This Love: This Love, #1

By Emily Snow

He's the king of the Upper East Side. A playboy with a penchant for fast cars and beautiful girls. And I just woke up beside him...

In a perfect world, I would never have gone to one of the Delaney brothers' fabled summer parties. He wouldn't have kissed me. And he wouldn't be making my body do wicked, beautiful things when he calls out my name or touches me.

Thank god the world's not perfect.

But Bennett Delaney is. He's filthy rich and arrogant. So achingly gorgeous that my heart skips a beat when he looks at me.

I'm the daughter of his family's nanny- turned-housekeeper. The scholarship student from Queens. The girl who's had a thing for him her whole life. The one currently tangled up in his sheets. Again.

I know I shouldn't get attached. That this might end as quickly as it started. That falling in love with Bennett is wrong.

I know all this but my heart?

It's already his.

*THIS LOVE is the first book in the THIS LOVE duet and contains a cliffhanger. Book 2, LOVE HURTS, coming soon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily Snow
• Release date: Aug 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386480129

Emily Snow

Emily Snow is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of the erotic romance series Devoured, which includes Devoured, All Over You, and Consumed, as well as the new adult novel Tidal. She loves books, sexy bad boys, and really loud rock music, so naturally, she writes stories about all three. She lives in Virginia. Visit her online at EmilySnowBooks.blogspot.com, and follow her on Twitter @EmilySnowBks.

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This Love

Emily Snow

Copyright © 2018 by Emily Snow

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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1

Veronica

Sometimes, I forget how different their world is from mine.

I was thrust into this one twelve years ago, after my mother came home with the news she was offered a new job—working as a nanny to the Delaney boys—Cain, Bennett, and Graham. I’ve spent summers in the Hamptons, winter breaks on Lake Placid, and, eventually, I received a full-ride scholarship to Birchwood Academy, from where I graduated last month.

But the truth is, to these people, I’m an outsider. Lucky. To be included, to breathe their air, to be here tonight, even if Graham Delaney is one of my closest friends. Nights like this remind me of that.

Nights where girls decked out in the latest from Saks prance around the main living area of the penthouse’s first floor. They’re boasting about who’s vacationing in Europe or screwing the heir to whatever empire. Then there are the guys. The ones destined to rule those empires. Tonight, they take advantage of the Delaneys’ infamous hospitality: a DJ, an open bar, and a multi-million-dollar view from the top.

Of course, it doesn’t matter what they’re wearing or who they’re hooking up with—not when he’s in the room. Standing less than ten feet from me, by the terrace doors with Judson Frasier and Zeke Hunter. Golden Boys. That’s what someone started calling the three of them a few years ago. The name fits; they’re all tall and blond and stunning. Royalty.

Bennett, though, is the prodigal prince, recently returned from college in North Carolina.

He’s taller than the rest, with blue eyes framed by thick, dark lashes and a strong, straight nose bisecting his bronze jawline. That jaw, his entire face and body, seems to be carved from granite. And all those elements together are the ones that cause side effects: loss of breath, vertigo, and irregular heartbeat.

Which is why a collective sigh floats up around me when he sweeps his palm out and states, I’ve always wanted a Mustang. Especially a Cobra.

Forty-eight hours. Bennett’s been home two days, and already, he’s throwing parties and racing cars and triggering my pulse. It speeds at the crook of his finger. The sad part is, the gesture isn’t directed at me but to the pink slip in Judson’s hand.

The veins on Judson’s neck strain while he watches the paper vanish into the back pocket of Bennett’s jeans. Your Supra is still a piece of shit.

Bennett’s mouth turns up. Your car title in my pocket said you can suck a dick. That earns him a piercing glare before Zeke passes them each a bottle of beer and tells them they’ve wasted enough of his Fucked-Up Friday on cars and other bullshit.

That’s another reason I know I’ve transitioned from Queens to the Upper East Side: The rules. There are none—not for the beautiful, the staggeringly wealthy, the elite. Where else does someone accept losing his car with only a two-minute, half-hearted argument before having a beer with the winner?

Can you believe that?

Though I recognize Charlotte’s voice, it takes a beat too long to wrench my gaze from Bennett. He’s laughing about something, oblivious to the appreciative looks from almost every female in the room and his ex-girlfriend, who’s made it a point to situate herself by the grand piano—right in his line of sight.

You should ask him for a ride in his new car, my friend continues.

I knead my earlobe between my thumb and forefinger and frown. What? Why?

Because the view is probably better with only a stick separating you.

That snags my attention. I whirl around to face her. She’s over half a foot shorter, so her knowing eyes land on my flushed chest first.

Folding my arms beneath my breasts, I poke my tongue in my cheek before running it along the seam of my lips. I wasn’t staring.

"Right. Because he’s so hideous." Rolling her eyes, she hands over one of the drinks she brought over. It’s a dainty concoction in a real glass, not the red Solo cups used at parties in my neighborhood.

It smells like cotton candy, I muse aloud, eager to change the conversation.

"Oh? Well, that’s because the bartender infused the drinks with it. A bartender, Veronica. I feel like I should, I don’t know, hold up my pinky. To demonstrate, she wriggles her little finger and comes dangerously close to dropping her drink on the gleaming marble floor. This whole place is like Richie Rich meets American Pie."

