Page 127 of False God

“You didn’tknowCharlie was coming,” Bridget realizes.

I gnaw on my lower lip, likely ruining my lipstick. “No.”

I was considering telling him about my trip to Dublin next week. Not in ahey, can I come visit youway, but more of aI got the job I told you aboutway. If he’d saidHey, why don’t you come visit?I probably would’ve said yes, but I wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t think we’d be in the same place anytime soon—possibly ever again.

I’m mad—hurt—about how he left France. But I also miss him.

He didn’t make then break any promises. I was too cowardly to tell him how I was feeling; that the time we’d spent together felt suspiciously like falling in love.

“Have you talked to him since …” Her voice trails off. She’s probably unsure how to state the truth in delicate terms.

“No.”

I haven’t talked to Charlie since he left Saint-Tropez. And he decided to come to an event plastered withKensington—literally, it’s displayed everywhere—after telling me he wouldn’t be coming to New York anytime soon.

After leaving my bed in the middle of the night without even bothering to wake me up. What the hell kind of “urgent business matter” happens at four a.m.?

“Maybe he wanted it to be a surprise?” Bridget suggests in a blatant attempt to make me feel better.

“Maybe,” I mutter, glancing at the lectern on the stage before tossing back the rest of my cocktail.

I’m supposed to go up there when Oliver gives his speech about Dad returning to Kensington Consolidated.

I’m happy for Dad. Happy for himandMom, embarking on this new, slightly simpler chapter of their busy lives. But I don’t love the attention it’ll draw to my family. The scrutiny that will inevitably extend to me with fresh speculation about who I’m dating and what restaurant I’ll be spotted at next.

“Why didn’t you mention you’d invited Charlie?” Hugo asks, appearing with a glass of scotch in one hand and a small plate of appetizers in the other.

I have no idea how he’s planning to eat anything with no free hand. Everyone’s still standing and mingling, the place settings at all the tables pristine.

Bridget’sshut upmotion is quick, but I catch it.

“It’s fine, Bridge,” I say. “Yes, Charlie is here. No, I did not invite him, nor did I know he’d be attending.”

“Oh.” Hugo hurriedly takes a sip of scotch.

I go to drink more, then frown when I find my glass empty. “I’ll be back,” I tell my friends, then weave through the crowd toward the bar. Theoppositedirection of where Charlie is standing.

Four people stop me on the way. The first three are virtual strangers I exchange more obligatory, polite small talk with. The fourth causes a wide smile to break out across my face.

“Grandpa!”

My grandfather has smelled like tobacco and old paper and leather for as long as I can remember. The same aroma that fills the study he seems to spend most of his time in despite the size of the massive mansion my dad grew up in.

I inhale the comforting scent deeply as he hugs me, kissing the top of my head. I’m almost as tall as him in my heels.

His smile is fond as he squeezes my shoulder. “How are you, Lili?”

“I’m good,” I tell him.

I’ve always been closer with my dad’s father than my mom’s. The photo album of my early years, which Mom pulls out annually on my birthday, is filled with photos of me with Grandpa. Me asleep in his arms. Me perched on his lap behind his desk. Me playing with the blocks he set up in one corner of his study.

My brothers have always insisted that I’m his favorite, and I don’t think they’re wrong.

Maybe it’s because I was his first grandchild. Maybe it’s because I’m named after his late wife. Maybe it’s because I buy him a birthday gift each year, and Bash and Kit usually forget.

Maybe it’s because of that day at the cemetery.

Whatever the exact reason, we’re close.

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