Page 65 of False God

“Well, other women seem to find it … tolerable.”

The smile stays on Charlie’s face. “Tolerable,” he muses, rolling the syllables around as he saws through his steak.

For some reason, I think the lilt to his tone means he’s thinking about the hallway … incident, which was more thantolerable.

“That almost sounded like a compliment, Kensington.”

It doesn’t bother me when Charlie mentions my last name. That fully registers for the first time.

During our previous conversations, I was already stuck in a perpetual state of annoyance. He saysKensingtonin a way that’s almost taunting but also familiar. A tone that reminds me of Dad’s, when he calls MomRed. In a way that doesn’t feel like he’s referring to anything—or anyone—except me.

I shrug. “Not everyone has good taste.”

Charlie makes a quiet sound of amusement in the back of his throat. “Mmhmm.”

“So?” I press. “What’s the reason?”

An explanation feels fair since I bared my heart to him.

He looks bemused—and amused—by my persistence. Then sobers. “I was a prat,” he states baldly.

I lift both eyebrows. I’ve heard the term before, but it’s not part of my vocabulary to the point that I know precisely what he’s saying. “Meaning …”

Charlie chuckles under his breath. “You’resoAmerican.”

I know he means it as an insult. But there’s the same edge to his voice as when he called me Kensington. A twist that’s light. Almost … affectionate.

“We won the war,” I jab.

“Claiming personal credit for that, are you?”

I roll my eyes. God, he’s good at deflecting. Or maybe I’m just easy to distract. “What doespratmean?”

“It means that I drank too much, partied too much, and didn’t bother to learn most girls’ names, let alone spend enough time around them to end up in a relationship.”

He holds my gaze, like he’s reading my reaction to that statement.

Most men I know try to hide their vices, not own up to them. I’m oddly unsurprised that Charlie falls into the second category. He doesn’t have that type of showy personality. He’s the very definition ofold money. Charlie’s privilege is intrinsic. He doesn’t need to wear the expensive watch or drive the flashy car. It’s written in the ease of his posture at this elegant restaurant. The casual yet complete command of his surroundings that makes it obvious prestige was already earned. That he’s a man who gets listened to. Who issues orders rather than follows them.

Important people never have to announce their importance. You can just tell. It’s an aura. Particles in the air.

“Are you still a prat?” I ask.

“Not in that sense. I grew up rather than just getting older.”

“Because you’re a duke now?”

A shadow passes across Charlie’s face, like a cloud crossing the sun, as soon as I mention his title. It makes me wish it were possible to pluck the words out of the air and shove them back into my mouth.

“Because I’m all Blythe has left.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-one. She has a year of university left.”

“Twenty-one. Is she a terror?”

He smiles. This one is softer than the smirk I’m used to seeing. Warmer. “She’s unpredictable.”

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