Chapter 6
6
L ow 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 ma?tre 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 bed and my 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 fucking duke . 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 bet his daddy paid for more than his fancy degrees. Yet he was judging me , 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.
“How … historical.” I make historical sound like a slight, and I know it registers.
Rather than annoyed, Charlie appears amused by my choice of adjective. “Mmhmm,” he replies, then takes a sip of his club soda.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, increasingly irritated by his lack of reaction.
I want him to argue with me. Make another demeaning comment—this time to my face. It feels like the upper hand is slipping now that I’ve dropped our little game of repeating introductions. Which I didn’t mean to make a recurring instance. I was pissed at him the second time we met. And earlier, I was so shocked to see Charlie standing outside Asher’s office that obliviousness was my first instinct.
“This restaurant? Or this city?”
“Either. Both.”
“Same answer really. I’m visiting my mother.”
I blink at him. “Your mother.”
He makes another one of those maddening mmhmm sounds.
“Your mother is American?”
Charlie holds my gaze. “Yes.”
“So, you spent time in the US, growing up?”
“I did not.”
Still with the unwavering eye contact. I’m sweating.
“Oh.” I’m bumping up against the boundaries of politeness, swallowing more questions and trying to extinguish a curiosity I shouldn’t possess in the first place.
“I didn’t realize you worked at Kensington Consolidated,” Charlie states.
“I don’t,” I say, rubbing a finger against the condensation collected on the side of the glass. “Mom and I just stopped by the offices for a visit.”
“Asher seems very close with your family.”
My eyes narrow. Charlie sounds … disgruntled about that. Like that familiarity makes him like Asher less.
“Asher is best friends with my dad,” I inform him. “He’s my godfather.”
“I see.”
I’m not sure what he sees. Does he think his fancy dukedom is too good for my family?
“The company is called Kensington Consolidated, Charles. You couldn’t have missed that when you walked into the building.”
His head tilts to the left. Two women squeeze past us, both blatantly checking him out, and his gaze never wavers. “What do you do?”
I feel the lines form on my forehead. “What do you mean?”
“You said you don’t work at Kensington Consolidated.” He emphasizes my last name obnoxiously. “What do you do, Elizabeth?”
I flick my hair over one shoulder, flashing him my most seductive smile. “Don’t you know how much money I have? Why would I bother working?”
Charlie doesn’t react to my sarcastic tone, just keeps staring at me. His attention is consuming. It’s sucking away everything around me, like I’m on a plane and a door was opened thousands of feet up in the air. My surroundings are a blur of moving objects, the only focal point his unwavering gaze.
I’m treading dangerously close to the comment he made about me. The one I should have brushed off instead of allowed to soak in. His opinion shouldn’t matter to me. Not that day. Not now.
He shakes his head, then glances at the door as the silence between us stretches. A silent dismissal that almost seems disappointed.
I exhale, belatedly realizing it was overdue. At some point since he appeared, my breathing became irregular. “I’m a landscape architect, okay?”
Those damn eyes are right back on me. “A landscape architect,” Charlie repeats slowly. He rests a forearm on the quartz counter. The motion means he’s a little closer. Close enough for me to learn that he smells like laundry detergent and a hint of something spicy. “What does that mean?”
“It means I design outdoor spaces. Parks, gardens, places like that.”
By now, I’ve heard it all. Calling my job an “interesting hobby.” A comment about how lovely “playing with plants” sounds. Wondering if I’m available to put in a vegetable garden at a summer house.
Charlie says none of that. He asks, “Is that what you want to be doing?”
I consider the question for a few seconds, the new name plaque outside my dad’s old office flashing in my brain brighter than a neon light. “Yes.”
He picks up his glass. “Then, good for you.”
“What about you? What does a duke do? Aside from hosting jousting matches and visiting foreign kingdoms, of course.”
Charlie smirks at my sarcasm. “He does whatever he bloody hell wants.”
There’s a hollowness to the bravado. Something that suggests there’s more constriction than he’s letting on.
“Is that what you want to be doing?”
As soon as I echo his question, Charlie’s smile slides off his face.
“Lili!” Arms wrap around my side a split second before the scents of jasmine and vanilla hit me. Francesca’s worn the same perfume since middle school, the sweet, floral smell a nostalgic reminder of sleepovers and shared vacations and secret crushes.
I turn to hug Fran back properly. It’s been six weeks since I last saw her.
Fran is the free spirit of our friend group. She bounces between jobs. Swaps out hobbies. Flips through guys. Spends her family’s money liberally and could care less if anyone judges her lack of direction.
Honestly, I’m envious of her carefree attitude.
She wouldn’t care if Charles Marlborough called her a vapid heiress.
“How was Greece?” I ask Fran as soon as we separate.
Fran beams, her skin tan and glowing. She looks refreshed and relaxed, exactly like she spent the past month and a half sunning herself on a beach. “Amazing,” she gushes. “I wish you’d come.”
“Next time,” I promise. “Now that the Claremont job is finished.”
