False God (Kensingtons #2.5)

Chapter 1

1

“ B eautiful.”

The low voice is unfamiliar—syllables crisp rather than drawled—but the sentiment is identical to the one I’ve been hearing all afternoon. A few stunning s, a couple of gorgeous es, and one hot as fuck —from my friend Daphne—but most men stuck with the same compliment.

I suck in a deep breath of air that tastes like rich leather and sweet hay, hoping to inhale some patience along with the oxygen expanding my lungs.

“I’m flattered,” I say, continuing to gently stroke Lexington’s neck.

Five minutes. I wanted five minutes away from the attention. It wasn’t supposed to follow me into the barn. But I should really know better after twenty-four years of being a Kensington.

When you’re born into one of the richest families in the world, attention follows you everywhere . Never-ending interest is as inescapable as your own shadow.

“I was referring to the horse,” is the droll reply.

That answer, paired with the realization that the precise enunciation I heard was with a British accent, is enough to make my hand slow. I pet Lexington ten more times, counting each stroke, then glance to the left.

“The horse is a gelding,” I inform the stranger who’s appeared beside me.

The eyebrow I can see curves into a textbook display of polite disagreement. An indulgent, silent, exaggerated, So?

There’s an answering tug of intrigue low in my stomach.

“Males can’t be beautiful?” he asks.

You are , is my first absurd and annoying thought.

His gaze is on Lexington—like he’s trying to emphasize how vapid I am; how, obviously, his attention is focused elsewhere—so my eyes unashamedly linger on the limited view his profile offers.

He’s tall—well over six feet. Taller than me by several inches, even including the added height from the impractically high stilettos I’m wearing in a barn.

I try not to look past his height. But other details trickle in. Light-brown hair. Bone structure befitting a Greek god. Tailored navy suit.

“I thought men preferred to be called handsome,” I respond.

“Based on what?” he questions. Still looking at the horse, not at me.

Annoyance from the interruption and embarrassment from the misunderstanding have faded. Now, I’m kind of … offended, I guess, that he still hasn’t bothered to glance my way. Casual disregard isn’t how people act around me.

“You obviously haven’t complimented many men,” I say.

“None with small egos, it seems.”

A snort echoes along the empty concrete hallway. It takes a few seconds, the reverberation already fading, for me to realize that sound of amusement came from me.

I clear my throat, attempting to regain some composure. His tone was calm and matter-of-fact. Far from challenging. But it feels like we’re weighing words and keeping score. Like he just gained a point by making me laugh, and now, I need to level the uneven tally.

“Is he yours?” the stranger asks, nodding toward the horse.

I shake my head, then remember he’s still not looking this way.

My eyes focus on Lexington as well, and I reach out to stroke his smooth neck once more. Thick muscles ripple beneath my fingertips as the gray gelding bobs his head, appreciating the attention in the quiet barn. Most of the grooms and riders are busy with the polo match taking place.

“No.”

He could’ve been.

“Are you playing today?”

My gaze snaps back to the stranger’s carved profile as soon as the unexpected question registers.

Women don’t play in the polo matches at the club. They stand on the sidelines, sipping fancy cocktails and swapping gossip about who is having affairs or hiding a drug addiction.

Societally speaking, Atlantic Crest Country Club hasn’t progressed very far past 1923—the year it was established. Its members are still snobby. Also sexist.

“I’m not dressed for it,” I reply, because the words women don’t play polo here won’t leave my mouth.

I’ve played here with my brothers and friends. But only casually, never during a formal match.

Finally , he looks at me.

I’ve been waiting for it. Anticipating the moment when our eyes would connect since the second he spoke.

And I thought reality would be underwhelming. That any allure would steadily disappear the longer I talked to him. But there’s an instant reaction—the strike of a match or a flash of lightning—when our gazes collide.

I saw enough of his profile to tell that he’s attractive. Notably attractive. His face not just symmetrical, but also striking. Features that are unforgettable, even if you tried to forget.

His blatant beauty is a poor explanation for why I’m staring at him though. It’s something more than superficial.

