Chapter 9
9
I ’m halfway down the stairs when the front door opens and Charles Marlborough strolls into the entryway. My foot fumbles on a step, the point of the heel slipping to the left. I tighten my grip on the railing as I swear under my breath.
A thousand guests and another hundred staff are at this event, and we’re the only two people in the soaring entryway.
I can’t go back upstairs without him seeing me. I can’t continue downstairs without him seeing me. I’m screwed either way.
My chin lifts, and I avoid Charlie’s eyes as I carefully descend the rest of the curved staircase. The last thing this moment needs is me falling flat on my face.
I don’t need to look at him. I already memorized his appearance—the shade of his suit and the variety of flowers in the beautiful bouquet he’s holding. He abided by the patriotic dress code, wearing a blue suit and a crisp white button-down. No tie. Two buttons undone to show off the twin curves of his collarbone and tease at the tan skin of his chest.
Fuck him for being so good-looking.
I’m regretting my choice of red dress. Together, we look … coordinated. Complete.
I reach the marble floor, forced to face him.
He speaks first, shattering the deafening silence. “Elizabeth.”
“Charles.”
His gaze doesn’t stray away from my face, ignoring the low neckline of my dress and the opulent furnishings of my grandparents’ summer home.
“You’re supposed to head straight into the backyard,” I inform him haughtily. “Not come inside.”
The sole job of five of the hundred employees my grandmother has working this event is to direct foot traffic from the parking area straight toward the patio and tent.
“I asked to put these in water.” Charlie lifts the flowers a couple of inches. “Figured they would wilt fast in this heat.”
They would. It’s blazing hot out. I’m dreading leaving the air-conditioning to go mingle by the pool, barely recovered from the tennis match earlier. I had to shower twice to feel like I was sweat-free.
A vent blasts the sweet perfume of the bouquet straight into my face, mixed with the intoxicating aroma of whatever musky aftershave or cologne Charlie wears. Some scent that makes me want to inhale deeper.
I hold a hand out, wiggling my fingers impatiently. “I’ll take care of it.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do,” I snap.
He studies me for a few seconds, then takes one step closer.
I fight the strong urge to step back and maintain the same amount of distance between us.
“Elizabeth, I?—”
“You must be Charles Marlborough.” Kit is buttoning his jacket as he jogs down the staircase.
I stiffen, shooting my brother a warning look as he approaches us.
One he pays no attention to. “I’m Kit Kensington. Heard a lot about you.”
I tense even more.
Surprisingly, so does Charlie. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a jump in the firm muscles of his jaw.
“Nice to meet you, Kit.”
They shake hands.
“You played well yesterday,” Kit comments.
The praise isn’t aimed at me. He might have joined my defense against Gigi at breakfast, but my brother is otherwise uninterested in complimenting me. And I’m annoyed he’s interested in complimenting Charlie.
“You fell off the horse last time you played,” I remind my brother.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Kit retorts. “Come on, Charles. I’ll introduce you around.”
I have to work at hiding my shock. Kit makes friends easily, but I didn’t expect him to embrace Charlie so quickly.
What is it with this guy becoming buddy-buddy with my brothers?
Charlie doesn’t follow Kit right away. He holds out the flowers. “These are for you,” he says quietly.
Damn his crisp accent. It’s consuming, just like his unflinching gaze and intoxicating smell. It takes me a few seconds to remember, one, I’m mad at him; two, my plan was to avoid him; and, three, he’s not single. This bouquet is just a half-assed apology for what he now knows I heard him say about me last summer. Remorse minus admittance.
I force out a “Thank you.” The relief that my voice sounds normal is smothered by the swarm of butterflies that appears when his thumb brushes my knuckles during the transfer of flowers.
“You’re welcome.”
“Come on, Charles. Lili likes to make a grand entrance. Alone.” Kit’s no longer trying to annoy me. He’s just impatient.
Charlie is fighting a smile. The sight of him struggling against amusement—even at my expense—does something strange to my insides. My chest squeezes tight, and my stomach spins as he heads toward the wall of French doors that open out onto the patio surrounding the pool.
“Guy brought you flowers. What an asshole ,” Kit whispers.
I flip him off.
Kit chuckles, then saunters after Charlie.
I stop in the butler’s pantry to find a crystal vase for the flowers. A petty urge has me considering letting them wither, but it’s not like I can toss the shriveled blooms in Charlie’s face. Not without causing a scene and giving my grandmother a conniption at least. So, I snip the ends and make sure the water is lukewarm before setting the vase in a patch of sunlight on the marble counter.
