Page 154 of False God

Charlie stops at a doorway halfway down the hallway. “Conrad had yoursuitcasesput in here.”

I roll my eyes at the emphasis he places on my multiple pieces of luggage. But all I say is, “Thanks.”

The same shyness from earlier is making its return.

I feel like I’m back in Saint-Tropez, sitting at the very edge of the diving board. I’ve put myself out there, and crawling back to solid ground will be uncomfortable and cowardly. At some point—soon—I’ll have to jump.

“I’m just a couple of doors down.” He nods to the right.

“How many bedrooms does this place have?”

“Fourteen.”

“That’s it?” I tease.

He shakes his head once before reaching out and twisting the doorknob open.

The Crimson Room is not the overload of red I was expecting based on the name. The draperies around the four-poster bed are maroon, but the rest of the room is shades of cream and more dark wood. My two suitcases are stacked neatly next to the armoire in the corner. Past it, another doorway leads into an attached bathroom.

“Meet me downstairs when you’re ready,” Charlie tells me. “We’ll grab dinner at the pub.”

“Okay.” My voice comes out quiet, so I clear my throat once. Bob a nod before he turns back toward the hall, then start toward my suitcases.

“Lili?”

I glance over my shoulder.

Charlie has paused in the hallway. The rakish grin he’s wearing has my heart rate accelerating.

“Make yourself comfortable. But don’t plan on sleeping in here.”

He’s gone before I can do more than blink.

An hour later, Charlie drives us into town.

I took pub to mean casual—I’m wearing linen pants and a fitted T-shirt—but Charlie wears his typical slacks and a blue-and-white-striped oxford.

My hair is already pulled back in a ponytail, but I glance down at the pink elastic on my wrist as the wind whips through my hair. I’m not sure he’s ever noticed I still wear it, and I feel a little silly for doing so. Not enough to take it off though.

Buckleby looks like something out of a fairy tale. I don’t think I drove through the town on my way to Newcastle Hall, but I might have just been too nervous about my destination to notice.

Quaintis the word that keeps coming to mind.

Everything’s quaint. The honey-hued stone houses we pass look straight out of a storybook. The main street that’s constructed from cobblestones, lined with clusters of flowers spilling out of wooden boxes.

I wanted to know what was so special about this place. Why Charlie chooses to livehererather than London or New York or any of the other hundreds of places where he could.

I know it’s his childhood home, but that doesn’t mean he has to live here full-time. Based on the conflicted way he talks about his father and the concerned way he mentions his sister and the way he hardly mentions his mom at all, I have a feeling Newcastle Hall isn’t overflowing with fond family memories.

Charlie parks by one of the few wooden buildings, a red sign pronouncing it the practically namedBuckleby Inn.

Streaks of brilliant color are beginning to spread against the sky that’s now completely clear, signaling the start of sunset, as we head inside.

It’s noisy in the pub, jubilant cheers and joyful noise, which only grow louder with Charlie’s appearance. They eye him appreciatively and me curiously as Charlie guides me to one of the booths along the far wall.

“I’ll be right back,” he tells me, then heads for the bar top that stretches the length of the pub.

I track his progress—stopping to talk to an older man for a minute, then continuing to where a blonde woman is polishing glasses.

---