Page 36 of Devious Lies (Cruel Crown)
He spoke without the North Carolina accent I loved, his voice stripped of identity and stamped with the General American label. Generic. Boring. Another clue to a puzzle I yearned to unravel.
I swore I knew him from somewhere. Skimming his features once more triggered nothing. I hated puzzles I couldn’t solve; I was better off ignoring him and occupying my mind with food. The urge to flee the hotel and chase the petrichor forced my toes to curl inward and dig into the soles of my Converse.
Brandon’s hands lingered in the space between us, but he kept his grin easy until I caved and folded my palm into his.
Pretending I didn’t feel the heat from Chantilly’s glare, I added, “Emery.”
Instead of shaking my hand, he pressed a kiss against my knuckles. Warm breath teased my skin until he released my hand.
“I know.”
He stared at me like a cat stared at a mouse caught in a trap.
No remorse.
No guilt.
Unsatiated, waiting for his prey to die.
You should have run, I scolded myself.
Still, my feet remained planted on the freshly milled Macassar ebony. I forced my eyes to his and scanned his face.
No recognition.
Nothing.
Just a twinkle in his eyes I didn’t like nor understand.
“Do I know you?” I eventually asked, cursing my buzz.
He dipped his chin to the name tag pinned at the upper swell of my left breast. “Your name is right there.”
I released the breath I’d been holding in, laughed at my paranoia, and finally gave him some semblance of a grin. “How are you enjoying the party?”
A waiter snagged my empty water bottle as I observed Brandon. Shoulders pulled back. Easy smile on his face. Movie-star looks. He seemed at ease here, his well-fitted suit stretching across his broad frame like a knight’s armor as he worked the room as if he owned it.
The lack of designer threads was the sole indicator he didn’t belong here, which begged the question—why the hell did I recognize him?
Brandon shrugged and made a circular gesture with his pointer finger. “Not my thing.”
I should have been offended. After all, I had helped to plan the masquerade—and not in the sense that I’d dished out orders to Dad’s staff and an overworked, underpaid event planner.
No, I’d spent the past week running around Haling Cove; double-checking floral arrangements; sitting in on the orchestral practices; and taking the bus to a different mall after I’d spotted my ex-neighbor Matilda Astor at the boutique Chantilly had ordered me to buy eggshell-colored tablecloths from.
She made me return all one-hundred and eight of them, and I had the pleasure of purchasing the original brand after she berated me for my incompetence in front of everyone I worked with.
Then, she’d decided the new ones weren’t the right shade of eggshell and demanded me to return them and repurchase the ones I’d bought in the first place.
Whatever grunt work needed to be done had fallen on my bony, underfed shoulders.
And I was proud.
Truly.
If not exhausted and ready for it to end.
“Not my thing either.” I snagged a soup spoon of scallop ceviche bathed in coconut foam from a waiter, who shot me a polite smile.
