Total D*ck(31)

“Oh, sorry. Forgot what I was saying for a moment there. It’s simple that I fucked Bert’s wife when I was a law clerk at his firm. That’s where I was going. No real mystery.”

“Kennedy!” Scarlett turned to Charles. “I am so sorry. He’s lying.”

“I am?” I leered at Charles. I was. I didn’t actually fuck Lily, though she made a pretty hard pass at me after a firm party one night. But I had good information that Bert’s star associate had been fucking her for quite some time. Charles’s reaction told me that he was the “star associate” I’d heard about. The New Orleans rumor mill was always churning, especially in legal circles.

Scarlett stood and tossed her napkin down next to her plate. “I have to get back to the office. Big case. It was lovely to see you, Charles.”

He stood. “I’ll walk you out.”

“I got this. We’re going to the same office, after all.” I stepped back to let Scarlett pass and then blocked Charles from following. “Give Lily my regards.”

He blanched, finally realizing that I knew. “I—I . . .”

“Good man.” I turned and followed Scarlett, giving Wash and Caroline a wave as I left. Wash shook his head as Caroline smiled and gave me two thumbs up.

I caught up to Scarlett in the foyer and grabbed her elbow, whipping her around to me. “You don’t have to run.”

“You don’t have to be a prick!” she shot back, her eyes flashing.

“I don’t know if that’s exactly true.”

“You invade my private life, embarrass me in front of my friend, and y-you—”

“Get you all hot and bothered?” I filled in for her.

“Fuck you, Kennedy.” She turned on her heel and stalked out of the house.

I’d seen her, the fiery woman hidden behind the prim façade. I’d broken through her exquisitely crafted exterior to the point I had her vehemently cussing me in one of the finest houses in the city. I smiled, but then shook my head, remembering how I felt when she’d touched Charles.

I’d gotten to her. The only problem was, she’d gotten to me, too.





Chapter Nine


Scarlett

The wrought iron gate to my family estate receded behind me. I hadn’t been out of the luncheon for fifteen minutes before my phone rang. Mother. Somehow, she’d already heard about my quick exit from Lynch Lane. Word traveled fast when a Carmichael didn’t behave properly at an event, even one as small as the Junior League planning luncheon.

I pulled to the right and parked under one of the oaks that skirted the two-story Tudor home. My palms grew clammy, and I wiped them on my skirt as I stepped from the car. She would be in her sitting room waiting for me, a tight smile on her lips. Mother had the singular ability to make me feel like a twelve-year-old again, awkward and in some sort of nebulous trouble for a breach of decorum.

I strode through the front door and gave our longtime butler a small nod. His kindly smile did nothing to stop me from schooling my face into an impassive, calm mask. She wouldn’t get to me. Not today.

“Scarlett?” Her high voice chirped and echoed through the lofty foyer.

I straightened my back and strode inside. She sat with a drink in her hand and, Matisse, her Pomeranian, on her lap. He growled at me, as usual. I sat on the uncomfortable sofa across from them and crossed my legs at the ankle.

Mother took me in from head to toe with her sharp gray eyes. Her silver bob didn’t move, every strand sprayed into a prison of perfection. She wore a cream top and a beige skirt, her skin tan from mornings of tennis practice.

“You need a necklace with that, sweetheart.” She smiled and took a sip of her cocktail. “And earrings. What have I told you about a woman who leaves the house without earrings?”

“Did you call me for a reason?” I clasped my hands in my lap, more than ready to get it over with and get back to the office.

Her fake smile faltered. “I want to know what you’re doing with this Kennedy Granade character.”

“We work together on a case. That’s all.”

She lowered her gaze and pretended to rack her brain. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that family name before. Who are his parents?”

“They aren’t our people.” The phrase was general enough, but it had an all-too-specific meaning. The Granades weren’t members of the New Orleans elite. They didn’t escort me to debutante balls, or go to the same parties, or have the right friends.

“Well.” She waved her drink, almost sloshing it on Matisse. “Then I have nothing to worry about?”

I ground my teeth. “What do you mean?” I knew exactly what she meant.