Fake Empire (Kensingtons Book 1)
Fake Empire: Chapter 13

I’m not this girl.

I don’t get giddy or nervous or change my dress three times. I look down on women who are willing to change anything and everything about themselves for a man. If it’s not something you’re willing to do for yourself, why would you do it for someone else?

Rather than pathetic, I feel lighter and looser than I ever have. Fizzy, like a bottle of champagne that’s been shaken but not yet popped. Feelings—excited feelings—bubble to the surface. I’ve always had opportunity at my fingertips, and yet this is what spins my insides into a frenzy: spending time with the guy I married for a lot of logical reasons and even more illogical ones.

I smooth the ruffled hem of the pink dress I’m wearing. It’s an outfit I would never wear in New York—it screams girly and innocent and naïve. Today, I’ve forgone my red lips, left my hair down in waves, and I’m wearing sandals. For once, I look my age. Maybe younger. I’ve dropped my guard, and my appearance reflects that.

When I step out into the bedroom, I panic for a split-second. Maybe Crew wants the woman with high heels and higher walls. Maybe any allure is how I’ve been hard to get. I told him no, and it was a novelty. Last night, I acted like his cock was the only one in the world. And I definitely made it obvious I’m not indifferent toward him. I basically admitted to stalking him.

A breeze wafts through the open terrace doors, rubbing the soft cotton against my skin. Every time I see a room in this house, I fall in love with the villa a little bit more. If it were possible to run Haute from here, I’d never leave. As long as Crew stayed too.

He’s standing by the front door, typing something on his phone. Things feel different between us. Not better or worse, just different. What we share—what we don’t—used to be clearly defined. It’s now a blur.

When Crew smiles at me, the bottle gets shaken a little more. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

I follow him outside. We’re not pretending last night never happened—the confessions, the sex, the waking up in bed together—but we haven’t discussed it either. I wasn’t all that drunk last night. I remember every second. My behavior was mostly because I let down my guard and acted the way I wanted to act without worrying about consequences. They don’t seem as glaring in the light of day.

We could have flown back today. Instead, Crew asked if I wanted to go to a football—soccer—game over breakfast. Despite my low interest level in sitting in the hot sun watching a bunch of guys run around and listening to spectators pretend they could play better, I agreed. Because he suggested it.

Driving past dramatic cliffs and dazzling ocean views, it doesn’t feel like much of a hardship. Crew drove a gray Maserati convertible out of the garage, which is what we’re riding in now.

I try and fail to recall another time we’ve been alone in a car together. Everything that would feel commonplace with anyone else feels meaningful with him. I don’t speculate on why that might be. We may be in a decent place right now, but I have no delusions it will last.

Happy for now is more than I expected.

Happy ever afters aren’t realistic.

I spy on Crew under the pretense of studying the scenery, beneath the shade of my sun hat and the cover of Gucci sunglasses. My recent trips to Italy have all been for work, mostly to Milan. I forgot how the craggy coastline can take your breath away, with blue water that’s startlingly clear and vibrant. The color of Crew’s eyes—so pretty you think it is fake.

Crew appears relaxed and alert as we drive. He’s dressed casually, in a white cotton t-shirt and a pair of navy shorts. Wayfarers shield his eyes. This guy is unrecognizable from the Crew Kensington who sidled up to me in Proof. Tan, relaxed, maybe even happy.

Flashes of last night play across my memory as I trace his profile, lingering on the shift of tendons in his arms as he turns the wheel to take a right. I can list the number of guys whose forearms I’ve previously ogled on zero fingers. For some reason, the sight of Crew’s is one I can’t look away from.

He seems content to sit in silence, not making any attempt at conversation. Warm wind zooms past, occasionally carrying strains of conversation or notes of music as other cars pass by. My hair flies around my face. I keep twirling and tucking it behind my back, and after a few minutes, the breeze tugs it free again.

I huff an exasperated sigh, and the corner of Crew’s mouth twitches. My purse is a mess, the same as it always is when I travel. I dig through lip gloss, Euros, hotel chocolate, and my passport—probably should store that somewhere else—before locating a hair tie.

My hair gets wound up in a messy knot, finally staying in place. This feels so different from the climate-controlled interior of a town car. Vacations are usually museum tours and wine tastings. Set itineraries and work calls. Riding in a convertible on a summer day is something I easily could have experienced before. But something in me whispers it wouldn’t feel like this with just anyone.

I can’t ignore Crew. Can’t pretend he’s just the guy chauffeuring me around. Rather than fight it, I embrace the giddiness his presence incites. I recline my seat and prop my bare feet on the dash and fling my hand out the window so it can surf the wind. The hem of my dress creeps up my thighs as I lean back. I watch Crew glance before he white knuckles the steering wheel. I turn my head to the side, not making any attempt to pretend I’m not looking at him.

