Page 2 of False God

My gaze snaps back to the stranger’s carved profile as soon as the unexpected question registers.

Women don’t play in the polo matches at the club. They stand on the sidelines, sipping fancy cocktails and swapping gossip about who is having affairs or hiding a drug addiction.

Societally speaking, Atlantic Crest Country Club hasn’t progressed very far past 1923—the year it was established. Its members are still snobby. Also sexist.

“I’m not dressed for it,” I reply, because the wordswomen don’t play poloherewon’t leave my mouth.

I’ve played here with my brothers and friends. But only casually, never during a formal match.

Finally, he looks at me.

I’ve been waiting for it. Anticipating the moment when our eyes would connect since the second he spoke.

And I thought reality would be underwhelming. That any allure would steadily disappear the longer I talked to him. But there’s an instant reaction—the strike of a match or a flash of lightning—when our gazes collide.

I saw enough of his profile to tell that he’s attractive.Notablyattractive. His face not just symmetrical, but also striking. Features that are unforgettable, even if you tried to forget.

His blatant beauty is a poor explanation for why I’m staring at him though. It’s something more than superficial.

The tug of a tide.

The attraction of a magnet.

The temptation of the unknown.

All formidable forces.

“No, you’re not.”

His appraisal of my outfit only lasts a few seconds. Yet, in the short time his gaze dips down, it manages to touch every inch of my skin. Heat floods my cheeks and spreads, producing warmth the industrial fans spinning overhead can’t combat.

There’s nothing in his expression that conveys what he thinks of my blue dress beyond him agreeing it’s inappropriate riding attire. It’s brand-new, a design of Mom’s that won’t be released until next year. A waterfall of indigo that looks pretty damn good on me, according to the mirror in my grandparents’ guest room and to everyone else I’ve talked to today.

“I’m Charlie.” He holds a hand out, the formal gesture and his fancy accent a strange contrast to the casual tone and lack of a last name.

The waiting list for a membership at Atlantic Crest stretches decades. The Hamptons’ most exclusive country club caters to the rich and powerful. To step foot on this property, you have to be well connected, meaning it’s rare to see an unfamiliar face.

Maybe that’s why I’m still staring.

I bite the inside of my cheek once, trying to collect my wandering thoughts.

“I’m Lili.”

My last name usually gets mentioned when I meet strangers.

And most people don’t hide envy or awe well—two common receptions to hearingKensington.

But I can’t tell if Charlie knows who I am—what he thinks of meat all—and it’s a cheap thrill. A small mystery in the sea of flattery I’ve been drowning in all afternoon.

“Lili,” he repeats.

My childhood nickname sounds much more sophisticated when spoken with a British accent. I could listen to Charlie read a cookbook and find it enthralling.

I nod once, simply for something to do that’s not fidgeting with my bracelets or playing with my hair. Now that he’s looking at me—staringreally—I’m starting to wish he were still focused on Lexington. Charlie’s undivided attention is the equivalent of standing solo under a spotlight.

“Pretty name,” he adds.

“Wait until you hear the horse’s,” is out of my mouth before I can decide if that’s something I should actually say out loud.

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