Page 1 of A Royally Fake French Menage (Rippton U Creatives #3)
BARCLAY
“ D o you want to come on a date to a castle? Not a real one, just a fake one.”
Those were the words that fell out of my mouth as I stared down at the prettiest little thing Rippton U had to offer.
Genie Lockwood.
My long term crush of four months and three days. The longest I’d ever had in this country. She was cute, sweet, and nothing like my fucked up mess of an ex on campus
And I screwed my chances with her the moment I ballsed up enough to ask her out. At least, I thought I did.
But as always, Genie surprised me.
“The castle, or the date?” She tilted her heart shaped face up and pierced me with those burnt honey eyes that read the lies etched on my soul.
Genie stood in the middle of the campus commons on a perfectly bright, cheery morning, and fuck me did sunshine lance through my soul when she stared at me like that.
“I do beg your pardon?” Twenty-one years of immaculate chevalier training on both my English and French lineage sides kicked in to preserve my pasty ass with an excess of manners.
“Barclay Augustus Chesterfield. Pay attention.” She snapped nude and pale pink tipped nails in my face.
Something in her hazel gaze softened the gesture, along with a little booty shake that I could have drooled over for the rest of the afternoon.
Or at least until the sun set across campus.
“Which one is the fake part? I mean, a crappy cardboard castle sounds terrible but a fake date, I can do.” She smiled brightly, though her hazel eyes remained curious.
Now she thinks I’m a fucking loon. Not that she’d be wrong.
I coughed into my fist, my cheeks heating as a pretty girl watched me with equally pretty eyes. “Uh, no. The castle is real.” Two actually. Depending on the country in question. Shit, is my English passport out of date this year?
The things I couldn't do for myself without paid help about. All the product of a misspent you, if I’d had one at all.
“Awesome.” Genie bounced a little on the balls of her feet and beamed at me. Damn if the sun didn’t glow a little brighter, and angels didn’t fall from the heavens to worship at her delicate toes. “Where are we going?”
“France?” I winced as her eyebrows rose a fraction. “I mean, that’s where the family dinner is, and I need a date. It’s about two hours out of Paris. And… I might have told my mother I had a plus one,” I muttered, breaking eye contact and tried not to wince as I studied my tan loafers.
Fail .
Not my finest moment. I’d admit it, if only to myself.
“Okay.” She smiled up at me when I risked a glance, all cute and stunning and so fucking droolworthy.
I closed my mouth with a wet-sounding snap and managed not to get my excess of saliva on her fluffy fuchsia cardigan. “You're coming?" I couldn't keep the surprise out of my tone.
“I mean, I’ll be your fake date, Barclay.” She shimmied her shoulders, that same cheeky glint in her eye.
Wait. Was my crush flirting with me? I gawked at her long enough that I nearly missed her next words. “What?”
“When is it?"
Genie still wore that curiosity-over-conflict expression, but rather than being shy like I expected, she looked more… Excited.
I nodded like a fucking bobble head dog that needed a short leash now . Maybe she could hold it for me. "You know, I've had a crush on you for the last two years." Way to spill the beans, Barclay.
Maybe I should just move back to France and stay there.
Or England, though the staff would probably eat me alive.
Coming to the USA had seemed like a fun idea.
An escape. A game to play. An easy merge away from an overbearing stepmother once my father’s funeral was over and I had no reason to stay any longer.
And all it did was make me complacent.
I needed more than a fake date and a weekend in a castle that had never been home to recall the mantle of the title I hated.
Barclay Augustus Chesterfield, Marquess of La Borde, France, and Marquess of Bracksley, England.
Dual titles. Though of course neither talked about the other.
And so America has seemed a simple solution. Leave it all behind and…play.
Two years I’d been at Rippton U where I enrolled my English French noble ass to get the fuck out of Dodge… Or at least shy as far away from my responsibilities as an ocean or two would allow, depending on my departure route.
The elite private college in California seemed a good place to make new friends, discover fresh enemies and screw everything that walked past without regard to gender.
Being away from France provided the ultimate freedom for which I paid a hefty price tag, though the multimillion dollar personal tithe all students on campus paid barely scratched the surface of my bank happy nine figure conglomerate account.