“See something you like?”

He looks at me before he takes another turn. The sun backlights him, spreading beams of golden hues. “Lots.”

His grin is boyish. Not calculating or predatory, and I realize I’m not the only one who might be sick of perfection and pretenses.

I smile back, and something shifts. There’s a tangible moment where he’s not a Kensington and I’m not an Ellsworth. Where we’re just Crew and Scarlett.

And then his phone rings. It’s connected with the car’s Bluetooth, so the sound blares through the speakers. Isabel flashes across the screen.

Crew answers. “Hello.” His tone is flat, slightly annoyed, and I take some solace in that.

“Crew! Hi!” Hers is peppy and cheery. I roll my eyes before rolling my head so I’m looking out the window instead of at him.

“What is it?”

“I don’t mean to bother you, it’s just—are you in a wind tunnel?”

“Driving,” Crew replies.

“Oh. Uh, well, Asher mentioned you’re extending your trip?”

“Yes.”

“We have the meeting on the Lancaster acquisition this afternoon.”

“I sent you my feedback on the reports this morning. Anything inadequate, flag and I’ll handle when I get back into the office.”

“I saw your email. I just…”

“Just what, Isabel?” Crew sounds impatient.

“You’ve overseen this from start to finish. I’m just surprised you’re not here and instead you’re…well, no one is actually sure what you’re doing. Is everything okay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay…” She drags the word out for as long as it will last. “We have a board meeting on Tuesday. Will you be back by then?”

“Yes,” Crew repeats.

“Your father isn’t happy.”

“So…business as usual?”

Isabel laughs. “Pretty much. I’ll send you the minutes from the meeting by the end of the day.”

“I’ll be offline until tomorrow. No rush.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy with disbelief. “Okay.”

“Bye, Isabel.” Crew ends the call.

“Slacker,” I mutter.

He laughs, but neither of us say anything else for the rest of the ride to the stadium.

I knew soccer—or football, as the Europeans call it, which makes logical sense, just like the metric system—was a popular sport in Italy. The huge crowds that surface before the towering structure is even in sight are still unexpected. Long lines of fans sporting jerseys and wide smiles fill both sides of the sidewalk.

Crew appears unconcerned by the busyness. He pulls into a lot surrounded by a chain-link fence after a quick exchange of Italian with the man guarding the gate. From there, we’re led through a private entrance and into the heart of the stadium. I ask, “How much of the team do you own?”

He smirks at me. “Twenty percent.”

“It wasn’t in the disclosures.”

Crew blinks, brimming with false innocence. “It wasn’t?” I roll my eyes. “I used my trust fund. Technically, that wasn’t covered in the mutual considerations.”

“Looked into every loophole, huh?”

“I wasn’t the one who had the prenup rewritten.”

“Would you have signed, if I’d told you about rouge?” It was in the preliminary stages when I brought the paperwork to Crew. Nothing I needed to disclose—legally speaking—but something I should have.

“If you’d told me, you’d know.”

“I didn’t know what you’d do then.”

“And you know now?”

His question sounds like a lot more than just the one decision. Like he’s asking if I know him.

“I don’t know.” It’s not a lie, but I can’t help but feel the honest answer is yes.

Crew’s gaze lingers on my expression for a few seconds, but he says nothing.

Our seats are right at the edge of the field. I stare out at the expanse of green grass as Crew talks to the man who brought us to them in Italian. My French might be iffy, but my knowledge of the native language doesn’t extend beyond Ciao.

Even though the game hasn’t started yet, the field is filled with activity. Players at both ends are running drills and stretching. Others are jogging in place or talking to coaches.

Crew takes the seat next to me. “You know much about soccer?”

“What is there to know? You try to kick the ball into the net.”

He chuckles softly as he leans back. His bare arm brushes mine, and it sears. The sun has nothing on the surface of Crew’s skin. “I think you missed your calling as a coach.”

I scoff. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Come where?”

“The villa. This stadium.”

His legs spread out, crowding the plastic barrier that separates us from grass. “A few times a year. In college…the guys would always want to party. London, Copenhagen, you know. And my dad only wants to go to the Alps or to a good golf course.”

“This is better.”

“And here I thought we’d disagree about everything.”

It’s not exactly a smooth segway, but I blurt the question anyway. “Are you expecting last night to happen again?”

“Which part? When you admitted to stalking me, the skipping, or when I carried you up three flights of stone steps?”

I’m not exactly cool, sitting in the sun. But my cheeks still manage to overheat more. “Forget it.”

“I hope so.”

Against my better judgement, I meet his gaze. And since he’s no longer driving, he holds it without worrying about crashing.

“I really hope so. All of it, plus the sex.”

