Rip
Skin some shade between tan and bronze—I can never tell where one begins and the other ends—tight, black twists in his head, and glistening gray eyes that sucked you in and never let go.
Being up close, in the light, I can see why people fawn over the son of Beaumont Grand—and why I can’t get caught up in him.
Kingsley sits at the table like he did last night. Detached.
He only tunes into the conversation when forced, and it’s painfully obvious he hasn’t been listening to a word anyone has said.
He lulls off as if he had better places to be, and he turns his nose up at every meal the kind chef presents to us.
I don’t understand why, because that was some of the best bloody food I had in forever.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Being the only son of an unethically rich, overly feared mafia boss probably does that to a guy. Nothing can touch him, so why care?
“So,” Xavier Beaumont begins, “how do you plan this will work with Kingsley? I’m sure you boys have talked over your plans.”
“Yes. We’ve already planned out a few videos around the resort, and we’ll let Kingsley know what he’ll need to do. We can coach him through it. Thomas and I have been fairly successful with every other business we’ve worked for, and I guarantee you will see results in two weeks.”
“Guarantee?” Xavier rubs his chin. “If you can produce outstanding results in that short amount of time, I’ll have to treat myself to a drink.”
“As if you ever deprive yourself, Xavier,” the older man across from me jokes. If memory serves, he’s an executive, but isn’t family to the Beaumonts.
“Would you if you had a wine cellar below your home?” Santiago asks the man as he lets out a low chuckle.
“I know I wouldn’t,” Thomas interjects, laughing along with them, not realizing he sticks out like a sore thumb.
The laughter ceases, and all eyes are on Tommy as if he’s said something off. I almost facepalm. He jumped into their conversation, trying to be all charming and smooth, the fool.
Mya Beaumont’s lighthearted giggle breaks the silence. “Thomas gets it.”
I see the relief in Tommy’s eyes, and I let out a breath of my own. I shoot him a firm, yet nervous glare. We want them to like us, not find us insufferable.
“That he does. If you boys ever want to try something from our wine cellar, let us know,” Xavier offers kindly.
A smooth grin forms. “Thank you.”
I continue explaining our goals for Beaumont Grand, and everyone carefully observes each word leaving my mouth.
My aim is to project utmost politeness, reinforcing the sophisticated persona I’m trying to present.
I need to look like a random civilian chap, even with the ruggedness in my voice and displayed in my tattoos.
My eyes scan over the dark, drab marble table. Worn placemats and utensils lay all the way down it, and the light fixture above mirrors their faded design. It’s all so unappealing.
Kingsley aimlessly stirs his soup. He must be dying for this to be over. Honestly, me too.
“I have a pretty good eye for what gets people to stop whatever they’re doing and tune in,” my brother, Thomas, adds. “Rip and I will probably explore the place a little later and get an idea of which areas we’ll film.”
Mya Beaumont’s eyes light up with an idea. “Kingsley can give you a tour.”
Kingsley’s torso stiffens at the mention of his name. He doesn’t respond to his mom’s suggestion, earning pointed looks from his family.
“King is more than happy to give the guys a tour.” The girl beside Kingsley—Odette—flashes me a smile and then turns to him. “Aren’t you?”
He rolls his lips. “Of course.”
Is no one going to comment on how toneless this guy is? Are we all going to ignore it?
Fuck, it’s going to be a long two weeks getting to know this guy.
“That would be perfect! Let’s wrap this dinner up so you guys can get the grand tour.” I have no idea who said that because I’m too busy devouring the amazing shrimp étouffée.
“This place is fucking massive,” I breathe in awe.
I have to say, Beaumont Grand looks way nicer in person than it appears online. Kingsley’s taking us on a golf cart ride—I’m riding shotgun beside the son of the property, and Thomas is in the back.
Trees hang over the streets, and bushes are planted before them, giving it that clean, vacation-type look. The streetlights are placed so they blend in, but you can totally see the dim light they give off.
It’s not an in-depth tour, partly because it’s dark out, but mostly because Kingsley doesn’t want to give it.
He won’t admit that, but it’s quite obvious.
We’ve been in the car with him for close to an hour, and I can count on one hand the number of full sentences he’s spoken.
He doesn’t bother with small talk or getting to know us, so the ride is pure silence. What a warm welcoming.
We gently brake in front of an enormous building, its large windows offering a view of the giant water slides within. Ah, the infamous water park.
“The water park is probably the thing guests are most excited about when coming here,” Kingsley explains. “And not only the kids, but the parents too.”
Thomas leans over the seat between Kingsley and me. “What makes the parents so excited?”
“The closed-off, adult-only hot tub in the building. While their kids play, they relax.”