My largest project to date wrapped up a week ago. Eight months of tireless work—from the initial site analysis and planning to the final flourishing park.
“Yay! I want to see pictures.” Fran glances to my left, then does a double take. Unleashes a coy smile. “Who’s this?”
If we hadn’t been in different time zones for what Fran would dramatically deem “an eternity,” there’s no way it would have taken her so long to notice Charlie. I’m taken aback by his attractiveness all over again as I follow Fran’s interested gaze to where he’s standing a few feet away.
Charlie removes his right hand from his glass and holds it out. “Charles Marlborough.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Charles Marlborough.” Fran glances at me, interest visible on her face. “How do you two know each other?”
“We don’t,” I state.
“We just met earlier,” Charlie confirms. “At Kensington Consolidated.”
I have to press my lips together to keep from scowling. Because I’m 90 percent certain he remembers talking to me in the stable at Atlantic Crest last summer, and now, I can’t ask him about it.
And because his attention is so stifling, it’s really noticeable when it shifts to someone else.
“Do you work there?” Fran asks. Someone shuffles by, and she uses it as an excuse to take a step closer.
Charlie doesn’t shift away as he answers, “No. It was just a business meeting. Discussing some potential ventures.”
“Sounds boring,” Fran comments.
Charlie smiles, but doesn’t disagree or agree.
“I see Bridget,” I say, seizing the lull in conversation. “Should we go see if our table is ready?”
“I’ll be right there,” Fran replies. “Just going to order a drink while I’m over here.”
Her eyes are on Charlie, not the bartender.
I want to warn her away. To tell her that Charlie is just a handsome vessel for lots of hypocritical contempt.
But Fran is smart and capable. People underestimate her. Charlie will underestimate her, and she can take care of herself. Find out the truth about him for herself.
“Okay,” I respond. Then glance at Charlie, attempting to ignore the way my entire body reacts to his steady stare refocused on me. “Nice to see you, Charles.” My voice is stiff and formal.
“You too, Elizabeth.” His tone sounds just as rigid. Maybe more so, thanks to his posh accent.
I grab my glass and head toward Bridget. She spots me halfway and waves, weaving her way around tables to give me a big hug in the center of the room.
The Claremont Park project was based in Chicago, requiring me to spend most of the past year outside the city. The last time we got together as a group was a weekend back in March, for Tripp’s birthday.
He’s walking in the front door now, Hugo and Jasper right behind him. I’m expecting Cal to appear next, but the door shuts behind Jasper and doesn’t reopen.
The ma?tre d’ approaches at the same time the boys reach us, obviously eager to seat our larger group.
Tripp, in particular, is incapable of much reserve. He says and does whatever he wants. Sometimes, it’s nice, like when he punched Cooper Thomas for proposing I pay for our junior-prom limo. Sometimes, it’s exhausting, like how he still asks if I’m going to give Cal a second chance.
Tripp picks Bridget up and twirls her around. She laughs and pounds her fists against his back—with no effect. He spins her three times before setting her back down beside the wide-eyed ma?tre d’.
He reaches for me next, and I shake my head.
“Don’t you dare.”
His laugh is a deep, easy rumble, which is another reminder of childhood.
Tripp swallows me up into a giant hug—some of my drink sloshes out of the glass and onto my wrist—and then he manages to muss my hair once before I swat his hand away. “Good to see you, Lili.”
I roll my eyes. “You too, Tripp.”
“Your table is all ready.” Once again, the ma?tre d’ tries to move us along.
To be fair, people are staring. Because they recognize some of us or because we’re a noisy group—who knows?
Hugo and Jasper both give me side hugs on our way to the table.
It’s seated for six, not seven, and I heave out a sigh as I sink down next to Bridget. I try to keep my tone light as I wonder aloud, “Cal isn’t coming?”
Tripp studies me from his spot across the table. “No. He’s already in the Hamptons with Violet.”
“Oh.” I’m relieved, and it sneaks into my voice.
Tripp frowns. “You’re supposed to care he’s dating someone else, Lili.”
I reach for a piece of sourdough and slather it with salted honey butter. “We broke up over a year ago, Tripp. I’m happy for him.”
“Don’t mention that to Cal,” Hugo mumbles next to me.
I sigh. “Look, I know it’s awkward, guys. Nothing I can do about it.”
“Nothing you can do about it,” Bridget pipes in with. “But these two could stop delivering messages, trying to make you feel guilty.” She glares at Hugo first, then Tripp. “She’s your friend too, guys.”
I reach for my glass, hoping a healthy sip will clear the apprehension crawling up my throat.
Since we broke up, I’ve only seen Cal twice. Once at a Labor Day party in the Hamptons, which was where I found out he was moving to London to start a master’s in economics. And then at his family’s Christmas party seven months ago, when he came home for the holidays. Both were uncomfortable, stilted interactions with lots of prying eyes on us. I was hoping tonight—a casual dinner with our closest friends—we could finally make some progress toward returning things to normal.
