Fake Empire(61)

“Don’t hate me,” Scarlett whispers.

“I don’t.”

She sighs, and it’s the saddest sound I’ve ever heard. “You will.”

Then she rolls over, so all I can see is her back.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN





SCARLETT





I’m not this girl.

I don’t get giddy or nervous or change my dress three times. I look down on women who are willing to change anything and everything about themselves for a man. If it’s not something you’re willing to do for yourself, why would you do it for someone else?

Rather than pathetic, I feel lighter and looser than I ever have. Fizzy, like a bottle of champagne that’s been shaken but not yet popped. Feelings—excited feelings—bubble to the surface. I’ve always had opportunity at my fingertips, and yet this is what spins my insides into a frenzy: spending time with the guy I married for a lot of logical reasons and even more illogical ones.

I smooth the ruffled hem of the pink dress I’m wearing. It’s an outfit I would never wear in New York—it screams girly and innocent and naïve. Today, I’ve forgone my red lips, left my hair down in waves, and I’m wearing sandals. For once, I look my age. Maybe younger. I’ve dropped my guard, and my appearance reflects that.

When I step out into the bedroom, I panic for a split-second. Maybe Crew wants the woman with high heels and higher walls. Maybe any allure is how I’ve been hard to get. I told him no, and it was a novelty. Last night, I acted like his cock was the only one in the world. And I definitely made it obvious I’m not indifferent toward him. I basically admitted to stalking him.

A breeze wafts through the open terrace doors, rubbing the soft cotton against my skin. Every time I see a room in this house, I fall in love with the villa a little bit more. If it were possible to run Haute from here, I’d never leave. As long as Crew stayed too.

He’s standing by the front door, typing something on his phone. Things feel different between us. Not better or worse, just different. What we share—what we don’t—used to be clearly defined. It’s now a blur.

When Crew smiles at me, the bottle gets shaken a little more. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

I follow him outside. We’re not pretending last night never happened—the confessions, the sex, the waking up in bed together—but we haven’t discussed it either. I wasn’t all that drunk last night. I remember every second. My behavior was mostly because I let down my guard and acted the way I wanted to act without worrying about consequences. They don’t seem as glaring in the light of day.

We could have flown back today. Instead, Crew asked if I wanted to go to a football—soccer—game over breakfast. Despite my low interest level in sitting in the hot sun watching a bunch of guys run around and listening to spectators pretend they could play better, I agreed. Because he suggested it.

Driving past dramatic cliffs and dazzling ocean views, it doesn’t feel like much of a hardship. Crew drove a gray Maserati convertible out of the garage, which is what we’re riding in now.

I try and fail to recall another time we’ve been alone in a car together. Everything that would feel commonplace with anyone else feels meaningful with him. I don’t speculate on why that might be. We may be in a decent place right now, but I have no delusions it will last.

Happy for now is more than I expected.

Happy ever afters aren’t realistic.

I spy on Crew under the pretense of studying the scenery, beneath the shade of my sun hat and the cover of Gucci sunglasses. My recent trips to Italy have all been for work, mostly to Milan. I forgot how the craggy coastline can take your breath away, with blue water that’s startlingly clear and vibrant. The color of Crew’s eyes—so pretty you think it is fake.

Crew appears relaxed and alert as we drive. He’s dressed casually, in a white cotton t-shirt and a pair of navy shorts. Wayfarers shield his eyes. This guy is unrecognizable from the Crew Kensington who sidled up to me in Proof. Tan, relaxed, maybe even happy.

Flashes of last night play across my memory as I trace his profile, lingering on the shift of tendons in his arms as he turns the wheel to take a right. I can list the number of guys whose forearms I’ve previously ogled on zero fingers. For some reason, the sight of Crew’s is one I can’t look away from.

He seems content to sit in silence, not making any attempt at conversation. Warm wind zooms past, occasionally carrying strains of conversation or notes of music as other cars pass by. My hair flies around my face. I keep twirling and tucking it behind my back, and after a few minutes, the breeze tugs it free again.

I huff an exasperated sigh, and the corner of Crew’s mouth twitches. My purse is a mess, the same as it always is when I travel. I dig through lip gloss, Euros, hotel chocolate, and my passport—probably should store that somewhere else—before locating a hair tie.

My hair gets wound up in a messy knot, finally staying in place. This feels so different from the climate-controlled interior of a town car. Vacations are usually museum tours and wine tastings. Set itineraries and work calls. Riding in a convertible on a summer day is something I easily could have experienced before. But something in me whispers it wouldn’t feel like this with just anyone.

I can’t ignore Crew. Can’t pretend he’s just the guy chauffeuring me around. Rather than fight it, I embrace the giddiness his presence incites. I recline my seat and prop my bare feet on the dash and fling my hand out the window so it can surf the wind. The hem of my dress creeps up my thighs as I lean back. I watch Crew glance before he white knuckles the steering wheel. I turn my head to the side, not making any attempt to pretend I’m not looking at him.