"I'm not twisted up."
"Carter." She says my name the way she's been saying it since we were children: half exasperation, half affection. "I've known you my entire life. I can tell when something's eating at you. Just tell me what it is."
I should tell her. Kate is the one person in this family I can actually talk to. She's never bought into the dynasty mythologythe way I have, never cared about legacy or political capital or any of the things our father considers sacred. She sees through bullshit with an ease that I've always envied.
But I can't tell her this.
I can't tellanyonethis.
"It's nothing," I say. "Just stress. The investigation, the press, all of it."
Kate studies me for a long moment. Then her eyes narrow.
"It's Jamie Dean, isn't it?"
My heart lurches. "What?"
"The journalist. The scent match on national television." She's watching my face too closely. "That's what's got you all twisted up."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I saw the clip, Carter. Everyone saw the clip. You looked at him like you wanted to eat him alive." A pause. "Or let him eat you. I couldn't quite tell."
"It was a scent match. It happens sometimes. It doesn't mean anything."
"Right." She draws the word out, dripping with skepticism. "That's why you've been walking around like a ghost."
"Kate—"
"I'm not judging." She holds up her hands. "Honestly, if you'd picked anyone other than the man who just torpedoed our family, I'd be thrilled. You could use someone who actually gets your blood pumping."
"He doesn't—"
"But the timing is..." She searches for the word. "Complicated."
"There's nothing to time. There's nothing happening. I haven't even spoken to him since the interview."
It's technically true. We haven't spoken. We just fucked in complete silence, and then I walked out and blocked his number.
Unblocked it.
Blocked it again.
Unblocked it at 2am when I couldn't sleep.
Blocked it the next morning when the wanting got too sharp.
The cycle has been going on for days. I keep telling myself I'm done, that it was a one-time mistake, that I'm never going to contact him again. And then I find myself staring at my phone, thumb hovering over his name, wondering what he's doing. Wondering if he's thinking about me.
Wondering if he'd answer if I texted again.
"Whatever you say." Kate starts walking again. "But for what it's worth? You're allowed to want things, Carter."
"I don't want—"
"Sure you don't."
We reach the clubhouse, and she pushes through the door into the cool interior. The staff have laid out water and towels, and Kate grabs both, draping the towel around her neck and taking a long drink.