There’s no sign of Kit or Charlie when I walk onto the patio. My brothers tend to be the ringleaders of a less formal party amid my grandmother’s annual bash. When I was younger, I’d participate, but expectations are different now. Ones Kit has always had an easier time ignoring. The only reason he spent any time by the pool last year was because my college roommate was visiting and Kit had a massive crush on her.
This year, most of my friends are missing. We’re leaving for Chloe’s wedding tomorrow, so Bridget, Fran, and Jasper all opted to stay in the city for the holiday weekend.
Tripp and Hugo are standing by the buffet table, talking to a bunch of other guys I recognize. I head in the opposite direction, toward one of the bars that’s been set up throughout the yard. I’ve been outside for less than a minute, and I can already feel sweat prickling the back of my neck and small of my back.
Aunt Hannah is accepting a glass of wine from the bartender. She’s changed since this afternoon, now wearing one of Mom’s designs—a blue-and-white-patterned sundress—and her fingernails are painted bright crimson. Gigi would approve.
She glances over as I approach. Smiles. “Nice dress.”
I smile back. “You too.”
“I knew it was a Scarlett original from the color alone.”
I order a ranch water from the bartender. Simple and refreshing sound perfect right now.
“Have you seen Wren or Rory?” Hannah asks me.
“No,” I reply. “I delayed leaving the air-conditioning for as long as I could. Barely been out here for five minutes.”
My aunt grimaces, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. “We’re in a bit of a parenting rough patch. Oliver caught Wren sneaking in last night. He’s having a hard time accepting his little girl is seventeen.”
That explains Wren’s scowl at the parade. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me she had a headache.
“Guess he didn’t have to worry about that with Rory,” I say.
Hannah and Oliver’s older daughter is a carbon copy of my uncle. Serious, meticulous, and rule-abiding. She was the one who always tattled on pranks we played as kids.
“Not so much.” Hannah sighs. “How did your parents handle it?”
I smirk. “Handle what?”
She raises one eyebrow. “You’re telling me you never snuck out, Lili?”
“I’m saying I never got caught sneaking out.”
Hannah laughs, then shakes her head. “Great. We’ll suggest she be more quiet next time.”
I laugh too, then sober. “The harder you try to slow it down, the faster she’ll try to grow up.”
My aunt smiles, but it’s a bittersweet one. “I know. I was seventeen once too, you know.”
I take my drink from the bartender and tap my glass against Hannah’s. “Cheers. Also, you could try changing the alarm code. That’ll slow her down at least.”
Hannah’s face lights up. “The alarm code! That’s brilliant.” She immediately pulls her phone out of her clutch, presumably to text Oliver. “I’ve heard rave reviews about the Claremont project, by the way. Very impressive, Lili,” she tells me as she types.
“Thanks,” I reply before taking a sip of my cold drink. Tart fizziness hits my tongue, followed by the smoky aftertaste of tequila.
When it comes to work, I value my aunt’s opinion over anyone’s. She works for one of the city’s top architecture firms.
When I was floundering during college, hating all my classes and trying to figure out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, she offered me an internship at her firm. My first assignment involved a museum in Boston. The design of the indoor space was interesting, but I was fascinated by the work done by the landscape architect. The building was there—needing extensive renovation and improvements, but framed and standing. The surrounding gardens morphed from dirt that had been packed flat by an endless stream of construction vehicles delivering materials. That challenge—creating something from nothing or shaping wild beauty into purposeful design—was what appealed to me the most. I abandoned my public relations major at Yale, transferred to Cornell, and packed the following summer with extra credits so I could graduate on time. I passed the Landscape Architect Registration Examination on my first try—by far the best I’d ever performed on any academic assessment—and have no regrets about my career choice.
It’s just not what people expect from a Kensington. My mom is editor in chief of an incredibly successful magazine in addition to her luxury fashion label that’s expanded into skin care and beauty. My dad runs a production company in LA, which has won so many Oscars that I’ve lost count. Kit is about to start working at Kensington Consolidated, which is considered a titan among powerful, wealthy corporations. Bash is going to graduate summa cum laude. And then there’s me, the glorified gardener.
No matter how much support I receive from my family—and I do; even Kit would never make a disparaging comment about my job—it’s hard not to feel like I’m the solitary outlier in a series of success stories.
“Are you still working on the nature preserve in Queens?” I ask Hannah.
She nods. “But we’re in a holding pattern, waiting for the construction company to come through with permits, so I’m taking on a couple of smaller projects in the meantime.”
“Hi, Lili.”