The tug of a tide.

The attraction of a magnet.

The temptation of the unknown.

All formidable forces.

“No, you’re not.”

His appraisal of my outfit only lasts a few seconds. Yet, in the short time his gaze dips down, it manages to touch every inch of my skin. Heat floods my cheeks and spreads, producing warmth the industrial fans spinning overhead can’t combat.

There’s nothing in his expression that conveys what he thinks of my blue dress beyond him agreeing it’s inappropriate riding attire. It’s brand-new, a design of Mom’s that won’t be released until next year. A waterfall of indigo that looks pretty damn good on me, according to the mirror in my grandparents’ guest room and to everyone else I’ve talked to today.

“I’m Charlie.” He holds a hand out, the formal gesture and his fancy accent a strange contrast to the casual tone and lack of a last name.

The waiting list for a membership at Atlantic Crest stretches decades. The Hamptons’ most exclusive country club caters to the rich and powerful. To step foot on this property, you have to be well connected, meaning it’s rare to see an unfamiliar face.

Maybe that’s why I’m still staring.

I bite the inside of my cheek once, trying to collect my wandering thoughts.

“I’m Lili.”

My last name usually gets mentioned when I meet strangers.

And most people don’t hide envy or awe well—two common receptions to hearing Kensington .

But I can’t tell if Charlie knows who I am—what he thinks of me at all —and it’s a cheap thrill. A small mystery in the sea of flattery I’ve been drowning in all afternoon.

“Lili,” he repeats.

My childhood nickname sounds much more sophisticated when spoken with a British accent. I could listen to Charlie read a cookbook and find it enthralling.

I nod once, simply for something to do that’s not fidgeting with my bracelets or playing with my hair. Now that he’s looking at me— staring really—I’m starting to wish he were still focused on Lexington. Charlie’s undivided attention is the equivalent of standing solo under a spotlight.

“Pretty name,” he adds.

“Wait until you hear the horse’s,” is out of my mouth before I can decide if that’s something I should actually say out loud.

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, not a 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.

I wasn’t a fan of this place when Cal and I were dating, but it’s even less appealing since we broke up. At least I know he’s not here today, or Lexington would be out on the field instead of standing in his stall.

“Did you have a paloma? How many marriage proposals …” Chloe’s voice trails awkwardly, followed by a cough that our friendship of twenty years tells me is fake.

“They’re overdoing it on the grapefruit juice this year,” I tell her. “It’s a true travesty.”

She huffs a laugh. “I’m trying to be sensitive, Lili.”

“Don’t be. I’m fine.”

A pause.

“Is Cal there?”

“No. Even if he were, I’d still be fine. And stop avoiding talking about marriage around me. He never proposed.”

Another pause.

“He would have.”

I know Chloe’s right, so I don’t bother arguing.

“How’s engaged life?” I ask instead.

Another pause as Chloe attempts to gauge my true feelings about the topic from over three thousand miles away.

“Wow. That bad?” I tease.

“ No . It’s good.” I can hear the smile in her voice as she adds, “It’s really good.”

A pang hits right in the center of my chest. Not the excited thrill I felt around Charlie. A what-if. A second-guess. A wondering if I chose wrong.

“Good.”

Chloe moved to England to attend the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. Her program ended in the spring, but she’s staying in London with her new fiancé, Theo. Their wedding is set for next July.

Honestly, I’m more bummed about Chloe’s temporary relocation becoming a permanent move than I am about recovering from a breakup while she’s celebrating her engagement.

“How is the Davis project going?” Chloe asks.

“It’s fine. I’ll send some photos of the topiary. And before you ask, no, I still haven’t seen Christian. Katie said that he’s away on location for a new film.”

“What film?” Chloe questions eagerly. “The new Martinez action thriller?”