I pretend that doesn’t merit a response, choosing to focus on the figures on the field instead of the one next to me. It works for a while, until the actual game starts.

Crew either thinks his commentary is invaluable or is trying to prompt a response out of me, because he spews an endless stream of facts about different players I couldn’t care less about.

I alternate between smirking and sighing. Professional soccer games last for longer than I thought.

The most excitement is when the black and white ball bounces off a post with ten minutes left. But I’m not entirely bored.

It’s hot and loud. We spent the French Open in the shade sipping champagne. Yet I’d rather be here than back there.

Nearly three hours pass before the game ends. Scoreless, neither team makes a single goal. Crew continues his analysis—until the same man reappears and asks him something in Italian.

He turns to me. “The team owner wants to talk. Do you mind waiting?”

Days—maybe even hours ago—I would have given an honest yes because sitting around here for even longer is one of the last things I feel like doing. Warming toward Crew isn’t the equivalent of a personality transplant, though, so I don’t say no either. “I’ll come with you.”

Something in Crew’s expression suggests my middle ground isn’t what he considers a compromise, but he doesn’t argue, just nods.

We leave our seats, following the mysterious Italian who must work for the team. Halfway up the stairs, Crew grabs my hand, tugging me closer so that his body is the one cutting through the crowd. Once again, I tamp down the urge to fight him. I feel like I’ve proven to Crew I can handle myself. He knows I’m fully capable of shoving my way through rowdy fans. If he wants to do it for me, fine. A more concerning realization is how much I like the way it feels—having him take care of me in some small way. I’ve fought hard to establish independence. Relying on others is often setting yourself up for disappointment. I tell myself this isn’t a slippery slope, that letting Crew lead me through the stadium isn’t an indication I’m knocking down boundaries I carefully built.

I lie to myself.

The crowds thin the deeper we get into the stadium. Most people are leaving, not entering. We pass into a private section that requires our silent guide to flash his badge. The hallway is empty and quiet, the only sounds muffled by concrete walls.

Crew keeps hold of my hand, and I don’t let go either. We step into an elevator and then out into another hallway, this one carpeted and plush. Full-size photos of players line the walls.

“Antonio, can you give us a minute?”

The man accompanying us—Antonio—nods and keeps walking down the hallway for a few dozen feet before stopping.

I glance between him and Crew. “What is it?”

“I need you to wait in here.” He opens the door to our left, revealing an empty suite overlooking the field.

My eyes narrow. “Why?”

He sighs. “The team owner…well, he’s a dick. His father ran things when I got involved, and it’s been a rocky transition. I was hoping to avoid him. Someone must have told him I was here.”

“I can handle dicks.”

Crew’s smile is brief. “I can’t. He’ll hit on you, or worse, and I’ll hit him.” His voice is grim honesty. “I’d just gotten access to my trust fund when I invested in this team. It was a stupid whim, and I’m lucky it paid off. My involvement is minimal. If it becomes a mess, it will be a real pain in the ass.”

“You could just, you know, not punch the guy,” I suggest.

“I’m not going to stand by and let someone insult you.”

“It sounds more like he’d be complimenting me.”

He exhales. “Please?”

That’s what gets me. The please. I’m curious to meet this guy. But my inclination when Crew asks me to do something has become to listen, not to argue. So I agree. “Okay.”

It happens fast. There’s less than a foot of space between us, so Crew only has to take one step forward before his lips are crashing into mine. It’s nothing like an obligatory farewell kiss. His tongue teases mine. His teeth tug on my lower lip. His hands pull my hips flush against his.

The sigh when he steps back is heavy with regret and annoyance, neither of which appear to be aimed at me. “It’ll be quick, okay?”

He’s striding away toward a waiting Antonio before I can reply. I wander into the suite, feeling a little dazed. It doesn’t appear anyone watched the game from here today—everything is spotless.

I walk to the far end of the suite, looking out over the field. This is a very different view than the one from the edge of the grass. The entire field is spread out in a symmetrical rectangle, green grass separated by stark white lines.

I snoop around the suite. Drink some water. Answer some work emails. Sophie texted me this morning, asking about getting together. Aside from one short brunch weeks ago, I haven’t seen her or Nadia since my wedding. I reply, suggesting they come over to my place for a girls’ night next week. My mother responded to the photo I sent of me and Crew in Paris with an invitation we come over for dinner soon. I don’t know whether to be resentful or appreciative of the effort. Anything regarding my parents usually comes with strings attached. Before Crew and I got married, requests to see me were usually predicated on events where they thought my absence would be offensive.

Finally, Crew returns. Alone, Antonio has disappeared.

“Sorry. It took longer than I thought it would.”

I stand and walk over to him. “It’s fine. Means your investment is doing well, right?”