I’m also glad he didn’t come, which I feel guilty about.
“Is that Charles Marlborough Fran is talking to?” Jasper suddenly asks, his gaze on the bar.
Everyone looks. Everyone except me. I’m focused on Jasper.
“You know him?” I say, surprised.
We’ve gone to school together since preschool, so we tend to know all the same people.
“Of him,” Jasper answers.
Maddeningly, that’s all he says. Forcing me to press and ask, “What have you heard?”
Jasper shrugs. “The Marlboroughs are a big deal in England. Charles just inherited everything after his dad died.”
My eyes dart to where Charlie and Fran are standing. From this angle, all I can see of Charlie is the back of his head and his right shoulder.
“When did his dad die?”
“Last year, I think.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t remember. Tripp, you remember?”
“Nope,” Tripp replies. “Dad met him at Atlantic Crest last summer though. Said he’s the youngest duke in centuries or something like that. Brits care a lot about that shit, apparently.”
“He’s a duke ?” Bridget asks, craning her neck to get a better look.
Hugo snorts. “What difference does that make?”
“Every girl wants the fairy tale, man,” Tripp says.
Then, he glances at me, and I know what he’s thinking.
I flushed the fairy tale away, and no one is really sure why.
I swallow some water, then rub at the embossed letters on the cover of my unopened menu. “We can take the jet next week.”
Excited chatter erupts around me, following the announcement.
My uncle Oliver was originally supposed to borrow my parents’ jet for a meeting with developers in Singapore next week, but the dates were changed. Which freed it up for Chloe’s wedding. She’s getting married in Wales next weekend. We’re flying there on Monday, then spending the week after the wedding celebrating at her family’s villa in Saint-Tropez. If not for the approaching awkwardness with Cal, I’d be looking forward to it unreservedly.
Many of my friends from college come from more modest backgrounds, but Bridget, Fran, Hugo, Jasper, Tripp—and Cal— are all outrageously wealthy. Just not Kensington wealthy. None of them have access to a private jet.
There’s no break in the eager discussion of next week’s plans until Fran joins us at the table.
She slides into the last open seat with a dramatic huff that captures everyone’s attention. “Well, that was a waste of time.”
“What do you mean?” I respond first, far more interested than I should be.
Fran reaches for a slice of bread. “He’s taken.”
The stab of disappointment is unexpected and uncomfortable. “Oh.”
“ Really ?” Jasper sounds highly skeptical.
“That’s what he said. I asked if he wanted to join us for a drink, and he said he was meeting his family for dinner.”
I glance at where Charlie was standing. He’s still in the same spot, now talking to a white-haired man, a middle-aged woman with blonde hair, and the same guy he told I was a vapid heiress.
“So, I suggested we get a drink later,” Fran continues. “And he said he wasn’t available.” She sighs. “I swear, all the hot ones are taken.”
“Excuse me?” Hugo says.
Tripp and Jasper appear equally offended.
All three of them are single.
Fran flicks a few careless fingers in Hugo’s direction. “You don’t count. I’m not going to fuck you. We all saw how that worked out for …” She glances at me. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, filling the uncomfortable pause with a hasty gulp of my mezcal drink.
Now, I’m extra glad Cal didn’t come.
“Holy fuck,” Bridget says, scrolling on her phone. “He is hot.”
“I know.” Fran sounds mournful. “We’re going to have to hit Proof after this to restore my ego.”
Tripp leans to see the screen of Bridget’s phone. Snorts. “Yeah. No way he’s not single.”
“What do you mean?” Fran is trying to look at the screen now, too, and I have to fight the urge to crane my neck as well.
“Guy who’s gotten around that much—and these are just the women he’s been photographed with? He’s either gay and in the closet or single. No way he’s in a committed relationship.”
“He’s not gay,” I blurt.
Everyone’s looking at me now.
“How do you know?” Bridget asks, lifting one eyebrow.
“I just do. Talking to him, there’s … rizz.” I don’t know how better to describe the buzzing sensation I experience around Charlie.
“I agree,” Fran pipes in with. “He’s definitely straight.”
“So, it was you,” Hugo concludes. “You probably came off as too high maintenance again.”
Fran tosses a chunk of sourdough at him.
Hugo catches the bread and takes a huge bite, grinning around it. “Nice throw.”
The waitress appears to take our order.
I continue rubbing the raised lines on the front of the menu, the bread, water, and mezcal in my stomach churning around unpleasantly. Mom wanted to stop by rouge’s offices after we left Haute , and I barely had time to change before rushing here.
Bridget leans into me. “Chase said the salmon and the steak are the best entrées.”
“I’m thinking oysters and charcuterie for appetizers?” Tripp suggests.
“Can we do rosé for the table?” Fran asks. “I want something summery.”
“Just pick,” Hugo says. “I’m good with whatever.” He passes his menu to the waitress. “You all set, Lili?”
I hand the waitress my menu. “Yep. I’m good with whatever too.”