Stolen Soulmate (Crowne Point 2)

All the Crownes were here. Gemma Crowne was with her mother Tansy, but Grandpa Beryl Crowne was surprisingly absent. This was one of the few events he attended, usually for his granddaughter, Abigail—Abigail.

My eyes spotted the only woman dressed in black.

“What are you going to tell Abigail?” I asked. “If she sees us together?”

Is there anything you can say to salvage my job?

“Tick tock, Snitch,” he said, ignoring me. “Do you think you’re here to fucking party?”

“If you want me to find useful information, then you have to let me go. I’m not going to find anything stuck next to you all night. There are no maids up here. They don’t come to the party.” I could hardly believe I was talking to Grayson Crowne this way, but really, I was supposed to get something out of the maids, and there were no maids up here. There never were. Parties were designated for servers and guards.

His eyes slimmed. “So you can find the nearest reporter?”

I sighed. “What good would that do me? I want to stay here.” Another glare. “Do you trust anyone, Grayson?” My eyes popped with my own gasp. “I mean, Mr. Crowne.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he smiled slightly.

r /> “Not in the habit of trusting snitches, no.”

“Lottie has been watching you all night. Just go up and tell her the truth. She likes you. I’m certain of it.”

I pointed at Lottie, and he followed my finger. Of course, for the first time all night, Lottie was with another man. She laughed, touching his shoulder.

My gut dropped.

“Do you know what a Crowne’s job is, Snitch?” he asked, after a moment, still watching Lottie. His jaw twitched, eyes narrowing.

Something with pharmaceuticals…or maybe food? Hotels, I think also. I see the Crowne label on everything.

“Get married. Do you know how fucking lucky it is that I actually like the person I want to marry? That for a moment, she liked me back? Do you know what you did?” He paused. “You took that from me.”

“This is a lot of work for someone you only like…”

I covered my mouth, but it was too late. His hand froze with the cigarette at his pouty lips, and the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins rigid in his hand.

What is wrong with me?

What happened to blending in? When did I become a megaphone again?

“There you go again, sounding fucking stupid.” He inhaled, then blew out smoke. “You think this is a lot of work for me?”

He took a step, nothing but broken blades of grass between us. I focused on his black sneakers, not the hammering in my heart or how my lips dried. But his black sneakers. Because only Grayson Crowne could get away with that at one of the biggest black-tie functions of the year.

He gripped my chin, dragging me back to him, once again forcing my eyes shut. “I see something I like, I take it.”

A champagne bottle popped, and I jumped. Grayson dug his fingers harder into my chin as melodious laughter followed, mingling with that of my heart trying to break out of my chest.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

“I don’t like anything about you.” He rubbed my lip. “And yet I still own you.”

No. No he doesn’t.

Does he?

He pushed his thumb into my mouth, pressing my tongue down. Tingles erupted along my skin, hot and cold.

“Because you have nothing,” he said. “You think wanting something is hard work.”