Ever since Chloe learned that the wife of one of her favorite Hollywood actors had hired me to redesign the grounds of their mansion in Montecito, she’s been badgering me for more details. The only reason I took the project in the first place was that relocating for a few months sounded like a good idea after ending a two-year relationship. A chance to recalibrate and refresh. To swap bustle and blacktop for sprawl and sunshine. Aunt Hannah’s brother, Eddie, taught me how to surf, and I had weekly dinners with my parents. All great distractions, until I returned to New York.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

Chloe groans in exasperation.

She’s so dramatic. Theater is definitely her calling.

“What were you going to do?” I ask. “Show up on set in a trench coat? He’s married. You’re engaged.”

“It’s about feeding the fantasy , Lili. Remember crushes? A vivid imagination is healthy. Just because it’s unlikely I’ll ever meet Christian Davis doesn’t mean I can’t think about touching his abs between takes in Belarus—or wherever the hell he’s shooting.”

I laugh, shaking my head even though she can’t see me. “If it comes up again, I’ll ask, okay?”

“ Thank you .”

We’re both silent, our standard few minutes of chitchat almost up. It’s dinnertime there. And I’ve stood in the polo tent most of the afternoon. I should go find my grandfather and hopefully talk him into heading home.

Instead of saying I’ll talk to her next week, I blurt, “I met a guy.”

“What?” All the dreaminess from discussing her celebrity crush has disappeared from Chloe’s voice. She sounds alert. Annoyed. “ How did you not lead with that, Lili?”

“It wasn’t a big deal.” I already feel foolish for bringing it up. But a little giddy, too, my palm still tingling from touching Charlie’s. “We only talked for a couple of minutes.”

“You saying you met a guy is a huge deal. Who is he?”

“I don’t know really. I’d never seen him before.”

“You’d never seen him before?” Surprise saturates Chloe’s tone. She’s as familiar with the recurring guest list at these sorts of events as I am. I don’t think Atlantic Crest has admitted any new members since the ’90s.

“Never,” I confirm.

“Huh. What’s his name?”

“Charlie.”

“Charlie …”

“I don’t know his last name.”

“Is he hot?” Chloe’s question is tentative.

It’s been a long time since we discussed a guy who wasn’t Cal. I’m sure it’s as weird for her as it is for me.

“No, he’s balding and middle-aged,” I drawl. “Yes, he’s hot!”

Hot is a bland adjective to describe Charlie though. It doesn’t account for how hard it was for me to think when he was looking at me. For his overwhelming presence and overbearing attitude.

And I’m not an easy person to impress. I’ve met presidents. Movie stars. Famous athletes.

“What does he look like?” Chloe asks.

I reach the end of the stable’s stone aisle, staring out at the fairway of the golf course. Lush green stretches as far as the eye can see, chlorophyll brilliant and bright, thanks to the scorching sun.

“Brown hair. Hazel eyes. He’s really tall.”

“He does sound hot,” Chloe agrees.

He looks nothing like Cal , is what I’m sure she’s thinking.

Cal is a golden boy in every sense of the phrase. Tan skin. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Like a surfer who just happened to grow up on the Upper East Side.

“Go talk to him again,” Chloe suggests.

“Yeah?”

It sounds like Chloe exhales before saying, “Yeah.”

“Okay.” I sigh too. “Thanks.”

“Text me after, tell me how it goes.”

I half smile, appreciating the support more than the nudge. Now, I’ll have to talk to him or else text her Nothing happened . Chloe knows I’m too competitive to admit that kind of defeat.

“I will. Love you, Chlo.”

“Love you too. Drink a paloma for me.”

My smile turns into a full one before I hang up, staring out at the mowed expanse before me.

It’s so open. So empty, aside from the distant dots of a golfer or caddie.

Endless possibilities.

The sketch forms in my mind as I locate the perfect spot for a trio of fountains, surrounded by a maze of walkways. Trellises and a central path, lined with oak trees and lavender.

If that garden actually existed, I wouldn’t dread coming here so much. I’d add a couple of benches and visit just to listen to birds chirp and horses neigh. A little oasis, so different from the constant activity of the city. There’s nowhere you can go in Manhattan and hear silence.

I enjoy the quiet for a few more minutes, then turn and head back toward the tent.