Page 1 of False God

1

“Beautiful.”

The low voice is unfamiliar—syllables crisp rather than drawled—but the sentiment is identical to the one I’ve been hearing all afternoon. A fewstunnings, a couple ofgorgeouses, and onehot as fuck—from my friend Daphne—but most men stuck with the same compliment.

I suck in a deep breath of air that tastes like rich leather and sweet hay, hoping to inhale some patience along with the oxygen expanding my lungs.

“I’m flattered,” I say, continuing to gently stroke Lexington’s neck.

Five minutes. I wantedfive minutesaway from the attention. It wasn’t supposed to follow me into the barn. But I should really know better after twenty-four years of being a Kensington.

When you’re born into one of the richest families in the world, attention follows youeverywhere. Never-ending interest is as inescapable as your own shadow.

“I was referring to the horse,” is the droll reply.

That answer, paired with the realization that the precise enunciation I heard was with a British accent, is enough to makemy hand slow. I pet Lexington ten more times, counting each stroke, then glance to the left.

“The horse is a gelding,” I inform the stranger who’s appeared beside me.

The eyebrow I can see curves into a textbook display of polite disagreement. An indulgent, silent, exaggerated,So?

There’s an answering tug of intrigue low in my stomach.

“Males can’t be beautiful?” he asks.

You are, is my first absurd and annoying thought.

His gaze is on Lexington—like he’s trying to emphasize how vapid I am; how, obviously, his attention is focused elsewhere—so my eyes unashamedly linger on the limited view his profile offers.

He’s tall—well over six feet. Taller than me by several inches, even including the added height from the impractically high stilettos I’m wearing in a barn.

I try not to look past his height. But other details trickle in. Light-brown hair. Bone structure befitting a Greek god. Tailored navy suit.

“I thought men preferred to be called handsome,” I respond.

“Based on what?” he questions. Still looking at the horse, not at me.

Annoyance from the interruption and embarrassment from the misunderstanding have faded. Now, I’m kind of … offended, I guess, that he still hasn’t bothered to glance my way. Casual disregard isn’t how people act around me.

“You obviously haven’t complimented many men,” I say.

“None with small egos, it seems.”

A snort echoes along the empty concrete hallway. It takes a few seconds, the reverberation already fading, for me to realize that sound of amusement came from me.

I clear my throat, attempting to regain some composure. His tone was calm and matter-of-fact. Far from challenging. But itfeels like we’re weighing words and keeping score. Like he just gained a point by making me laugh, and now, I need to level the uneven tally.

“Is he yours?” the stranger asks, nodding toward the horse.

I shake my head, then remember he’sstillnot looking this way.

My eyes focus on Lexington as well, and I reach out to stroke his smooth neck once more. Thick muscles ripple beneath my fingertips as the gray gelding bobs his head, appreciating the attention in the quiet barn. Most of the grooms and riders are busy with the polo match taking place.

“No.”

He could’ve been.

“Are you playing today?”

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