The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,33

way through school?” I ask him.

“Didn’t get the chance. I was expelled when I broke the French ambassador’s son’s cheekbone,” he says grimly.

“Holy shit.” I grimace.

He starts to pull his hand back.

I hold his arms in place to stop him. “Please don’t stop touching me; I like it. A lot,” I say quietly.

His arms tighten around me, and I relax again.

“Did you hear about my ex? I’m assuming that gossip has made its way here,” he says.

I nod.

“What did you hear?”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t believe it,” I tell him.

“Why not? Because I was nice to you tonight?” he asks in a voice that reeks with skepticism.

“Don’t be a jerk,” I say.

“I’m not being a jerk,” he pushes back. “I just know what people say. ‘Guy his size …’”

“Well, my father was five foot, five inches tall, 140 pounds, and he’s the most vicious human being I’ve ever met. He beat my mother until the day he died. His size had nothing to do with it. And it doesn’t have anything to do with my brother who’s the same size and just as brutal. I was bred by a violent man. I lived with violent men. I can smell it. My skin tingles.” I look down at my arms. “The only tingles you give me are the kind that feel really good.”

He nuzzles my hair with his chin.

“But … how did you end up in such a bad place with your ex?” I ask.

He stiffens and then clears his throat.

“I was living in New York after college, away from my family and with my brothers. All four of us in one city. It was … amazing.”

His sigh is full of nostalgia and I can hear the smile the memory has brought to his face. “I feel a but coming on,” I say when he pauses a beat too long.

“But, I was also in a really dark place. I was almost twenty-five. My inheritance was vesting and yet I still couldn’t go home. I’d have the money, but none of the responsibility that made it mine. And I was obsessed with being ready to take the helm. My aunt always takes blame for introducing me to her. But if I’m honest, I thought finding a wife was the most important thing. Combine that with alcohol, youth, and more money than sense … and you’ve got a perfect storm.

“I married the wrong woman. We divorced. She moved on. I moved back to Europe.

“Five years later, her luck ran out and she was trying to get more money out of me. She came to my house one evening and I refused to let her in. She banged on the door for an hour. She only left when I told her I was calling the police.”

“Why didn’t you call them the minute she showed up? This sounds insane,” I ask.

“Because I was, as always, thinking about what that would look like for the family. It ended up being a disaster anyway,” he says.

“So, you’ve been in the position for how long?”

“Since I turned thirty, two months ago. It’s been a total disaster. My uncle and stepmother have spent the last sixteen years making a mess of it. So, first order of business is trying to climb through all the shit they’ve piled on top of us.”

“Ha, just like a turd blossom!” I wiggle my fingers against his ribs.

“I’m not ticklish,” he says dryly.

“How boring.”

“Listen, I like the idea of that nickname, but I can’t see myself calling you anything that has anything to do with shit.”

“Well, I don’t need a nickname. I’m good with you calling me by my name.”

He watches me with pursed lips. His eyes narrow and then he holds his wrist up so the face of it is in my line of sight.

“See those stones? Can you tell if they’re real?”

I drag my finger over the halo of diamonds on his watch’s face.

“I can’t tell. I don’t think I’ve ever seen real diamonds in my life,” I admit and peer at them.

“What’s your first impression?” he asks.

I examine them again. “They’re pretty, but they kinda look just like the stones in a ring I bought myself for Christmas at Macy’s,” I muse.

“I think unless you’re an expert, you probably can’t tell them apart from other clear stones.”

“So why do people pay so much for them?” I ask.

“They’re rarer than most stones, stronger than most, too. So, yeah, there are lots of things that might look like them, but when you test