Page 3 of False God

I’d like Charlie to forget I interpreted his compliment as meant for me, not remind him about it.

Victory replaces regret when my glib comment coaxes a small smile out of his neutral expression. Based on the few minutes I’ve known him, Charlie doesn’t express much amusement easily. It’s the first smile he’s shared with me.

His palm is still extended toward me, waiting.

I reach for it slowly, nervous about a simple handshake for some ridiculous reason. There’s a foreign flap of butterflies near where the tug appeared—another silent, strange response that makes me worry my palms might be sweating because of something other than today’s tropical heat.

His hand eclipses mine easily, the skin warm and calloused. Capable.

“Lexington is not what I’d name a horse,” he tells me.

“How do you know his name?”

As soon as I voice the question, it occurs to me he’s probably a friend of Cal’s. The realization that he might know my ex is more disappointing than it should be. It ruins the reverie of us being complete strangers.

Charlie tilts his head to the left, his eyes remaining on mine the whole time. They’re a unique combination of hazel, the brown a smaller circle in the iris, almost swallowed by the surrounding green. “It’s on the stall door.”

“Oh.” I force a laugh, hoping the mixture of embarrassment and relief sounds less awkward to him than it does to me. “Right.”

We’re still holding hands. In a business sense,nota romantic one. But it feels oddly intimate. Not professional at all.

My phone rings.

I startle at the sudden sound, shocked that Charlie distracted me thoroughly enough to forget this call was the whole reason I’d left the tent and stopped to pet the Winstons’ polo pony.

“I should, uh, take this.”

“Of course.” His hand releases mine. “Nice to meet you, Lili.”

Charlie is in motion before I can muster a response, continuing down the stable aisle, then turning right. Disappearing as quickly as he appeared.

I give Lexington one final pat before continuing in the opposite direction, pulling my phone out of my purse and answering Chloe Beaumont’s call with a cheery “Hi!”

“You’re in the Hamptons?” my best friend asks, not bothering with a traditional greeting.

We set up these weekly calls when Chloe moved to London two years ago to keep in touch despite the distance. Although we haven’t missed a single one, they’re often short. And after two decades of friendship, we bypassed small talk a long time ago.

“Stalking is illegal, you know.”

Chloe laughs, and it’s an immediate hit of nostalgia. “I was checking Theo’s location. Just happened to see yours.”

“Was he at The Black Dog?”

She laughs again, then sighs. “Worse. Work.”

“You’re the one who agreed to marry a lawyer.”

“Barrister, Lili. Did you avoid Atlantic Crest?”

I carefully sidestep a pile of abandoned leg wraps in the aisle. “I’m in the polo barn.”

Chloe groans, sharing the same low opinion about the stiff snobbishness of this place. “Why?”

I sigh. “Grandfather.”

My parents own a house on Meadow Lane, but I hardly ever stay there. Whenever we’re in the Hamptons, my grandparents insist on hosting us at their estate. And my grandfather always manages to include at least one trip to Atlantic Crest during these visits.

Kit and Bash delayed their arrival date until tomorrow—a decision I plan to cuss my brothers out for when they do finally show up. They know I hate coming to the club.

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