Page 47

AIDEN

S he wakes an hour later, while I’m flicking through my emails. The presentation Tristan and I are working on for the board meeting is nearly done. He thinks that showing Grandfather that Old Kingdom can be profitable might convince him to help us get the bottles back.

“I missed crossword hour,” Emory says sleepily.

“You miss it?” I glance down at her. Her blond hair is fanned over her pillow, her face relaxed. She has freckles on the edges of her lips. I curl my fingers into my hand so I don’t reach for her and press my fingers to them.

“I like hanging out with you in the morning. Besides, how am I going to maintain my winning record?”

“I’ll give you a pass. Just this once. Because you look like hell.”

She snorts a laugh, her lips curling. Every time I make her laugh, there’s an easing in my chest, like I did something right for the day. I smile too, because pretending to hate her has become our inside joke.

“We can do our getting to know you questions today, though. It’s your turn.”

She yawns. “Do we have to? I feel like I like you enough.”

I still, my heart thudding in my chest. “What does enough mean?”

Her eyes slit. “Aiden. Be serious. You rescued me in the rain. You carried me to the beach the other night. You play games with me. You’re, like, incredibly, annoyingly honest and protective.” She makes a face. “I like you.”

“I like you too, Em.” My voice is hoarse. I didn’t know she saw me like that. For all her snapping, Emory is sweet when she wants to be. You’re so much more than the Heir. She meant it. She fucking meant it, and it feels like a piece of me slots into place, then settles.

“You just like me because I’m being nice right now,” she says grumpily.

I can’t help my grin. “It’s so rare.” I smooth a hand over her hair. “If you didn’t look like hell, I’d take a video. Something to remember this by. The one time my wife didn’t growl at me.”

Her face wrinkles in a scowl. “Not nice.”

“The growls are pretty cute, though.”

She shoves at my thigh.

“Going to have to do better than that if you want me out of this bed,” I tease.

She sighs. “I hate being sick.”

“Of course you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that the woman who insists she never cries would hate being sick. It tracks.”

She tilts her head as I rub my thumb over her neck. “I don’t cry. And being sick sucks.”

“Why’s that?”

She’s quiet for a minute, and I keep sifting her silky hair through my fingers, marveling at how each strand catches the light.

“Do you—” She swallows. “Do you ever feel like if you let your walls down, you’ll never be able to rebuild them? Like if you let yourself be weak for even a day, you’ll forget how to be strong?” Her words are halting and quiet.

There’s a pang in my chest. “Yeah. I know that feeling. I’ve spent my whole life pretending.” I smooth my thumb over the divot between her brows. “But I’ll tell you a secret, Emory.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“I like you just as much when you’re being mean to me, but you can be soft with me too. I’ll never judge you. And those walls? I like you just as much without them.”

Maybe more.

Or maybe I just like being the man who gets to breach them.

“Huh.” She smiles sleepily. “See? I’m glad I didn’t miss this.” She snuggles deeper into the bed, and after several moments, she says, “Aiden, will you stay?”

Something sweet and aching blooms behind my ribs.

“Of course,” I tell her.

I’m halfway through a text to Tristan about projections for future vintages when Emory wakes again. “I don’t feel good,” she says faintly. “I think you should go.” She looks flushed and sweaty.

In response, I press the back of my hand to her forehead. “You’re hotter than before. I’m going to find you medicine.”

“I don’t want to get you sick, Aiden.”

“I have a very strong immune system.” And, if I’m being honest, she looks like death, and I’m worried.

I smooth her hair off her face, then pull my phone out of my pocket. Andreas seems like the one she’d ask for help over Benedict.

Aiden

What does she eat when she’s sick?

Andreas

She’s sick?

She’s literally never sick

I frown down at the phone. That can’t be true. People get sick all the time.

“Who takes care of you when you’re sick?” I ask her.

“Hmm?” She stirs on the bed and curls closer to me.

“Emory,” I repeat. “Who takes care of you when you’re sick?”

“I take care of myself,” she says, burrowing her head into a pillow.

I snap my mouth shut to keep follow-up questions from spilling out. Who helps you when you’re drunk? Do you take cabs or does Leo drive you? If you walk home, who holds your hand? Who makes you breakfast when you’re hungover? If you do cry, do you make sure you’re alone?

I suspect the answer to the last one is yes, though she’d probably never admit it.

Anger at her family, at her, and at myself lights me up, pouring through my veins and forcing my fingers to tap faster than usual at my phone.

Aiden

What does she eat when she’s sick?

Leo

Sometimes, I make her arroz caldo

She usually just…works through it

Is she okay?

Aiden

She’ll be okay. I’m with her.

I don’t know if Alexis knows how to make arroz caldo. And she’s off in the middle of the day.

Aiden

Can you send me a recipe?

Leo follows with a photo of faded index card and instructions to add extra garlic and extra lime.

It looks easy enough. I have most of this in my kitchen or I can get it from the walk-in that the caterers use.

Alexis will not be pleased if I touch anything in her refrigerator, but I’ll buy her that saffron she’s been eyeing as an apology.

I set about gathering the ingredients and rifle around in the medicine cabinet for drugs, and when I get back, Emory is still asleep.

I feel like I’m going to come out of my skin.

We’ve succeeded at faking it. I know we have. The paparazzi are foaming at the mouth about our love match. The offers of marriage have died off, and I haven’t heard from Julia, despite her bold words at the party. Grandfather is still pissed, yes, but he has very little leverage.

Technically, I don’t need to get to know Emory.

I don’t need to know the answers to my questions.

But I want to.

So when I settle back on the bed next to her, I reach over and grab the top book from her stack. The one about the crab fisherman. I sigh and scan the cover, mentally steeling myself for what’s to come.

This is the type of guy she wants.

Regular. What did she say about him?

Right. A guy like him would fix her car and make her dinner.

I’m making her fucking dinner. I scowl at the beanie-wearing guy on the cover. He looks like the bartender from the other night. The one she wanted to give her number to. A guy like Mateo, who loves hard and laughs a lot and brings life to every room.

Someone like Emory.

I suspect I’m not going to like what I find in here, but I want to know Emory more than I want to avoid the uncomfortable truth. I crack the book, knowing full well I’m not the type of guy she wants, and for the first time, the thought rankles.