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Rolling my eyes, I tighten my towel around my chest, cross the room, and sit on the edge of the bed.
Strong arms lift me, laying me down next to him as he quickly unwraps my towel, pushing it open so my naked body is on display for him. “Are you sore?” he asks, sliding his hands between my legs and cupping my sex.
I’m torn between spreading my legs wider and clamping them closed as my body and my brain war. “A little,” I croak out as my body wins and my knees fall to the side.
His lips widen into a small smile as his gaze locks with mine while his fingers stroke and caress my folds.
“From now on, I’m going to touch you and kiss you like you’re mine, and it won’t be for the journalists or so anyone else can see. I won’t be faking it. I won’t be pretending, and neither will you,” he whispers a second before his lips take mine, kissing me sweetly, softly, and utterly possessively.
It’s after three in the afternoon by the time the journalist finally leaves. Apparently interviewing five people takes hours, even though she basically asked us all the same questions, just phrased slightly differently each time.
Just like he promised, Gulliver has taken every opportunity to touch and kiss me, and I’m confident that no one at The New York Times will have cause to question the validity of our engagement. But something about the easy, confident way all four guys spoke about me like I was an integral part of their group was unnervingly similar to the way they gaslit an entire room full of their family and friends into believing Gulliver and I were in love and engaged when it was all a lie.
Slumping down onto one of the chairs on the terrace, I pull out the band at the end of my braid and tease the hair loose, moaning at the feeling of relief after having it tied up all day.
I’m wearing the black high-waisted, wide-leg pants, and simple white T-shirt Fitzy sent over for the interview. My feet are bare again, and a series of long gold chains hang around my neck, resting between my breasts. It’s the most conservative thing he’s picked for me so far, but that felt appropriate considering this was an interview, and no matter how rich we all are, first impressions matter.
Sighing audibly, I lift my feet up and curl them beneath me.
“Here,” Kip says, startling me when he hands me a glass.
Eyeing the liquid speculatively for a moment, I lift it to my lips and take a tentative sip. “What is it?” I ask, taking a second drink.
“Long Island Iced Tea,” he says, perching on the coffee table in front of me.
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile to my lips.
“You did really well today; that reporter was eating out of your hand.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time pretending to be my sister. I know how to play the part well enough,” I tell him, a hint of anger slipping into my tone. Today felt like a familiar torture. I wasn’t myself. I pretended to be like Penelope, and Kip’s right, the journalist lapped it up. Lifting my glass to my lips, I take a long pull, but all I can taste is the bitter tang of my anger and frustration.
“What’s the matter? We should be celebrating,” he says, nudging my knee.
“Today didn’t feel like a victory, and honestly, I’m starting to wonder if I should have just left while I had the chance,” I admit, sighing tiredly.
“Why would you say that?” he asks, his brow furrowed in confusion. “This article will cement your engagement. Plus, it’ll really piss off your family. I thought that was what you wanted?”
Lifting my gaze to Kip’s, I try to smile, but it falls flat. “It is what I wanted, but I don’t know anymore. There’s so many lies, I feel like I’m losing track of what’s real. And I’m starting to wonder if it’s all worth it. Everything we’re doing might piss my family off, but it won’t make them sorry. It won’t make them better people. I’m not sure anything I do will really make any difference at all.”
Kip reaches out to cup my cheek with his hand. “It’s all going to be okay, you know?”
“Is it?”
He nods. “Yeah, it really is. This article will be published, Penelope will fail, and your family will lose the inheritance. Then you’ll be free.”
“Free.” I laugh. “Alone, sure, but I’ll always be a Rhodes, and they’ll hate me forever if I’m the reason they don’t get this money.”
“You won’t be the reason,” Gulliver growls from behind us.
Kip’s hand falls from my cheek, and he immediately stands and moves away from me, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
Turning, I look up at Gulliver, tilting my head to the side as I watch him close the distance between us. “No, I suppose I won’t be the only reason. You’ll be to blame too,” I say with a smirk.
A short, sharp burst of laughter falls from his lips, and he shrugs nonchalantly. When he reaches my chair, he holds out a hand for me to take, and I stare at it warily. When I don’t move, he sighs, leans forward, captures my fingers in his, and pulls me to my feet.
Lifting my chin, I wait for his bold lips to find mine, but instead of kissing me, he wraps his arms around me and hugs me. His touch isn’t sexual, it’s comforting, and I melt into him, lapping up the soothing warmth of being pressed into his broad chest.
“I could have been thousands of miles away by now, that would have been the smart thing to do,” I say, hating that I love the way it feels to be this close to him.