My stomach twists unpleasantly as I glance away from my aunt. Cal is standing a few feet away, his hand resting on Violet DuPont’s lower back.
We talked for a while at Atlantic Crest yesterday. About Chloe’s upcoming wedding and Claremont Park and how his master’s is going. The sort of superficial catchup that did little to alleviate the awkwardness that was heavy in the hot air.
“Hey, Cal,” I reply. My grip tightens on my glass as I wish I’d swallowed more tequila before he appeared.
“I should go check on the girls,” Hannah says. “Excuse me.”
Before walking away, my aunt shoots me a small, encouraging smile. She knows about my history with Cal, just like everyone else here. Over Violet’s shoulder, I can see Gigi looking this way. She approved of my decision to date Cal. Disapproved of my decision to break up with him, which is the recurrent reaction.
“Nice to see you, Violet,” I add.
“You too.” Violet fiddles with a gold bracelet on her wrist, a forced smile on her face.
Cal and I went to school with Violet up until ninth grade, when she left New York to attend a private boarding school in Connecticut. I’ve seen her a handful of times since, but I don’t think we’ve actually spoken in over a decade. That’s not why this is so uncomfortable though.
Violet’s beautiful, her auburn hair carefully curled and her dress the same shade of blue as the clear sky above. I hope Cal truly likes her, but the way he hasn’t broken eye contact with me since they appeared makes me think she’s a pawn in the game I quit playing.
“Did you guys make it to the parade this morning?” I ask.
Not my best attempt at small talk, but better than standing in uncomfortable silence.
“We were planning on it, but it was so hot …” Violet’s voice trails off as she glances at Cal. “Cal suggested we skip it this year.”
“Good call,” I say. “It was pretty unpleasant out.” Still is actually.
“Did you guys still have your tennis match?”
I make sure all the warmth in my expression has drained away before looking at Cal. “Yes, we did.”
He participated in the family tournament the two years we were dating. A few times before, back when we had been just friends. I can’t tell if he’s reminiscing about our relationship or our friendship, which bothers me. I’m only interested in resuscitating one of them.
“Cal’s been telling me about the plans for Chloe’s wedding,” Violet comments. “It sounds like it’ll be an amazing trip. I’m sad I have to miss it.”
“Oh. I assumed you …”
Violet sighs, then shakes her head. “I can’t take the time off work.”
I was banking on her being Cal’s date to the wedding. I even told Tripp to make sure that Cal knew Violet was welcome on the jet tomorrow, and he said nothing to me about Cal’s girlfriend not coming with us.
I take a sip of my drink, tempted to drain the whole glass. “Where do you work, Violet?”
“At Maxwell & Lewis,” she answers.
I’ve heard of it. It’s a popular interior design firm in Manhattan.
“Vi really spiffed up my parents’ place,” Cal says.
“That’s great,” I say, trying to come up with some excuse to go … anywhere else. Getting stuck in a conversation with my ex and his new girlfriend is not an ideal start to the evening.
“Hell of a party, Kensington.”
I relax as soon as I hear Tripp’s booming voice, even more when he tugs me into his side for a hug.
Hugo is right behind him, followed by Malcolm Crane. I’ve never liked Malcolm very much, mostly because he makes a point to flirt shamelessly every time we interact. My aversion is nothing compared to my dad’s though. He hates the Crane family for some reason.
Malcolm won’t flirt with me now. Not in front of Cal. Most of the guys I grew up with still consider me “his.” It almost makes me want to ask Malcolm to get me another drink.
“I can’t take any credit,” I tell Tripp. “This is all Gigi.”
“You’re here, Lili. That’s why half these people showed up.”
I roll my eyes. Tripp is exaggerating. But there’s a kernel of truth to it. I’m Crew and Scarlett Kensington’s oldest child and only daughter. Just because I chose not to get involved in any of my family’s businesses, people still care about what I do. Where I go. What I say.
Because I might not have any part in my family’s businesses right now, but I’m set to inherit a massive stake in all of them.
I’m distracted by a waving Madeline Spencer. We attended the same private schools but didn’t become close friends until I transferred to Cornell.
“There’s Maddie,” I say. “I’ll see you guys later.”
I walk away carefully, as the grass and flagstone patio are challenging surfaces to navigate while wearing heels.
Catching up with Maddie gets interrupted after about fifteen minutes by a friend of Gigi’s. That leads into two hours of nonstop conversation. I finally excuse myself to use the bathroom, opting to head inside rather than use the pool house one.
My stomach growls as I pass the kitchen and walk down the hall—a reminder that all I’ve eaten since lunch at the yacht club was a few canapés. Clangs echo behind me as the catering staff prepares the upcoming courses.