And now, it was time to go back. Last night I’d received a summons from my stepmother which sent me into a spiral I hadn’t been able to dig myself out of until one excellent roommate in Nick Jessop offered a solution:
Homemade moonshine, the promise of an epic hangover and a liquid based brainstorming session. I was always up for a new challenge.
And, as it turned out, I did receive my pickled inspiration, if only to blurt my idea out to the crush I’d had for nearly my entire tenure on campus.
Genie laughed, a tinkling sound that turned every head in the courtyard. "Of course, I know you’ve been crushing on me, Barclay.” She patted my arm tracing her nails across my sleeve. Gooseflesh rippled beneath where she couldn’t see, thankfully. “The trip will be fun. When do we leave?"
"Tonight?" I raised both eyebrows.
Asking about mundane things like clothes, packing, or passports never crossed my mind. Genie Lockwood was heiress to one of Europe’s largest luxury brands. She probably traveled more often than I did.
And just like me she was off boarded to Rippton U to learn a little American, uh, subculture. Her other mission was likely to make the connections with the other offspring of the ridiculously wealthy that would take her future empire higher.
And probably connect well enough to secure a decent marriage.
The thought left a bitter note in my mouth that had nothing to do with Nick’s ferocious blend from last night.
She smiled and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I think I can do that. France is quite lovely. See you when you pick me up."
When I expected her to turn away, Genie caught me in her piercing gaze again, raised up onto her toes like a perfect ballet dancer, and brushed those plush, dusky pink lips across my cheek. A series of tingles sparked across my shoulders, right to the base of my spine.
"Will do," I managed to force out past dry lips, staring more like an American than the hybrid French British marquis I’d been born as, according to my paper worked pedigree.
Genie sashayed away. My eyes fell to those luxurious hips with curves just large enough to fill my palms. I wanted to hold onto her and bang all night long like my life depended on it.
A few steps along her genteel retreat, she gave a little wiggle.
I stared.
Was that a happy dance?
I shook my head and headed back to the Kingsman frat house at the far side of campus, wondering why it was suddenly me who wasn’t sure what the hell I got myself into, and not her.
"Not the armor again. Jesus wept, Barclay." Beau Bennett folded his arms and blocked my progress along the upstairs hallway of the Kingsman frat house.
The house where I’d lived for the past two years and left when an offer to get the hell out of the sights of this asshole came up. Beau Bennett, Allstar jock and mafia heir, was scarier than my grandmother had ever been on my English side, and that was saying something.
I straightened, tugging on the bowtie at my throat with one finger. The urge didn’t secure me enough room to breathe, though I swiped sweat from the inside of the band. I strangled the thick rope connected to the ancient chest scraping its way along the plush carpeting in my wake with the other.
Time to fess up.
"Okay, so my lazy ass didn't move all the armor last time when I left, and I need to reclaim this.
Plus, I'll get castrated by someone so much worse than you if I don't take it back.” Lie.
The armor belonged to the English side but he didn't need to know the stepmonster didn't need it back.
I shimmied up a smile just for him. On anyone else I knew that move came across as cute, unobtrusive and maybe even a come on.
With this man? I was a nuisance to be squashed into the woolen threads of his carpet that I mangled beneath the ancient chest that bore plenty of scars.
But the concept of not returning to France without the entire contingent of family armor didn’t bear thinking about. I couldn’t leave anything unattended with this man lurking about, and certainly not beneath his roof a moment longer.
Beau’s eyes narrowed as I became the sole focus of his attention. "Why?”
One word, and the man gave me whiplash.
I froze like a Rippton U goalie against an oncoming Blackstone U opposing team hellbent on our mutual destruction.
The last time I flirted with him, Beau ended up with both the girls I wanted, fucking them each publicly on party night in full view of the frat house and then some.
The whole debacle left me whimpering after my conniving ex.
Becoming involved with her again turned out to be a poor choice in a long line of equally shitty decisions that night.
I moved out of the Kingsman house to get the fuck away from Bennett and his ilk the following week, preferring the mixed odd company of the rockstar, the geek, the goth girl, and the tennis champion who made up my current independent household and out of Allstar-fratboy land.
Along with the rest of the family armor.
Not taking the whole lot with me at the time seemed remiss at this point, but I hated sweat. Just another fucking poor decision on my part.