Page 59 of False God

Thinking about my exes is not what I should be doing right now though, even if I’m still not sure a bet makes this an actual date. Charlie gets points for the suit, the flowers, and showing up on time, but for all I know, his vagueness is because he didn’t plan anything at all.

I open my handbag and start digging through it, hoping a hair tie is hiding in one of the pockets. Real date or not, I spent way too long on my hair to have the wind turn it into a snarled mess.

“What are you doing?” Charlie asks.

“Looking for a hair tie,” I answer.

He leans toward me. I inhale quickly in response to his close proximity, the sudden closeness catching me off guard. Then inhale again because he smells incredible.

He opens the glove box and rummages through some papers, and then his hand emerges with a pink hair tie. “Turn your head toward the window.”

I raise an eyebrow.

Charlie raises one right back.

I look away.

His touch is gentle as he pulls my hair over my shoulders and combs through the strands with his fingers before braiding it faster than I could. He snaps the elastic into place, then releases my hair.

I brush the plait before I turn back around, impressed by the neat ridges. “You keep hair ties in your car?” My tone falls far short of casual, which is what I was aiming for.

Rather than reply, he starts the car.

I watch his hand shift deftly. Some of his dominance on the track earlier makes more sense.

“Are you jealous?” he asks once we’re rolling down the driveway.

Not as a taunt, more like he’s really wondering.

Which makes the fact that I am jealous-ishthat much worse. It would bother me, if the convertible and the flowers and the perfect braid are all a routine he’s trotted out for a long line of women before me. Itisbothering me.

“Curious,” I say. “Is it a British thing?”

Charlie shifts again. We left Carys Park and are speeding along the main paved road.

“It’s a little-sister thing,” he finally replies. “Blythe always complained about her hair whenever I drove her around. Tried to ride in the bloody boot one time. Drove me bonkers, so I stuck those in there.”

A thousand tries, and I never would have guessed that. I assumed—wrongly—that Charlie was an only child based on his brooding superiority. The image of him as a doting big brother is harder to picture.

A reminder I hardly know this man, even if we feel far from strangers.

“Do you have other siblings?” I ask. “Besides Blythe?”

Charlie’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel when I say her name, like maybe he didn’t mean to mention it. “No. It’s just us two.”

Just us twohas a protective emphasis. Recalling what little else I know about Charlie’s family, I realize he’s not just talking about siblings. His father is dead. His mother lives in New York. I’ve seen her from a distance twice—at Number 34 and at Atlantic Crest. But I’ve never spoken to her.

“Blythe taught you how to braid hair?”

He pauses before answering, “Yes,” like it’s a difficult question to answer. “Or”—his grip tightens on the wheel again, eyes never wavering from the road—“more like I taught her.”

It’s another glimpse—a small glimpse—into a side of Charlie I doubt many people get to see.

“She’s lucky to have you,” I say softly.

Charlie swallows, the most self-conscious I’ve ever seen him. I don’t think he knowswhatto say.

“I would have been more impressed if you’d done a French braid,” I add, steering the conversation into lighter territory.

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