“Like I said, you need practice with women. I can’t tell if you’re a sociopath or just emotionally stunted.”
I trail after my older half brother to the library off the main ballroom, where he has people checking for hidden bugs, weapons, and poison. My collection is better than the stacks of alien porn Winnie has in her café. All antiques, first editions.
Crawford surveys the room with a practiced eye. “Move the books too,” he tells his team.
“I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s not like I just let the riffraff wander around the Soundview Hotel.”
“If anyone gets hurt in my hotel, it’s my little brother’s neck on the line.” Crawford reaches out a hand and ruffles my hair, messing it up. “It has to go flawlessly. I got a ton of new business after doing security at the last event.”
“Everyone’s benefiting off this event except me,” I complain.
“Salinger wants cash investors in his investment fund. So be charming. Stop brooding about that girl.”
“What girl?” I can tell his employees are listening to our arguments.
Crawford grabs me by the collar of my jacket and drags me into the billiards room.
“There’s eighty-year-old cognac in the bar. Take a load off.” I keep the tone light.
He throws me on a sofa. “Don’t play dumb. Faulkner says—”
“Let me stop you right there. Faulkner is an emotionally stunted groundhog. Don’t listen to a thing that comes out of his mouth.”
“You are not going to turn into our father.” Crawford’s expression goes scary dark.
“What? Of course not. I’m a hedonist. Dad could never pull off this smoking jacket, for one,” I remind him, running my hands down the brocade.
“You need to leave that girl alone.”
“Uh-oh, or you’re going to bring out the big guns?” I flop down on my velvet sofa and put my feet up. “Winnie likes me. That’s all you need to know.”
My phone pings. My hand twitches.
Crawford snatches it before I can grab it. “You have cameras in her house?”
“On her house.”
He holds up the phone. On the screen, there’s an older woman furiously digging up the raggedy-looking garden mums in her yard.
“Hey, I was going to do that.” I sit up.
Crawford shoves me back down. “You’re watching her while she showers?”
“Well, not via a camera—that would be weird. I stand outside of her bedroom. Honestly, people of Faulkner’s generation, they don’t wantto leave their bedroom, and then they wonder why they can’t get a girlfriend.”
“You lied to me. You said you needed all these cameras to watch your collection of pets.” Crawford bares his teeth.
“They aren’t pets. They’re rescue animals. You can’t own a tiger. They belong to the earth.”
“You’re stalking some girl.”
“Not some girl. My girl. I’m allowed to keep an eye on my things.”
“This girl”—Crawford throws the phone on my chest—“is not your girlfriend. Stay the hell away from her.”
“Now, that’s not fair.”
“You’re banned from that shop. You better not get a restraining order.”
