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The petty part of me clinging on to the notion Crew Kensington is a means to an end, not someone who will mean something, is tempted to walk away. Instead, I decide to drop the act. Especially since Crewwillthink it’s an act.
I step closer to Crew. He’s wearing a white button down with the sleeves rolled up. His bare arm is pressed against mine now, sending small shockwaves across the surface of my skin. The electrifying sensation is almost enough to make me forget the purpose of this.
I take the glass from Crew’s hand and take a sip, almost draining the remnants of the smoky alcohol. Bourbon. My painted lips leave some red residue behind, and I place it back in his hand. Not the most subtle of gestures, and neither is the choice to use my left hand. Diamonds glint in the sunshine.
“I’m surprised you’re still hitting the nightclubs, Olivia. Don’t you think we should leave that to the teenagers?”
I feel Crew’s eyes on me.
“Oh, I do. Aside from the occasional girls’ night out. I’m sure you can appreciate that, Scarlett. You’re so…independent.” Olivia’s voice holds just as much sugar as mine as she edges back a half-step from Crew.
“Yes, I am.”
“Well, it’s lovely to see you. This has become the only event I know I’ll see you at.”
“Work has been busy.”
Olivia’s lips purse at the mention ofHaute.“You’ve worked miracles with that little magazine. I’d hardly even heard of it, and suddenly I see people mentioning it everywhere.”
“I prefer to think of it as wise investing and effective marketing than miraculous,” I reply. “And didn’t your father place a bid on my ‘little’ magazine?”
I know he did. I outbid Joseph Adams by ten million and have already made it back tenfold.
“I believe he considered it,” Olivia replies. “He decided print is a dying market.”
“Pity. Our earning statements tell a different story,” I respond, savoring the way her lips tighten.
“Just what you need. More money,” Olivia retorts, a bit of her sweetness dissolving.
“My thoughts exactly,” I reply.
Awkward silence falls. “I’ll let you two catch up,” I add. But before I walk away, I turn my head and whisper into Crew’s ear. “I’m not getting wasted tonight. We’re sharing a bed, after all.”
I don’t wait for his reaction to the implication. I smile at the Spencers and then head toward the pool.
When we reach the sand, I kick my heels off. The feel of the rough grains between my toes lightens the anxieties I’ve carried around all night. Rachel and Penelope, two women I went to boarding school with, are laughing and stumbling as we approach the roaring bonfire built on the beach. A bottle of Dom Perignon dangles between Rachel’s fingers as she talks a million miles an hour, occasionally almost falling flat on her face.
The bonfire is an annual Fourth of July tradition I’ve never participated in, which is something Penelope has pointed out three times in the ten minutes it’s taken to walk the boardwalk from my parents’ place to here in the dark. It’s exactly what I pictured it to be. Forced small talk with my social peers is one thing. Drunken debauchery is another. I’ve seen too many fake smiles followed by back-handed compliments.
As an Ellsworth, I’ve always been held to a higher standard. I know it. So does everyone else. People on pedestals appear perfect. Until they fall.
I’m no longer an Ellsworth, though. I’m a Kensington. Untouchable. Not only is Crew rich and connected, peoplelikehim.
We reach the group loosely gathered around the flickering flames. I glance over familiar faces, taking a quick inventory of everyone here—basically everyone who was at my parents’ party under the age of thirty. I catch Crew’s gaze across the fire. He’s standing with a group of guys, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. There’s no tie or suit in sight. Just a pair of navy swim trunks and a white button down that’s mostly unbuttoned. His hair is mussed. By the wind…or by something else. Would he do that? At my parents’ party with me present? I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since our interaction with the Spencers. If he wanted to, he easily could have slipped away for a while.
Rachel pops the champagne with a squeal, drawing my attention back to her and Penelope. Sprays of white foam hit the sand as she directs the stream of golden liquid into the crystal glasses Penelope carried down. I take the offered one with a thanks. Bubbles tickle my throat as I down half of it in one sip.
Down here, in the dark, I feel different. I don’t feel on display. The compulsion to appear perfect and know exactly what to say is gone. Familiar warmth trickles through my veins as I drain my glass, lightening and loosening my movements.
I’m comfortable enough to chime in on Rachel and Penelope’s commentary. Soon, they’re taking bets on who is most likely to go skinny-dipping. I laugh as they recount previous years’ anecdotes while deciding who’s likely to go for a repeat.
“What about Crew?” I ask, when he’s the only guy they haven’t mentioned.
Rachel and Penelope exchange a look. “Crew never comes to the Hamptons in the summer,” Rachel tells me.
“Oh.”
“People had bets on today, you know.” She laughs at my surprised expression. “Don’t worry, I bet he’d be here. Only idiots didn’t. They’re the same people who call you a stuck-up bitch—they should know better.”
