SCARLETT
“Do you think the logo was always there or he had someone install it after you guys won?” I asked, staring at the giant Blackcastle logo etched into the foyer floor.
Asher laughed. “I have no idea. This is my first time here. I’ve never even met Markovic before.”
It was the week after Blackcastle’s historic league win—the first under Coach Frank Armstrong and the first under its current owner Vuk Markovic—and Markovic had invited the entire club for a celebration at his mansion outside London.
Either he’d been extremely confident about the team’s ability to win or he spent an inordinate amount of money to host such a lavish party on such short notice.
He could certainly afford it. The billionaire CEO possessed a higher net worth than some small European countries. He lived in New York but owned multiple interests in the UK, including Markovic Stadium, and he was notoriously reclusive. According to the internet, he rarely, if ever, spoke in public.
Given his reputation, I was surprised he was hosting such an elaborate party, but winning the Premier League was a big deal. As the team owner, he had to thank the players somehow.
“It’s about time you two showed up.” Vincent appeared out of seemingly nowhere. Like the rest of the men, he wore a tuxedo to fit in with the black-tie theme. “I can’t believe you made me the early one out of our trio. Do you have any idea what that’ll do to my ‘fashionably late’ reputation?”
I patted his shoulder with a comforting hand. “Punctuality is a good thing. Embrace it.”
“We would’ve gotten here earlier, but we got distracted,” Asher added, swiping two pieces of baked shrimp toast off a passing server’s platter. He handed me one and popped the other in his mouth.
My brother visibly gagged. “Don’t ever say stuff like that in front of me again. I’m going to be sick.”
Asher raised an eyebrow. He chewed and swallowed before saying casually, “I was talking about the injured bird we saved from the side of the road. What were you talking about?”
I laughed and nudged Asher gently with my elbow. “Stop teasing him. You two play nice while I say hi to Brooklyn.”
My friend stood on the other side of the domed entryway, talking to another Blackcastle staff member.
The foyer represented only a sliver of the Markovic estate, which was vast enough to fit multiple football pitches with room left over for an American baseball field or two, but it was still five times as big as my flat. The aforementioned gold stallion team logo gleamed against an expanse of pale green marble while chandeliers dripped with heavy, teardrop-shaped crystals above.
It would probably take me ten minutes just to reach Brooklyn, especially given how many people were here. Besides the Blackcastle team and their dates, I spotted a few celebrities and socialites—including Polina, the model I’d caught kissing Asher over the summer. She came with Gallagher, but judging by the way she kept scanning the room, she was on the lookout for someone else.
“I’ll say hi to Brooklyn with you.” Vincent moved to follow me before I stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned.
“Think about what?” He was the picture of innocence.
“She is not going to go for you. Even if she did, her father wouldn’t. The Boss will literally murder you with his bare hands if you so much as breathe wrong near her.”
“Please. I don’t have a death wish,” Vincent said. “I just want to talk to her because I lent her the latest Isabella Valencia book and I want it back.”
My brother did not read thrillers. “You don’t own…” My eyes narrowed. “Wait. You mean my Isabella Valencia book? The one I haven’t read yet? I was looking all over for it the other day!”
Vincent shrugged, having the grace to look sheepish.
Unbelievable. This was like the Adele vinyl situation all over again.
“Anyway, I’m not interested in her like that,” he said. “I admit, I was intrigued when I first met her, but she’s annoying.”
“Because she’s the one woman not related to you who doesn’t fall all over you? And Carina doesn’t count. She’s basically your de facto sister.”
“No. It’s because she’s annoying.”
“You used to think Asher was annoying, and now you’re best friends.”
Vincent’s mouth curled. “Best friends is pushing it. We tolerate each other.”
“I’m standing right here,” Asher interjected. “But he’s right. We tolerate each other for the team and for you. That’s it.”
“Uh-huh.” They tolerated each other so much they were going to watch the upcoming Nate Reynolds movie without me, but whatever. I wasn’t bitter or anything. “Sure. Well, tolerate each other while I say hi to Brooklyn—alone.”
I left them to bicker with each other while I joined my friend next to one of the Picassos. The other staff member had left, leaving her by herself.
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said. She must’ve been watching my interaction with Asher and Vincent. “Dealing with those two together is like dealing with children.”
“Tell me about it.” I hugged her hello. “You look great.”
“So do you.” Brooklyn grinned. “It’s too bad Carina couldn’t come. This place is wild. Did you know there’s a shooting range in the back garden?”
“No. How did you know that?”
“People tell me things.” She shrugged. Her gaze coasted over my shoulder, and her eyes widened—with appreciation or apprehension, I couldn’t tell. “Speaking of people…look who’s here.”
I turned as the lively chatter in the foyer faded into silence and the only sound was the clack of shoes against marble.
He emerged from the shadows of another room and stopped at the edge of the crowd. I recognized him from my internet sleuthing immediately.
