Page 50 of False God

I roll my eyes. “All you guys did when you got on myplanewas ask where the liquor was.”

“I was hungover,” Tripp says, an unspokenduhhanging off the end of his sentence. “Obviously, alcohol was a priority. But thank you, dearest Lili, for saving me from the horrific fate of flying first class with your private jet. Want a kiss too?”

“Pass. Who knows where that mouth has been?”

Cal’s snort is louder than Tripp’s shouted, “Hey!”

Cal’s nap seems to have revived him. There’s more color in his cheeks, and he’s finger-combed his hair into compliance.

Our luggage gets unloaded from the plane and stacked in the back of the van by the driver—a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, mostly covered by a linen flat cap, who introduces himself as Blake.

It’s hot and humid out, the sky covered by gray clouds that promise rain soon. We climb into the air-conditioned van, one by one. There are four rows of leather seats, so plenty of space for all of us.

Blake begins driving a few minutes later, expertly steering off the tarmac and onto a road that merges into a highway.

As we drive, Chloe fills us in on the plans for the week. Theo isn’t able to get away from work until tomorrow, but then he’ll join us at Carys Park. I looked up photos of the venue online, and Chloe sent me some videos when they went to sign the contracts. It’s a former country estate with a main manor that was renovated into an upscale hotel. There’s also a historic stone chapel, where the ceremony will take place, and a former carriage house that’s been expanded and is now an event hall, where the reception is going to be. They’re skipping the traditional rehearsal dinner since not many guests are able to stay at the venue. And “to keep attention on the main event.”

Chloe has booked high tea and spa treatments at a hotel in London, which the guys groan good-naturedly about. They perkup when Chloe says Theo has arranged a trip to a Formula One track on Friday. We went racing in Monaco for Jasper’s twenty-first, and they all still talk about it. They rarely mention how I beat all of them except Tripp.

At some point during the drive, exhaustion catches up with me, and I fall asleep.

12

Persistent buzzing pulls my attention away from the flock of sparrows vandalizing the garden. White smears mar the black metal bench shaded beneath the cherry tree; its broad branches weighted with a lot less fruit than this morning.

I turn away from the windows and back toward my father’s—nowmy—massive desk. The tooled green leather top is barely visible, the surface of the desk piled high with papers I’m supposed to be sorting through.

My shin slams into one of the walnut drawers as I spin around in the chair. I answer my phone without checking to see who’s calling, reaching down to rub at the throbbing spot.

“Hello?”

“Charlie! What’s the craic?”

Fig’s cheerful voice is a better remedy for the pain than my palm’s pointless rubbing. I smile automatically, listening to the lilt of his thick Irish accent. A soundtrack of easier times—days when my only concern was making it to campus on time and nights when the only decision was which woman to leave the pub with.

“Not much,” I reply, picking up a pen and spinning it around one finger. “You?”

“I’m grand. No one’s callin’meDisappearin’ Duke.”

I toss the pen toward the highest stack. It bounces off the papers and lands atop one of the curling scrolls woven into the antique rug. “That’s rubbish. I’m just busy.”

Fig clicks his tongue, his way of saying he doesn’t believe me. “Heard yer comin’ to Theo’s weddin’.”

“How did you …” My voice trails off as irritation flares.

The attention my family received used to be flattering. And advantageous. Now, it’s bloody annoying. A bright spotlight while I’m trying to fix things in the shadows.

Fig’s husky laugh rumbles in my ear. “Yer who everyone’s talkin’ about, Charlie.”

My jaw flexes at the confirmation. I haven’t attended a public event since my father’s funeral. Granny was right that me hiding away would cause talk. But me showing up is also causing talk, apparently.

“Splendid,” I say, knowing Fig will catch the sarcasm.

His family isn’t titled, but they’re well off, owning a significant share in an Irish brewery. Fig has never experienced the exaggerated societal interest that I have, but he’s familiar enough with aristocracy to understand it’s there.

“Feel like racin’ at Darwen Circuit?” Fig asks. “Take yer mind off yer … busyness?”

I lean back in my father’s—my—chair, ignoring the leather’s squeak of protest. “What the fuck are you talking about, Fig?”

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