Page 20 of False God

6

Low chatter echoes off the tiled walls of Number 34 as I squeeze past a laughing group of college girls and skirt around a middle-aged couple standing along the stools that line the far end of the bar top.

“Good evening,” the maître d’ greets politely. “Do you have a reservation?”

I nod, pulling my hair over one shoulder and then smoothing the front of the silk jumpsuit I’m wearing. “Under Martin, I believe. For … seven?”

As far as I know, everyone except Chloe is coming tonight.

The woman scans the screen in front of her. “Ah, yes. Here we are. It’ll just be a couple of minutes, Miss Martin.”

I don’t bother to correct her. “Okay. Thank you.”

I head for an opening along the bar to order a drink to sip on while I wait for my friends to show up.

Number 34 only opened a few months ago, and it’s quickly become one of the most popular restaurants in the city. Bridget snagged a reservation through the chef she’s dating, who knows the owners.

The bartender recommends one of the seasonal specialties—a rosemary mezcal fizz. The cocktail is delicious, smoky and citrusy. The perfect distraction from my pinched toes and my friends’ tardiness.

“Club soda with lime, please.”

I glance over so fast that my neck cracks, telling myself it’s because carbonated water isn’t a common order at a bar. My interest has nothing to do with how the request was spoken in a British accent.

The commotion of voices and activity around me fades away as I look at him. Along with any flimsy excuses about why I’m suddenly intrigued by who’s standing next to me.

“Hi.” Charlie sticks out a broad palm. “I’m Charles Marlborough.”

I take a sip from my drink to hide the grin trying to appear. “I know,” I say, relieved when my voice comes out sounding indifferent. “We met this afternoon.”

It’s a struggle not to laugh, watching irritation and incredulity war on Charlie’s face. And it’s a shame they don’t make him look any less attractive.

His hand lifts to run through his cropped hair as he nods his thanks at the bartender who’s already procured his drink. “I know,” he mutters. “Now, you know who I am.”

Again, I have to work hard not to express any amusement.

Again, I have to remind myself any charm or politeness is a pretty facade.

It’s been eleven months since I snuck in the side door of Atlantic Crest Country Club, spotted Charlie standing by the piano, and reached the stone archway just in time to hear my name mentioned, followed by, “I’m not here to stroke the ego of a vapid heiress who has nothing to do except wonder about how much of daddy’s money she can spend today.”

Yeah, I memorized what he’d said.

I know what’s whispered behind my back. Know that my life is easy in comparison to so many people’s.

The envy-inciting amount of money my family has can buy just about anything.

Anything … except love.

I always have to second-guess intentions. To wonder if guys are interested in me or the money. To consider that men want to be in my bedandmy bank account.

With a few harsh words, Charles Marlborough dredged up all those insecurities. The insult cut deeper because I’d actually enjoyed talking to him before I overheard him belittling me. And even more inflaming? He’s a fuckingduke. A simple Google search revealed he’d attended Eton and Oxford. He’s from the same privileged world I am, just located on the other side of the Atlantic, and I bethisdaddy paid for more than his fancy degrees. Yet he was judgingme, as if I’d had any control over who my parents were.

“I heard you’re a duke.”

His gaze returns to mine. There’s a twinge in my chest when our eyes connect, like the pluck of a guitar string, that reverberates throughout my body.

“Yes.”

That’s all he says, and I can’t tell if he’s surprised or pleased that I brought his title up.

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