Fake Empire(62)

“See something you like?”

He looks at me before he takes another turn. The sun backlights him, spreading beams of golden hues. “Lots.”

His grin is boyish. Not calculating or predatory, and I realize I’m not the only one who might be sick of perfection and pretenses.

I smile back, and something shifts. There’s a tangible moment where he’s not a Kensington and I’m not an Ellsworth. Where we’re just Crew and Scarlett.

And then his phone rings. It’s connected with the car’s Bluetooth, so the sound blares through the speakers. Isabel flashes across the screen.

Crew answers. “Hello.” His tone is flat, slightly annoyed, and I take some solace in that.

“Crew! Hi!” Hers is peppy and cheery. I roll my eyes before rolling my head so I’m looking out the window instead of at him.

“What is it?”

“I don’t mean to bother you, it’s just—are you in a wind tunnel?”

“Driving,” Crew replies.

“Oh. Uh, well, Asher mentioned you’re extending your trip?”

“Yes.”

“We have the meeting on the Lancaster acquisition this afternoon.”

“I sent you my feedback on the reports this morning. Anything inadequate, flag and I’ll handle when I get back into the office.”

“I saw your email. I just…”

“Just what, Isabel?” Crew sounds impatient.

“You’ve overseen this from start to finish. I’m just surprised you’re not here and instead you’re…well, no one is actually sure what you’re doing. Is everything okay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay…” She drags the word out for as long as it will last. “We have a board meeting on Tuesday. Will you be back by then?”

“Yes,” Crew repeats.

“Your father isn’t happy.”

“So…business as usual?”

Isabel laughs. “Pretty much. I’ll send you the minutes from the meeting by the end of the day.”

“I’ll be offline until tomorrow. No rush.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy with disbelief. “Okay.”

“Bye, Isabel.” Crew ends the call.

“Slacker,” I mutter.

He laughs, but neither of us say anything else for the rest of the ride to the stadium.

I knew soccer—or football, as the Europeans call it, which makes logical sense, just like the metric system—was a popular sport in Italy. The huge crowds that surface before the towering structure is even in sight are still unexpected. Long lines of fans sporting jerseys and wide smiles fill both sides of the sidewalk.

Crew appears unconcerned by the busyness. He pulls into a lot surrounded by a chain-link fence after a quick exchange of Italian with the man guarding the gate. From there, we’re led through a private entrance and into the heart of the stadium. I ask, “How much of the team do you own?”

He smirks at me. “Twenty percent.”

“It wasn’t in the disclosures.”

Crew blinks, brimming with false innocence. “It wasn’t?” I roll my eyes. “I used my trust fund. Technically, that wasn’t covered in the mutual considerations.”

“Looked into every loophole, huh?”

“I wasn’t the one who had the prenup rewritten.”

“Would you have signed, if I’d told you about rouge?” It was in the preliminary stages when I brought the paperwork to Crew. Nothing I needed to disclose—legally speaking—but something I should have.

“If you’d told me, you’d know.”

“I didn’t know what you’d do then.”

“And you know now?”

His question sounds like a lot more than just the one decision. Like he’s asking if I know him.

“I don’t know.” It’s not a lie, but I can’t help but feel the honest answer is yes.

Crew’s gaze lingers on my expression for a few seconds, but he says nothing.

Our seats are right at the edge of the field. I stare out at the expanse of green grass as Crew talks to the man who brought us to them in Italian. My French might be iffy, but my knowledge of the native language doesn’t extend beyond Ciao.

Even though the game hasn’t started yet, the field is filled with activity. Players at both ends are running drills and stretching. Others are jogging in place or talking to coaches.

Crew takes the seat next to me. “You know much about soccer?”

“What is there to know? You try to kick the ball into the net.”

He chuckles softly as he leans back. His bare arm brushes mine, and it sears. The sun has nothing on the surface of Crew’s skin. “I think you missed your calling as a coach.”

I scoff. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Come where?”

“The villa. This stadium.”

His legs spread out, crowding the plastic barrier that separates us from grass. “A few times a year. In college…the guys would always want to party. London, Copenhagen, you know. And my dad only wants to go to the Alps or to a good golf course.”

“This is better.”

“And here I thought we’d disagree about everything.”