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He still doesn’t talk to the press regularly, but he doesn’t leave their accusations unanswered. He became his own press secretary and posted videos on social media pushing back on false headlines. And when they lost interest, he started sharing his private pictures. And sued newspapers that used his images without his permission.

I watch the exchange between him and the bartender out of the corner of my eye and am giddy that the wickedly sweet dimpleisas deep as I’d imagined. And God, I want to lick it.One day, my pretty.

Thishasto be a sign. He’s so far out of my league, I shouldn’t be able to see him. And at the pub, I wouldn’t dare approach him.

But here I am, close enough to seeandtouch. And I look good tonight. I’m glad I took special care to send my most fashionable friend off.

The bustier I invested in makes my otherwise unimpressively small breasts look their very best in the very low neckline of my scarlet red minidress. It’s hugging every inch of a body that even CrossFit and a vegan diet couldn’t kill the curves on.

The lighting in this ballroom sets off the healthy glow of my bare legs, shoulders, décolletage, and back that is courtesy of my homemade sugar scrub. It leaves me smelling like a tropical garden at midnight.

Liquid courage and my heels give me height and confidence that override my nerves, and I shoot my shot.

“Do you want to dance?” I ask loudly so there’s no way he won’t hear me.

Those wolf eyes slant down to look at me, unblinking, the smile he’d given the bartender long gone. There’s no flicker of recognition, but there’s no mistaking the interest as he stares at me. He’s never done more than look past me at the pub, so I don’t know why I’m disappointed that he doesn’t recognize me.

“Excuse me? I didn’t hear you,” he says when he finally speaks. Hisvoice.It’s deep, smooth—no gravel but a lot of bass. And is there anything sexier than an American accent? I smile as widely as I can manage, the punters at the Effra call it my traffic stopping smile. Then I break my golden rule and repeat myself. “Would you like to dance?”

He doesn’t return my smile, and when he turns to look at the dance floor, that scowl reappears. “I don’t dance,” he comments without looking back at me.

I follow his gaze. “Childhood trauma on the dance floor?” I ask with a teasing grin.

His lips tug up a little, but he doesn’t smile. “No. General observation. People look ridiculous when they dance.”

I can’t deny that. But I shake my head in disagreement. “They’re having fun, not putting on a show.”

He shrugs. “That’s not my idea of fun. Like I said, I don’t dance.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out his phone, and glances at it. He gives me a quick, stiff smile. “I’m sorry, but I have to take this call.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all and doesn’t wait for me to respond before he walks off.

“Ouch,” the bartender drawls, and I want to glare at him and tell him I didn’t ask for his feedback. But he’s so right I can’t be mad.

“I know,” I groan.

“For what it’s worth, if I wasn’t working I wouldn’t have said no.” He grins, and I wish I was attracted to him instead of Omar.

I smile gratefully and take the refill he hands me. But a few sips of it while swaying by myself to a song I’ve never heard before only makes me feel worse.

I put my glass on the tray of a passing server and head to the coat check to collect my things.

CHAPTER 4

OLIVE BRANCH

Omar

Layel’s texthad simply read, “Call me.”

Three months ago, I would have bristled at the entitlement of her demand and ignored her until I was ready to call. I love her, she loves me, and we agreed to live and let live when it came to my mother. But that became impossible for me when she died. And now my sister and I are as far apart as we’ve ever been on anything.

This is the first time she’s texted me since I left Houston, and I know her well enough to know that it’s an olive branch. After months of not hearing her voice, I miss her. And my issue isn’t really with her, but my father.

She was as upset by my leaving as he was. We had a loud and bitter argument about my decision to take a leave of absence. But I couldn’t stay. I didn’t know how to handle the resentment I felt toward my father.

He and I have to communicate about matters to do with the Fund. But outside of that, we don’t speak at all.

I duck out onto a deserted balcony, as far away from the noise of the party as I can.

It’s a cool summer night, the air is still damp from the burst of rain we had a few minutes ago. The view of St. Paul’s Cathedral nestled against the inky light speckled skyline is spectacular. I sink into one of the seats that faces it so I can at least have something nice to look at during what, I’m sure, is going to be a contentious conversation.