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Sloane’s pen stilled.
“I know,” she said, even softer than before, and a tiny, crucial brick crumbled from around my heart.
We didn’t say much else after that, but later that night, after the movie ended and our half-eaten food had grown cold, I carried a drowsy Sloane to her bedroom and tucked her in beneath her comforter.
She fully passed out before her head hit the pillow. It’d been a long, emotionally draining day for her, but I didn’t take for granted how comfortable she felt falling asleep while I was here.
As I smoothed a stray lock of hair from her face, revealing the curve of her cheekbone and the shadow crescents of her closed lashes, Pen’s question from the simulation center echoed in my ears.
And I wondered, my mind flipping from the first time we’d met in her office to this moment right here, right now, just how in the hell I’d fallen in love with Sloane Kensington.
CHAPTER35
Xavier
Ididn’t confess to Sloane. Not yet.
I wasn’t sure she reciprocated my feelings to that degree, and I needed to figure out a way to tell her without potentially scaring her off.
I did, however, stay with her Monday night through Tuesday morning, when she left for work and I called Vuk’s office back, apologized, and confirmed a walkthrough of the vault later in the month. I spent the rest of the day dealing with club obligations.
On Wednesday, I took care of more unofficial business.
The Arthur Vanderbilt Tennis Club was one of the oldest private tennis clubs on the East Coast. A favorite haunt of the polo-wearing, polo-playing crowd, it charged an obscene amount of money for annual access and was famous for the time visiting tennis superstar Richard McEntire attacked a ball boy with his tennis racket and knocked several of his teeth out. I hadn’t known it was possible to knock someone’s teeth out with a racket, but apparently it was, because McEntire and the club settled the case for a cool two million dollars.
As a Castillo, I was granted automatic admission, so on Wednesday afternoon, at the tail end of lunch hour, when old-money bankers flocked to the indoor courts for a workout and boys’ talk, I strode through the halls toward the men’s locker room.
A cacophony of noise greeted me when I stepped inside. Steam thickened the air, partially obscuring the mahogany panels and crowd of finance bros as they prepared to return to work. Nevertheless, it didn’t take me long to find who I was looking for. Bentley Harris II held court in the coveted center aisle. He was busy laughing and joking with several guys who looked like carbon copies of him: clean-cut, clean-shaven, and half-dressed in business formal.
He had his back to me, so he didn’t notice my approach. “Our new receptionist is hot, but she’s blond,” he said. “I get enough of that at home. Georgia’s been a real bitch lately. She came home Monday all pissed about something—what?”
One of his friends had noticed me and nudged his arm. Bentley turned, his expression souring when he saw me. “Harris.” I donned an affable tone, the type I’d use to greet an old classmate or a friendly acquaintance.
“Castillo,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t realize you were a member of the club.”
“They offered me a courtesy membership when I first moved to New York,” I said lazily, my smile hiding the flicker of rage in my gut. “Of course, I don’t use it often. Why come here when I could go to Valhalla?”
A wave of embarrassed discontent rippled through the air, subtle but distinctive.
I barely used my Valhalla membership either, but everyone knew the tennis club was a consolation prize for people who couldn’t get a Valhalla invite—like Bentley and company, for example.
Bentley’s jaw ticked. His eyes darted to his friends before he forced a laugh. “How lucky of us to see you here then,” he mocked. “Are you slumming it, or did Valhalla finally kick you out after they realized your spot could go to someone more worthwhile?”
“You mean like you? Sadly, their roster’s still full,” I drawled. “As for slumming, you’re right. I came by to see you.”
The noise from the rest of the locker room dwindled as everyone tried, and failed, to pretend they weren’t eavesdropping. Brewing aggression crackled like static before a storm, and the steadydrip, drip, dripof water from the showers sounded unnaturally loud in the tension-laced air.
Bentley took a step toward me, his face all smiles but his eyes hot and bright with humiliated anger. “If you want to see me, make an appointment,” he said with a misplaced sense of bravado. He thought he was safe here, surrounded by his friends and the reek of privilege. “I don’t talk to jobless losers.”
My rage from Monday night reignited—not at his jab toward me but at the vision of him speaking to Sloane with that same snide condescension.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said, still with my affable tone. “I’m not here to talk.”
Then I drew back my arm and slammed my fist into his face.
There was a satisfying crunch of bone, followed by a howl of pain. Blood fountained from his nose as he staggered backward and the brewing storm broke, loosening a frenzy of shouts and jeers as the other locker room occupants shoved one another for the best view of the fight.
None of them intervened, but the ruckus fueled the anger burning swift and hot through me.
