Page 56 of Love and Other Champagne Problems

I should’ve climbed off him then, but instead, my grip tightened on his shoulder. I brought my other hand down his fingers braceleting my wrist, lowering with it, as I set the empty wine glass on the cushion beside us. “Then how do you feel about me?” I asked in a low voice, never breaking eye contact. I didn’t want to miss even a fraction of a moment in his expression.

Summer, of course, didn’t answer, but I hadn’t been expecting him to. I hadn’t wanted him to. I’d asked the question, but I had a sudden and intense fear of hearing the answer either way.

In a slow movement, I lifted the tip of my finger to trace the freckles underneath his eye with a delicate touch. Sumner didn’t even flinch, but held perfectly still, almost statuesque. His hand hung off mine almost heavily, but my touch was steady. My fingertip trailed from the freckles over the curve of his cheekbone, finding its path all the way down to the top of his cupid’s bow.

Once more, my thoughts traveled back to the night that I’d kissed him in the ballroom. I hadn’t been paying enough attention then, hadn’t memorized the sensation enough. A greedy need rose within me now, the faint drops of wine I’d sipped spurring it on. Sumner’slashes fluttered as I shifted forward in his lap, ready to find out just what would happen if I were to kiss him again.

I waited, but just like the time before, Sumner did not push me away now. He watched me loom closer, closer?—

A sudden, hard knock on my hotel room door caused us both to jump a second before our lips met. Sumner’s hand spasmed on my hip before I tumbled from his lap, my feet barely getting underneath me on the floor. We both turned toward the door, but we didn’t have to wonder for long. “Open up, Margot.” My father’s voice was a clear call.

It was after eleven. It was a bad sign. A very bad sign.

Now it was my turn to grab Sumner’s wrist, hauling him to his feet. “Go into my bedroom,” I ordered in a rushed whisper.

His eyes widened. “Your bedroom?—”

I slapped a hand over his mouth, because even though this was a penthouse, I was afraid the walls were still thin. Thankfully, Sumner didn’t fight me as I tugged open my bedroom door and shoved him inside. Without wasting time, I snapped the door shut.

“Margot.” My father knocked again, harder this time. “I know you just had room service delivered, so I know you’re up. Open the door.”

I scanned the living area, but there were no traces of Sumner Pennington left. My empty wine glass still sat on the couch, though tipped over due to our movements. Nothing suspicious.

Even though he’d announced his presence, I looked through the peephole to find my father. He wore the same clothes from when we’d taken Vivienne to the airport,though he didn’t have his suit jacket now, and his tie was loose at his collar. The sight was unsettling, almost to where I didn’t unlatch the door.

I did, though, because there was no true alternative. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked my father as he stumbled inside, barely a second after I had the door open. As he passed by me, I caught a strong whiff of brandy. Another bad sign.

My father looked out of place in my hotel room. In the shadows of the room, he was a monstrous figure, one that brought nothing but bad feelings.

“Wine?” he asked as he peered at the cart. He was clearly displeased with it, which was ironic, given the slur of his own speech. “Did you have another person in here?”

I did not look in the direction of my closed bedroom door. “No.”

“There are two glasses.”

“One is untouched, as you see. Room service just brought me up two.”

My father turned and stared me down, and it was then that I got a full view of just how unsettled he looked up close. A hollowness clung to his eyes, leeching the skin underneath, accompanied by something like desperation. It made him look older than his sixty-one years, like that monstrous figure slowly morphed into a pitiful old man. “Margot, tell it to me straight—you’ll be a good girl about this, won’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What can I give you?” My father brought his palm down on the cart as if to catch his balance.The wine bottle and the remaining glass trembled, but nothing fell. “Do you want a check? A new car? I can give you that. A house of your own, so you don’t have to live at the hotel? Be a good girl about this, and I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

Bribery—my parents hadn’t resorted to it since the mention of Aaron. Guilt tripping and manipulation, yes, but never bribery. “What makes you think I want anything?”

“Everyone wants something,” he said with his head still bowed, speaking to the wine glass. “These past few years, it’s like we stalled out, Margot. Like we’ve hit a plateau with growing as an empire. But this deal with the Astors—can you picture it? How much grander things will be? How much more room we’ll have tobreathe?”

My father spoke as if I knew about the business side of Massey Suites. I didn’t. Despite being his only heir, he never shared any business talk with me, most likely because he never intended to allow me to take it over.

“You’ve had it so easy, so good,” he went on. “And this one thing that I ask of you—thisone thing—you just make it so difficult.”

“I thought I did a good job with Mrs. Astor in the car today.”

“I’m talking about insulting your mother’s friends, kissing that waiter boy, spilling your drink on Vivienne. I find you a good,suitablematch, and you’re doing everything to get rid of him?”

I’d never seen my father like this before. He drank, and drank often, but he never drank enough to lose control of propriety. My father was a tougher one tonavigate in general, but with alcohol in him—enough to trip his steps—I didn’t know how to respond. An unsettling weight rolled onto my chest. “Suitable foryou,” I murmured, keeping my voice even. “Suitable enough to deepen your pockets.”

My father traced his fingertip over the base of the glass I hadn’t touched, still leaning on the cart. “Your mother told me that it was Ally Jennings who was responsible for Vivienne Astor’s suit being ruined,” he began, the turn of the conversation one I barely followed. “That it was Ally was being billed thetenthousand dollarsfor Mrs. Astor’s suit. But it wasyourfault?”

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