Mom squeezes my hand tightly with one hand, while the other swings the ancient brass knockeron the door. The squeeze is more for herself than for me, I guess. She started shaking like a leaf as soon as we turned into the Crawfords’ drive, and it’s only gotten worse on our short walk up the steps.
“I’m so excited,” she says. I can’t tell whether it’s genuine or if she’s trying to convince herself.
The front door opens and I expect to see some stiff-eyed butler coming to greet us. Instead, it’s Mr. Crawford himself, bolts of silver running through his otherwise black hair. His smile is warm enough, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They’re cold and calculating, scanning us, not like a future husband would his bride and her child, but like a businessman sussing out a potential partner.
My attention doesn’t linger on Mr. Crawford long enough to reach a conclusion. It’s stolen in an instant by Colter Crawford, who’s standing next to him.
I’ve seen pictures before, but being in his presence knocks the wind right out of my chest. His dark hair is swept back, styled with deliberate precision. He’s taller than his dad by at least a foot, and the way he fills out his suit with lean, tight muscle makes my knees feel more than a little wobbly.
Ink crawls up the left side of his neck, under his cuffs, and over his hands. There isn’t enough on view to see what they’re supposed to be, but that doesn’t matter to me right now.
Okay then.
I was wrong. There’s still potential that tonight can be saved.
“So, you’re my new stepsister?” Finally, someone speaks and breaks the tension.
Why did it have to be him and in such a deep, smooth and enticing way?
I nod, not sure that I could do anything else, anyway. The whole goddamned English language sounds like gibberish in my swirling mind.
It would’ve been way easier if he didn’t have such a stupid, handsome face. Or a smoldering gaze that melts my heart and turns my core into a puddle between my legs…
“Alistair.” Mom saves me from dying of embarrassment. She swings her arms over Mr. Crawford’s shoulders, and plants a fat kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for having us.” And just like that, Mom’s nervous demeanor vanishes behind the powerhouse image I’ve come to expect from her.
“Of course, Maybelle.” Mr. Crawford sounds delighted. “I’ve been looking forward to this day for a long time.”
While our parents continue talking, Colter’s eyes drift over me slowly. Methodically. He’s studying me rather than gawking at me. My heart pumps blistering heat through my veins when his inspection lingers a little too long.
I can’t tell if it’s my body rejecting the gaze or basking in it.
“And you must be Lilith,” Mr. Crawford takes my hand, brushing his lips over my knuckles with old-fashioned charm. “Your mother has told me so much about you.”
“I can’t say the same, Mr. Crawford. I had no idea it was you,” I say, building up the nerve to turn away from his son.
“By design,” he says. “Until I was certain your mother and I were more than just fleeting fancy, I had to keep our engagements hush-hush. I didn’t want to jeopardize the future of our unity.”
What could that mean?
“But don’t let me get ahead of myself. This is my son, Colter,” he continues.
I have never met Colter, but everyone in the city knowsofhim. The prodigal heir to the vast, ever-expanding Crawford empire.
“I’m sure you two will have much to talk about.” Alistair steps to one side, ushering us in. “And there’s no better way to do it than over a bottle of wine.”
The inside of their mansion resembles the outside. Ancient in its roots and Gothic in style, it’s cluttered with relics of the generations of Crawfords who’ve lived there before. Portraits hang on the entryway’s walls, depicting every generation from the settlers up to present-day Alistair. It’s remarkable how much of a resemblance their legacy shares.
He leads us to the dining room, where a table, long enough to seat ten or more, is wrapped in white linen and dressed with all the necessary cutlery for a three-course meal. A set of two waitstaff stand on either side of the room, one pair closest to the kitchen. The other, I assume, is nearer to the bar to get whatever we need, whenever we need it.
Mom and Mr. Crawford take their seats at the head of the table; Colter and I move to the foot. He pulls out my chair, and slides me in with the same dying chivalry his dad greeted me with.
It doesn’t take long for Mom and her lover to fall into the usual honeymoon phase clichés. Chuckling and whispering between themselves, brushing their hands together and otherwise showing all the signs of being in love.
Colter doesn’t speak right away. Turning to face him, I see why. He’s staring at me again in the same intense manner as he did at the door. But it’s different now. His gaze doesn’t feel like an inspection; it’s more like a kid who has just seen Santa Claus at the mall for the first time.
“You should take a picture,” I say. “It’ll last longer.”
“I prefer things that move.”
