“Ready to go, Preston? I think I’ve had enough of nature for today.”
I stare at him. I stare at my terrified father and my furious mother.
“Yes,” I breathe. “God, yes.”
We walk to the Porsche in silence. The valet hands me the keys, looking confused as Luke tosses his clubs (my clubs) into the back.
We get in. I drive out of the gates.
As soon as we hit the main road, I pull over. I turn to Luke.
“You blackmailed him,” I say. “You blackmailed Alistair York over a golf club and a mystery trip to the Caribbean.”
Luke loosens his collar. He grins. It’s the sexiest thing I have ever seen.
“He was cheating,” Luke says. “He kicked his ball on the sixth hole. I saw it. I just levelled the playing field.”
“You are terrifying,” I whisper. “My mother is going to interrogate him for a week about St. Barts. And then she’s going to respect you. You realize that? You just won the Game of Thrones.”
“I don't want the throne,” Luke says, leaning back andclosing his eyes. “I just want tacos. And maybe to never wear these shorts again.”
I laugh. “Tacos,” I agree. “But keep the shorts. I wasn't lying about the calves.”
Luke opens one eye, smirking. “Drive the car, York.”
I put the Porsche in gear.
“Yes, Doctor.”
Chapter 11
The Queens Protocol
LUKE
The taco truck,El Rey, is parked under the rattle of the N train tracks in Astoria. It is a beacon of stainless steel and neon in the damp Queens night.
It smells of charcoal, roasting pork, and freedom.
I watch Preston York—heir to a medical empire, currently wearing lavender linen trousers and a cashmere sweater tied around his neck like he’s about to christen a sailboat—try to eat an Al Pastor taco while standing on a cracked sidewalk.
He tilts his head. Salsa verde drips dangerously close to his white polo. He takes a bite that is decidedly un-aristocratic.
He moans. It is a loud, obscene sound that makes the guy waiting for his burrito turn around and look.
“Oh my god,” Preston says, chewing with his eyes closed. “This is… this is spiritual.”
“It’s pork, York,” I say, leaning against the hood of the Porsche we parked (illegally) near a hydrant. “Marinated in chiles and anxiety.”
Preston opens his eyes. He looks at the half-eaten taco in his hand with reverence.
“The sandwich,” he says seriously. “The Victorian sandwich Harrison Vane was lecturing us about? That was hate.This? This is love.”
He takes another bite, catching a piece of pineapple before it falls. He wipes his mouth with a flimsy paper napkin that disintegrates on contact.
“You’ve got a little…” I reach out, thumbing a smudge of sauce from the corner of his lip.
Preston freezes. He leans into my touch, his blue eyes darkening under the streetlights. The train rattles overhead, a deafening roar that shakes the ground, but he doesn't flinch. He just stares at me.
