What I need to find is the basement. The closest I got was the wine cellar, and I saw nothing weird in there. With a home that’s so insecure, a secret basement is a must, especially in Louisiana, where basements are rare. How do they even have a wine cellar? Maybe because part of the property is on a hill.
Anyway, I’d have to go downstairs to find a secret basement, and I can’t do that right now. I’ll have to make do with what I can find upstairs.
After endless roaming forever, I end up in a bedroom.
This room has a different shade of gray on the walls than the rest of the house. These are a darker, more muddy shade. Probably red, if I had to guess. Tons of expensive art, maybe more than I’m worth, hang on the walls around the big, perfectly centered king-size bed. It has to be Kingsley’s.
It’s just like him, unnervingly put together. Calm when it should be vulgar. Quiet when it should be loud.
I’m careful as I rummage through his drawers and closet. If he’s as I imagine, he’ll notice if a sock is out of place. If there’snothing valuable here, then Thomas and I have basically tossed our precious time in the bin and taken a huge risk for nothing.
On the dresser, there are two nicely framed photos placed next to each other.
The first one is a selfie of two girls, one of whom I recognize as Odette, and the other must be his other sister I’ve never met. They’ve got their arms around Kingsley, grinning at the camera while he smirks in the center. Wow, we weren’t lying to Mya when we said they all get their looks from her.
The other one, though, makes me pause. Kingsley and Sylvie are at the beach in this photo, and Kingsley has his arm around her as the sun brings out the shine in his skin. I only recognize Sylvie from my research. With her hip popped and lips pursed, her brown hair is blowing in the wind.
The girl is happy as can be. Her fiancé? Not so much.
He’s smiling, yes, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The prince is clutching the overflowing beach bag, flip-flops, sunglasses, and other unnecessary items on the verge of spilling, and his eyes look like they want to be anywhere but where he is now. It’s like how drained he shows now, only nowhere near as far gone.
Hmm. Weird.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I pull it out, there’s a message.
Unknown number
Are you cold?
Who is texting me? Normally, I’d block the number, but this time I’m tempted to text back.
Rip
Who is this?
Unknown number
The only person who would ask you if it’s cold
Kingsley. Who the hell gave him my number? He has Thomas’ for a reason.
Rip
Don’t bring up the wine cellar anymore
Why are you texting me?
Kingsley
Why can’t we talk about the wine cellar?
Why would he want to talk about the wine cellar? Nothing good went on in there. We got at each other’s throats, we almost froze to death, and I had to use every ounce of restraint to stop myself from kissing him. Yeah,nothinggood.
That was my hypothermic brain making me do shit I would never even think of otherwise. Kingsley Beaumont is a pest who gets under my skin, whom I have to suck it up and get close to—not someone to kiss. I don’t even kiss girls; why would I kiss guys?
Rip
I like women.
