the picture of poise and snark no matter how many glasses of champagne she’s downed. It’s oddly endearing, how her eyes twinkle and her nose crinkles. She looks younger. “Nope.” She pops the P and closes the gap. Between her fingers and between us. “I meant this much.”

Before I can reply, she kisses me. She’s unsteady on her heels, leaning on me and off-center as she loops her arms around my neck and sucks on my tongue on a busy street.