His smirk has nuclear side effects. “Right.”

My plans for a quick exit rapidly rearrange. I have no idea why I notice the details I do. Crew has a single freckle beneath his left eye. A dark brown circle that is slightly thinner at the top than the bottom. Not perfectly round.

“Are you ready to go?”

My response surprises us both. “No.” This outing was all him. To plan, to control, to end. Suddenly, I don’t want it to.

To Crew’s credit, he reacts fast. “You discovered a deep love of European football?”

“Not exactly.” I press up against him, forcing him back. He doesn’t have to acquiesce, but he does. I guide him back to one of the couches and down.

Crew’s eyes are molten pools of blue as he realizes where this is heading. It’s good—fantastic—for my ego.

I straddle him and discover he’s already growing hard. I feel heady with power as I rub against him. He hisses and grabs my hips. “Favorite position?”

“Have we been here before?” I tease.

“Scarlett.”

I’ve always liked my first name, the way the syllables sound. Every time Crew says it like this—as if saying it is a precious gift—I fall in love with it more. And maybe not just with the eight letters.

“I didn’t lock the door,” he murmurs.

“I don’t think this will take long.” I stand. Kick off my sandals and pull down my thong.

Crew leans back on the leather couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his eyes half-lidded with lust as I return to my spot on his lap and unzip his shorts. He makes a low grunt as I grip him, his throat working as he fights the urge to thrust in my hand.

His hands creep up my thighs.

“No touching,” I whisper. “Unless you beg.”

One of his famous mouth curls makes an appearance as his hands fall away. There was a time when I didn’t think Crew Kensington was capable of backing down about anything. His reputation is a ruthless one. People like him, but they also respect him. He’s a worthy opponent and a powerful ally. But for me, he bends.

He clenches his jaw as he grows harder. I keep stroking him, teasing him with slight drops of my hips that almost allow him to slide inside. His breathing grows faster and quicker. We’re both fully clothed, the skirt of my pink dress spread across his lap, covering everything we’re doing. Somehow, that makes it that much hotter. Crew looks pained as he studies my boobs, just inches from his face.

“No touching,” I repeat, before I let him slip inside me. Only the tip, and then I raise my hips out of reach.

He groans and I grin.

“You told me to fuck you bare last night. Why?”

Crew asking about sex right before we have sex feels strangely intimate. I’ve never discussed the act with other guys I’ve slept with. It just happened. “It was our first time.”

He doesn’t reply with a duh. But his “I know” isn’t much better.

Crew isn’t touching me. I’m still setting the pace. But all of a sudden, I no longer feel like I’m in control. “I figured you didn’t…usually. And I’m clean and on birth control.” He’s young, hot, and heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire. If he’s not wrapping it up, he’s an idiot. And I don’t think he is.

Talking in circles isn’t my usual mode of communication, but I think Crew knows what I’m saying. I wanted our first time to be something special, something different. Just the fact it was him wasn’t supposed to be enough, even though it felt like it was.

I won’t so much as allude to this, but I also want him to trust me. Stupid, considering I’ve given him several reasons not to. Considering I’ve lied. I’m worried fessing up now might destroy any shaky trust we have built.

Crew holds my gaze as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his leather wallet. Silly disappointment fills me, but I keep a neutral expression plastered in place.

“We should be careful.” He says the words as he rolls the condom on. I focus on what he’s doing, so I don’t have to look him in the eye.

“We should,” I agree. Instead of telling him I haven’t slept with anyone else in months. Instead of asking him whether he is sleeping with anyone else.

I tease him with a few more rolls of my hips, and then I drop my pelvis again. I’m dripping, and he slides in with no resistance. Even deeper than last time.

Crew is swearing, his hands clenched into fists as he visibly restrains himself. “Please, Scarlett. Fuck, I—fuck. Move, Red. Please.”

I comply, and my release starts to build instantly. I’m close, so close, and I feel the dredges of my willpower snap. I no longer care about being in control. About his insistence on wearing a condom. About the fact this trip is a respite from the reality we’ll have to face soon.

“Touch me, Crew, please.”

I beg, and he doesn’t tease me about it. He’s suddenly everywhere. His lips suckle their way along my neck. One hand massages my breast, and the other sneaks between my thighs to touch the soaking spot where he’s sliding inside me.

I detonate in seconds. Hot, blinding pleasure washes over every inch of me, lighting up every cell and spreading heat. Crew takes over, impaling me on himself again and again. Prolonging my release and jerking inside me as he finds his own.

I collapse against him, breathing heavily. My limbs feel loose and languid, wrung out.

His hands run up and down my calves.

“And they say reality doesn’t live up to fantasy,” Crew whispers to me.

I smile against his hot skin.

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