I stride towards the door, holding it open wide. “You can stay here for a few days. A couple of weeks, at most. But I don’t want to hear anything more about an inheritance that was never yours to claim.”
Art hesitates, and I nod toward the door. “It’s getting late.”
It’s not hard to see the pissed-off look in his eyes as he finally gives in and walks towards the exit that I’m holding open for him, but he walks out, heading towards the stairs. As he reaches them, I call out once more, making sure my words carry straight to him.
“And Art?”
My brother turns to look at me, raising his eyebrows. “Yes?”
“Leave Sasha alone.”
16
SASHA
Irun into Art so many times over the next few days that I know it can’t be a coincidence. I see him coming out of the gym as I’m doing yoga, appearing out by the pool as I’m lying in the sun, mysteriously coming up to the stables when I’ve decided to go up there and get better acquainted with Basil, choosing to use the library at the same time as me. He tries to engage me in conversation every time–sometimes with compliments and sometimes with small talk. I manage to swerve it every time, finding some other place to quickly be before he can push it any further.
Conversely, Max seems to disappear. He spends long hours in the study–doing what, I can’t imagine. The only time I really see him is at mealtimes, which we all eat together at the formal dining room table like dysfunctional aristocrats. Those meals are tense and mostly silent, except for when Art tries to make conversation, which Max quickly shuts down.
It makes me realize, in a painful and very abrupt way, how much I can miss Max and his presence in my life. Gone are tours of the estate and swims in the pool, dinners and wine tastings in the movie room, and horseback rides on the trails. Max withdraws almost completely with his brother’s arrival, and when I see him, he’s not the Max I know. He’s curt, cross, and nearly rude–not to me, but to Art, and the careful space between us rapidly grows to what feels like a yawning distance.
Truthfully, I don’t know what to think. Max is clearly upset at his brother’s presence here, mistrustful and even angry, and I can’t say I entirely blame him. It was Art’s defection that put Max on the path that led him here, and I can’t begin to imagine the feelings and resentments that must bring up for Max. But at the same time, other than that one inappropriate comment and a generally salacious-seeming nature, I can’t find a reason to dislike Art. He’s charming, and his interest in getting to know me, as the days pass, seems to be genuine.
I’m not interested in anyone other than Max romantically. Over the course of my life so far, though, not many people have shown an interest in getting to knowme. It’s a heady thing, and Art does it so well that it’s hard to know if there’s any ulterior motive to it or not.
It bothers me to feel naive, and my uncertainty about him makes me feel exactly that. Max’s reaction to Art’s presence is beyond anything I’ve ever seen from him, but Art truly doesn’t seem as bad as Max is making him out to be.
“Have you been into town?” he asks me one morning, two days after his arrival, catching me halfway on my way to the yoga room. I can feel his eyes on me, skating over my fitted stretchy top and my tight leggings. It makes me feel suddenly lewd, as if I’d worn something intentionally sexual instead of normal clothes for a yoga session.
I swallow hard, shifting my mat under one arm. “We stopped there for lunch when we first arrived,” I say carefully. I don’t know how much Max has told him about why we’re here or what’s happened since we left New York, but considering how Max feels about Art, I’m willing to bet it’s not much. “But Max has made it really clear that we’re supposed to stay on the estate. So I don’t expect to go back.”
Art grins, his green eyes glinting with a charming mischief. “Well, I have a car that I rented–so what if we took a little trek into town one of these days on our own? Max wouldn’t have to know.”
“Max has a car, too,” I remind him. “A few of them, I think. And I’m not going to sneak off without telling him. If he wants us to stay on the estate, then I’m sure he’s right.”
Art rolls his eyes playfully. “Youaretwo of a kind. Well, I don’t want to push you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
After that, he starts bringing me small treats. Two weeks pass by, and I keep expecting Max to throw him out, but Max seems almost resigned to his brother’s presence. But I can feel the tension building, too. The fancy chocolates that he brings a couple of days after our conversation, telling me that he saw them and thought I’d like them, doesn’t provoke much of a response from Max when he hears about it. The flowers that Art brings a few days later, however, send Max heading straight for his study with an angry look on his face. A few days after that, when he brings me a book he found in a used bookstore, Max looks as if he might pop a vein in his forehead.
Of course, all of the gifts are handed over when we see each other at mealtimes, which makes me think that Art is purposefully trying to needle Max. But on the other hand, he seems genuinely excited and pleased when I admit that I like them. And Ido. It’s rare in my life that I’ve been given gifts, or paid attention to, that anyone has tried to get to know me, and Art’s persistence makes mewantto like him.
It’s also impossible not to notice how handsome he is. He’s a younger, more stylish version of Max, cockier and more seductive. While I can’t imagine ever letting him get as far as I know he wants to, the attention does feel good. It doesn’t help, either, that Max has all but vanished.
Until Art brings me the book, some historical romance novel similar to one he saw me reading a week prior, and Max gets up abruptly from the table mid-meal and leaves without a word.
I follow him. It feels instinctive. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly to Art, following Max out to the back of the house, where he’s standing on the expansive deck with his arms crossed over his chest, back to me, staring out angrily over the estate. I don’t have to see his face to know he’s angry–I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the tension running through every inch of him.
IknowMax, and the distance between us that’s grown feels that much worse with the fresh realization. The horseback ride and rush back to the house in the rain feels like a million years ago, not a couple of weeks. If there were one thing I’d have to pinpoint for certain about why I can never feel the interest in Art, that he’s so clearly trying to cultivate, it’s the fact that his presence has driven Max and me apart.
I’m not even entirely sure how it happened, but it had, and I want desperately to close that space.
“Max?” I say his name tentatively, taking another step forward, and I see him tense all over again. “Max, please talk to me.”
“Art’s inside,” he says snappishly, his voice low and angry. “I’m sure he’s in more of a mood to talk.”
“Max.” I shake my head, walking quickly forward until I’m standing next to him at the iron railing, the stone chilly against my bare feet even in the warm summer night. “This is ridiculous. You know I don’t want to talk to Art. I want to talk toyou–I miss you. I–”
“Oh?” He swings towards me suddenly, his eyes sharply narrowed, his jaw set in a hard line. “You must have been talking to him quite a bit, for him to think of bringing you those things. Chocolates, flowers, a book–I’m not an idiot, Sasha. I see what my brother is doing, and I see you falling for it.”