My heels click against tiles as I walk into the closest bathroom. My dark brown hair and vibrant red dress are vivid splashes of color in the reflection of the massive mirror above the twin sinks. Everything in here—porcelain and marble and Egyptian cotton—is white. I pee, wash my hands, then attempt to smooth the frizz that’s appeared along my hairline.
Humidity: 1. Hair spray: 0.
I debate going upstairs to grab a lipstick out of my room, but decide against it. It’s completely dark out, so the fireworks are set to start soon. I’ll grab some food, then head down to the beach to watch them.
When I’m halfway down the hallway that connects to the front entryway, a tall figure approaches from the opposite direction. My heartbeat stutters, then accelerates, when I recognize Charlie Marlborough. I spotted him once, about an hour ago, talking with two friends of my grandfather’s, but we haven’t spoken since he arrived.
His hair is perfect. So is the rest of his immaculate appearance. I can’t even spot a wrinkle in his suit.
I raise my chin when he reaches me, determined to hold eye contact. “What’s your excuse for trespassing this time?”
“Trespassing?” His left eyebrow lifts. I feel the movement as a spasm in my stomach, same as the first time we met. “I know you wouldn’t have invited me, Kensington, but I was invited.”
“Not inside. There are four bathrooms in the pool house for guests .”
Anyone else, and I wouldn’t give a shit. But combat has become my default setting around Charlie. He’s never tried to flatter or impress me the way most men do. And I’m … honestly, I’m not sure how else to act around him.
“I’m not looking for the loo,” he tells me. “I was looking for you.”
My next step makes me totter in my heels, off-balance for reasons that have everything to do with him. “I actually need to?—”
A warm hand wraps around my left bicep, halting me in place. My world narrows to nothing but that confident touch. I’m instantly aware of everything about it. The strength in his grip. The searing warmth of his skin. The rough calluses on his palm.
“The only thing you need to do is listen to me.”
The words drip with arrogance. I’m sure he’s accustomed to always being indulged.
“Like hell I?—”
Again, he interrupts. “I’m sorry.” That mostly green gaze drills into me, fierce and persistent.
It’s impossible to ignore the sincerity in his voice, yet I try very hard to.
“What I said last summer …” He grimaces. “Well, it goes without saying, you were never meant to hear that.”
“ Wow . Award for Most Pathetic Apology goes to?—”
“I’m not finished.” Charlie steps closer, his nearness unnerving me as much as the unwavering eye contact and the way he’s still holding my arm. “It was a rubbish thing to say, and I regret ever saying it. I was … upset about things that had nothing to do with anyone there, including you. And speaking of you , Elizabeth Kensington, you never told me your surname when we first met. I recognized Kensington when Ellis said it, and I made incorrect assumptions based on …” He clears his throat. “Based on the way other women were acting around me. That’s not—I don’t think that about you, Lili.”
Damn him.
Damn him for apologizing.
Damn him for making me believe him.
Damn him for calling me Lili like he knows me well enough to.
I’ve met a lot of guys who were incapable of taking accountability for their actions. Who made excuses and shifted blame. It can easily become second nature when you’re used to everyone accommodating you. And I would have bet money—lots of money—that Charles Marlborough fell into the category of entitled man who avoids apologies like a contagious disease .
“I thought we first met at Kensington Consolidated,” I say. “That’s what you told Fran.”
“You could have corrected me.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, attempting to regulate my breathing as he continues staring at me. It’s too fast.
I’m too affected.
He’s too close.
Close—and getting closer. I’m losing the ability to talk. I forget how to breathe.
I’m frozen, my overwhelmed brain too slow to register Charlie is kissing me until we’re several seconds into it.
His lips are warm and firm and compelling, suctioning my top one with a persistent skill that speaks to experience. His tongue invades next, brushing mine before tracing the length of my lower lip.
Shivers race down my spine as I palm the plaster behind me, concerned the wall is all that’s holding me up. My legs feel numb, all the blood in my body rushing to other places.
Charlie’s left hand cups the curve of my cheek, angling my mouth exactly where he wants it. His right hand lands on my waist, the heat of his touch burning through the thin fabric of my dress like there’s no barrier between our bodies. One of his legs presses between mine, parting my thighs so that I’m straddling hard muscle.
The friction prompts a blissful surge of pleasure. Tingles erupt and spread. I gasp.
He chuckles against my mouth. And it’s that sound—that maddening superiority—that breaks through the hypnotic haze and reminds me why this should not be happening.
I yank my head back and slap him, the smack of skin against skin reverberating down the empty hallway.
