Likewise, if I tell her she’s right—that I’ve never brought a proper, intentional, declarations-to-made-about date—then it’s going to make her even more nervous. That’s a lose-lose situation.
So I deflect, nudging her up the enormous, red-carpeted front steps. “If it gets to be too much, just let me know. There are plenty of hiding spots in the house. You know,” I snake my arm around her waist, “hidden passageways and secret pantries.”
She glances up at the house with this look on her face, like it’s looming over her. “Seriously?”
Shrugging, I confirm, “What’s the point of having a house like this if there aren’t various hidey-holes to fuck your handpicked staff in?”
The look she gives me is incredulous, and a touch bothered at the possibility I’m telling the truth. Which I am. Completely. It’s too late to ask any more questions, though, because the front door opens and a figure fills the entrance. “Master Tristian.” The man nods. “Pleasure to see you, sir.”
His face is stone, absent of any emotion, but I grin widely. “Benedict! How are you?”
“Very well, sir.”
“Benedict, this is my Lady, Story Austin. Story, this is Benedict. He’s been with our family since before I was born.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says, demurely holding out her hand.
Old Benny disregards it, assessing her with a cold eye. That gossip Story worried about? It starts with the servants. He turns his gaze to me. “Your mother is in the ballroom. She’ll be thrilled to know you’ve arrived.” His eyebrow lifts. “With a guest. And through the front door even.”
The word ‘guest’ is accentuated, but I ignore the old man. He’s almost as cantankerous as Ms. Crane. I usher Story past him and help her out of her coat. “I may have a history of sneaking tail into the house. But I promise you’ll only ever enter this house through the front door.” I give her ass a nice, firm squeeze. “I, on the other hand, am definitely down for a little backdoor action.”
“Tristian!” Her cheeks burn a delicious shade of red as she glances at Benedict to see if he heard. The servant stares straight ahead, seemingly unaware.
“Don’t worry. He’s paid to ignore us.” I toss her coat at him and then mine.
“Well, don’t pull that in front of your mother.” She shoos my hand away from her backside. “Jesus.”
“God, I love it when you’re all flustered and red-faced.” I wind her fingers in mine. “Come on, my mom hired this new chef that specializes in vegan farm-to-table cuisine and I’ve been dying to see if she lives up to the hype.”
Story takes in the elaborate decorations, and I take in her reaction, eyes alight at all the garland and baubles. I keep her close as we pass the grand staircase, down the marble-floored corridor that’s lined with Christmas trees.
“I guess blue and silver is the theme this year,” I note as she slows to inspect the trees. “Much better than the red plaid from last year. We looked like a fucking lumberjack convention.”
Story gently fingers an ornament, wide-eyed and hushed. “There must be like twenty trees! And they’re all decorated so… so…”
“Professionally?” I bite back a laugh at her childlike wonder. “Yeah, mother hires interior designers to put these up. Then she hires tailors, and stylists, and caterers—all to make sure everything flawlessly matches the theme.” We pass an elderly couple I don’t remember the name of, but luckily, a manly nod at the husband suffices. “Sometimes I think she wanted twins because it gave her more opportunities to color-coordinate.”
She seems to shake off some of the awe. “I suppose the girls were rather matching the last time I saw them.”
Snorting, I correct. “No, she gave up on that years ago. I meant me and my twin.”
Her head snaps up. “You have a twin?!”
Now I really do have to laugh. She sounds both horrified and intrigued at the prospect of me having a clone. “I did, for a hot second. Twins run in the family. He was stillborn, though.”
“Oh.” Her face falls. “God, Tristian, I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”
I give an easy shrug. There are times I wonder if things would be different if my father had a spare heir apparent. Maybe it’d be less pressure. Maybe he’d have a favorite and the other could just do whatever he wanted. Maybe I’m carrying the expectations of two sons in the disappointment of only having one. But this is all I’ve ever known. It’s hard to miss something you never had. “I was only an infant. It’s not a big deal to me.” Before she can voice the question I’m used to hearing, I groan. “Please don’t ask if I feel like half of myself is missing. I hate that woo-woo twin bullshit. The whole name thing is bad enough without people reading into it.”