That sounds great for the parents, but like hell for the staff. I imagine they probably check out while their kids become little terrors for the staff to deal with on their own. I’d quit my job.
“I bet the place is more popular in the cold than the outdoor pool, yeah?” I joke lamely.
Thomas shoots me a bored look. What? I have to spice up this dry evening somehow.
Our tour guide exhales through his nose forcefully, a weak attempt at a chuckle that falls flat. I almost laugh at the stupidity of it.
He presses on the gas, and we propel forward again. “Next, we’ll pass by the activity center, then I can show you where you’ll be staying.”
“How many times have you beaten the golf course?” Tommy asks.
Kingsley shrugs loosely. “I’ve never played it.”
“Not once?” My brother gawks. “You’ve never gotten bored and gone to play a round?”
Kingsley chews on his bottom lip as he shakes his head. I know he feels my gaze, but he’s keeping his eyes forward, acting like he doesn’t see me.
I’d chalk it up to him being like any other spoiled rich kid who’s gotten bored with their parents’ endless wealth, but he’s acting so damn weird about it, I don’t believe it is the case.
I kick my legs up on the dashboard. “Well, Tommy and I are definitely going to check it out, and you’ll join us because we’ve already decided we’re going to film there.”
“Lucky me,” he mutters, dejected.
Is this seriously the same guy from the club?
That can’t be right, because that man, though he obviously didn’t want to be at the bar, had something compelling in his silvery eyes.
Our conversation was brief, but I enjoyed it, and it all started with my curiosity.
But there is nothing about the guy driving the golf cart that makes me want to learn more.
I can tell it’s going to be like pulling teeth trying to befriend Kingsley. Why didn’t they assign us to get close to one of his sisters instead? What is so special about Kingsley?
He takes us around and points out some resort buildings, as well as the employee wing where we’ll be staying for the two weeks, and we must pass at least five different restaurants on the property. Talk about overkill.
“Kingsley.” My brother points past us. “Can we stop at that vending machine? I’m parched.”
He nods, eyes fixated on one up ahead under an awning. The cart parks, Thomas exits to buy a fizzy drink with his change, leaving me with our talkative driver.
He shuts his eyes and exhales as if driving us around for an hour is a tiresome job, and a pop sounds as he cracks his knuckles.
“Do you remember me from last night?”
One eye opens to look at me. “How could I forget that accent?”
What’s his deal with my accent? “Is that a compliment?”
A sharp exhale escapes in an attempt at a laugh. “It can be.”
Then I’ll take it as one.
“You talk a lot less than the articles say.”
“Do I?”
All the articles about the Beaumonts go on about how generous and charming they are. Unlike other stuck-up families, they give to charity, offer free housing to their employees to show appreciation, and are known for being witty and charismatic in public.
Kingsley, Odette, and Aralynn specifically are loved by the public.
They’re young and attractive, and that’s enough for everyone to fawn over.
Articles can’t stop talking about the Beaumont kids, speculating about their futures and loudly praising them when they do something as simple as wiping their ass on their own.
I’m exaggerating, but that’s the point. The articles describe the complete opposite of the detached, bored person sitting beside me. Then again, all of those articles are before his fiancée’s untimely death.
“Yeah. Hopefully, I’ll start seeing some of the charm everyone describes when we film,” I tell him. “It’s going to be your first time back in the public eye, yeah?”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. I’ll take that as a yes.
Did her death change him, or was he always a two-worded prick? Hell, maybe he doesn’t want to talk to me. I am his employee, after all. These half-arsed answers are all I’ll get because it’s all he cares enough to give.
For some reason, my jaw clenches. “Is this what it’s going to be like working with you? I speak, and you stare at me like you would rather die than interact. Honestly, I don’t want to do this as much as you do, but it’s going to be rough if you don’t at least pretend to care.”
My teeth grind together. Why the hell am I so worked up over this?
Sure, Kingsley will be tougher to crack than I expected, but that’s not where the fire in my chest is coming from.
I watch his blank stare, arms resting in his lap while he figures out what to say, or maybe he won’t say anything at all.
I can’t believe he has the audacity to ignore me.
Kingsley looks directly at me for the first time tonight, and I suck in a breath. His skin is softer in the dark, the dim lighting clashing against his already monochrome complexion, mixing with the flushed yellow and gray.
His eyes soften and his face scrunches up, almost as if he’s confused why I’m calling him out. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen out of him since the club.
But then he blinks it away.
“I think I’ve spoken to you a lot,” he says simply.
I fight the urge to press more than my brother climbs into the vehicle, a Coke in hand.
“It tried to steal my money, but I took it. Also, why are American dollars all green? It can be confusing,” Thomas says as the click from the can sounds.
I think Americans are confusing.