Page 22 of False God

I exhale, belatedly realizing it was overdue. At some point since he appeared, my breathing became irregular. “I’m a landscape architect, okay?”

Those damn eyes are right back on me. “A landscape architect,” Charlie repeats slowly. He rests a forearm on the quartz counter. The motion means he’s a little closer. Close enough for me to learn that he smells like laundry detergent and a hint of something spicy. “What does that mean?”

“It means I design outdoor spaces. Parks, gardens, places like that.”

By now, I’ve heard it all. Calling my job an “interesting hobby.” A comment about how lovely “playing with plants” sounds. Wondering if I’m available to put in a vegetable garden at a summer house.

Charlie says none of that. He asks, “Is that what you want to be doing?”

I consider the question for a few seconds, the new name plaque outside my dad’s old office flashing in my brain brighter than a neon light. “Yes.”

He picks up his glass. “Then, good for you.”

“What about you? What does adukedo? Aside from hosting jousting matches and visiting foreign kingdoms, of course.”

Charlie smirks at my sarcasm. “He does whatever he bloody hell wants.”

There’s a hollowness to the bravado. Something that suggests there’s more constriction than he’s letting on.

“Is that what you want to be doing?”

As soon as I echo his question, Charlie’s smile slides off his face.

“Lili!” Arms wrap around my side a split second before the scents of jasmine and vanilla hit me. Francesca’s worn the same perfume since middle school, the sweet, floral smell a nostalgic reminder of sleepovers and shared vacations and secret crushes.

I turn to hug Fran back properly. It’s been six weeks since I last saw her.

Fran is the free spirit of our friend group. She bounces between jobs. Swaps out hobbies. Flips through guys. Spends her family’s money liberally and could care less if anyone judges her lack of direction.

Honestly, I’m envious of her carefree attitude.

She wouldn’t care if Charles Marlborough called her a vapid heiress.

“How was Greece?” I ask Fran as soon as we separate.

Fran beams, her skin tan and glowing. She looks refreshed and relaxed, exactly like she spent the past month and a half sunning herself on a beach. “Amazing,” she gushes. “I wish you’d come.”

“Next time,” I promise. “Now that the Claremont job is finished.”

My largest project to date wrapped up a week ago. Eight months of tireless work—from the initial site analysis and planning to the final flourishing park.

“Yay! I want to see pictures.” Fran glances to my left, then does a double take. Unleashes a coy smile. “Who’s this?”

If we hadn’t been in different time zones for what Fran would dramatically deem “an eternity,” there’s no way it would have taken her so long to notice Charlie.I’mtaken aback by his attractiveness all over again as I follow Fran’s interested gaze to where he’s standing a few feet away.

Charlie removes his right hand from his glass and holds it out. “Charles Marlborough.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Charles Marlborough.” Fran glances at me, interest visible on her face. “How do you two know each other?”

“We don’t,” I state.

“We just met earlier,” Charlie confirms. “AtKensingtonConsolidated.”

I have to press my lips together to keep from scowling. Because I’m 90 percent certain he remembers talking to me in the stable at Atlantic Crest last summer, and now, I can’t ask him about it.

And because his attention is so stifling, it’s really noticeable when it shifts to someone else.

“Do you work there?” Fran asks. Someone shuffles by, and she uses it as an excuse to take a step closer.

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