My fingers fist around my stinging palm as shock filters through me. I just hit someone. I’ve never hit someone. Never been so consumed by a kiss, either.
I press my lips tight together to keep an apology from spilling out.
Charlie doesn’t flinch or grimace. His only reaction is lifting a hand to gingerly poke at the red mark blooming across his cheek. “What the fuck was that for?” He sounds more entertained than pissed, which makes me scowl.
“You kissed me,” I hiss.
He rubs his thumb across his lower lip, then prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Winces.
I should feel bad—I do—but I’m also a little proud of my accuracy.
“Well aware,” Charlie drawls, still managing to sound condescending. “Seemed like you were enjoying it.”
I blush at the accurate statement. His thigh is still wedged between mine—glaring evidence of what just took place. “I’m not a cheater.”
His hand drops from his face, bewilderment blanketing his handsome features. “I thought you were single.”
“ I am. You’re not.”
Charlie laughs once. “What?”
“You told Fran you were taken.”
The confusion clears from his face. “That seemed politer than mentioning she wasn’t the woman I wanted to continue talking to.”
“Oh.” My cheeks must match my dress. “It didn’t occur to you that she might tell me what you said?”
“It did not.” Charlie rests one hand on the wall, next to my head. “Does that change anything?”
I bite my bottom lip, the truth spilling out anyway. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
I scoff as he stares expectantly. “You want me to say it again?”
“Actually, I do.”
“I promise I won’t slap you this time, okay?”
One corner of Charlie’s mouth lifts. “That’s not why I want to hear you say yes to me, Lili.” His voice is low and husky.
The tone hits me like a strong dose of a powerful drug. Proof that I really, really want to kiss him again.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He kisses me.
But it’s my tongue that seeks his. My hands that yank his button-down free from his slacks so that I can explore the taut muscles ridging his stomach. My hips that rock forward, grinding against his thigh to chase more delicious friction.
“You’re soaking my favorite trousers, Kensington.”
“Are you complaining?” I pant the question, too distracted to come up with anything wittier. Lust is coiling tight low in my pelvis, my muscles clenched in anticipation of a release.
Charlie started this, and he’d better let me finish. I’ve had sex with several guys since Cal and I broke up. None of those encounters were this satisfying, and I haven’t even come yet.
He’s barely touching me. I’m basically getting off on his proximity. Under any other circumstances, I’d be self-conscious. Right now, I’m too consumed to care.
“It was a compliment,” Charlie informs me.
I huff a laugh. “Thanks?”
“Of me,” he continues. “You must want me bloody bad to be this wet without my fingers or tongue.”
I should probably slap him again. Instead, I almost smile. The fact that I’m finding his conceited charm entertaining is a bright red flag.
But he’s right. I want him bloody bad . Badly enough that my pride has left the premises.
His fingers skim up my left arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. They stop at the strap of my dress, toying with the thin strip of fabric keeping the top up.
Charlie holds my gaze, waiting for me to decide.
Some people think I’m shy. That I act poised and proper in public because I’m not brave enough to be bold.
Really, I’m scared. I was born on a pedestal, automatically elevated. I’m terrified to mess up and embarrass my family. It takes me weeks, months, years to fully trust someone. Almost all of my closest friends are people I’ve known since preschool.
But I barely think before nodding.
For some reason, I trust Charlie. Even though I hardly know him. Even though he’s given me reasons I shouldn’t.
The top of the dress droops just low enough to expose my left breast.
He stares at my heaving chest for a few seconds before cupping the curve in his palm. I whimper when his deft fingers toy with the nipple, then groan when his hand falls to my waist. The warmth of his touch is replaced by the brush of his suit jacket against my bare breast when he pulls my mouth back to his.
There’s something dangerously erotic about imagining what we must look like—me half dressed and humping his leg, Charlie fully covered and in control.
His lips move to my ear. “Show me how wet you can get, Lili.”
My muscles tremble, my oncoming release so close that it feels tangible. The edges of my vision shimmer, and my head tilts back as waves of heat wash over me. I ride his thigh as hard as I can, clenching around nothing.
It’s incredible and consuming, convulsions continuing to tumble through me, even as the strongest rush fades.
But I want more. I want him inside of me, filling that emptiness.
Charlie steps back before I can suggest we sneak upstairs. Aside from his eyes—which have a feral glint—and the bulge in his pants, he appears unaffected.
“Happy Fourth of July, Elizabeth.”
That’s all he says before he turns around and walks away.
Leaving me, slumped and breathless and disappointed, wondering what the hell just happened.