Except nobody’s sticking their genitals into a pie. When she mutters "yet," I pretend to dry heave then take a sip of my drink. I’m no connoisseur, I’ve drunk alcohol only a handful of times and each one has someone with the last name Delaney attached to the memory, but this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

Also— I hold up a finger, pausing to take another swig. "We just watched a street race before coming up here, so how high does your pinky really need to be?"

Hmm. Good point. And speaking of that street race… Her hazel eyes retrace their path to Bennett. Fast and the Furious over there might be hotter than Graham. Possibly. I can see why I’ve heard his name a million times since I moved here.

Since she transferred to Birchwood last fall, I’ve mentioned Bennett’s name maybe a few times. Nowhere close to a million, so I hotly point that out. She fishes a piece of ice from her drink and pops it into her mouth, shrugging.

Maybe you haven’t, but you’re not counting every other girl at Bitchwood. Apparently, the guy’s a sex god and— Her mouth gapes open. "Whoa!"

Let me guess, the pie screwing has commenced? But my amusement dies a swift and painful death once I decide to investigate what’s pocketed half the room’s attention. Monica. She’s descended from her third-story lair and is sidled up to Judson. Shimmery lips uttering something in his ear. One manicured hand is gripping a glass of amber-colored liquid while the other alternates between fondling his chest and fluffing her honey blonde hair.

Charlotte drifts forward to stand next to me. That is their mom, right? Think she’ll break up the party?

Unfortunately. And no, she won’t. I scan the room for Graham. He’s where I last saw him, lounged on a tufted, ivory velvet chaise with a bottle of beer. His jaw is clenched, but he doesn’t budge. Not that I expect him to move for Monica; she’s his least favorite person in the world.

Our eyes lock. Need my help?

He mouths back, Fuck Monica, and jabs a finger in her direction. Bennett has already untangled their mother from Judson and is guiding her to the private elevator, his features stony.

It’s not like I haven’t seen this before. Before he left for Duke last year, he was always the one to take care of her whenever she got blackout drunk or popped too many pills. Tonight’s different, though. She’s doing it in front of his friends.

His expression, the lack of emotion as he avoids their stares and whispers, snags something buried deep within the walls of my chest.

You know what? Charlotte tweaks the thick strap of her purple tank top and grimaces. The guy that lost his car doesn’t seem to mind. Sure enough, when I peek his way, Judson’s bumping shoulders with Zeke. They disappear into one of the rooms branching off from the spacious living area, where Erik keeps a secret stash of expensive whiskey.

Assholes.

They were in the same year and were always … competitive. I better go and check on him. I shoot Charlotte an apologetic look, the soles of my strappy white sandals already slapping on the floor as I hurry toward the curved staircase. I’ll be back quick, I promise.

She waves me off. No, take your time. I’ll just … wow. Wow. I’ll be right here.

Before I’m out of earshot, I pivot around. I guess it really is like something out of a movie, huh?

And then it really is hard to forget where I am and how out of place my presence is.

* * *

I’m more familiar with the Delaney’s four-story penthouse than the two-bedroom apartment I share with my father in Queens. That sounds exaggerated, but sadly, it’s true.

For years, I spent more time here than I did at home, even after the guys were too old for a nanny. Instead of letting Mom go, Erik offered to keep her on as their housekeeper, so there were many Saturday afternoons and late nights where I helped out because an eight thousand square foot apartment is a beast for one person to handle alone. After Mom got sick last year, and it was clear she’d never return to work or leave the hospital, she was so confident in my knowledge of the Delaney’s place—and their wants and needs—that she asked me to personally show the new staff the layout.

I know that, on this level, the floor creaks on the right side of the hall. Mrs. Delaney swears it gives her a splitting headache. I’ve got no clue if she can really hear it, or if she just wants something to nitpick about, but I don’t risk irritating her tonight. Once I climb the two stories to the third floor, I hug the left side of the hallway so closely, my body grazes the elegant gold damask wallpaper.

If I swear I won’t bother you again, will you just give me the goddamn bottle back?

Monica’s slurring immobilizes me. She mumbles something else, her voice growing angrier by the second. Slowly, I back away from her bedroom door and rest my hip to the gold filigree console table on the opposite side of the hall.

I said give it back! she snarls.

Bennett’s masculine groan summons goose bumps on my skin. For fuck’s sake, Mom, you’ve been at it since two this afternoon. You’ve had plenty. Go to sleep before they have to pump your stomach again.

Hearing that pitches my stomach.

Did Erik tell you to say that? She laughs, but it teeters precariously on the edge of a sob. What a complete son of a bitch. He ruins my body and my life and gives me rules while he’s out there just … fucking around.

Guilt rattles around my rib cage. I tell myself to leave, that following Bennett up here was a mistake since I’m not actually helping. And yet, I can’t move.

Mom … Dad’s in Chicago on business, remember? He called earlier while you were napping and said he’s coming home. That’s why you should get some rest.

I’d rest if you’d just give me the bottle, it’s mine. She hiccups and something hard slams onto the floor, stirring another grunt from Bennett. A second later, I hear a softer thud, undoubtedly him picking up and replacing whatever she dropped. Or threw at him. With Monica, it can go either way.

You don’t get to show up after months of being away and take over. I’m the adult here. She lets out a wet, gurgled noise. You’re just a visitor—a disappointing visitor. I should have stopped at Cain. God knows my career would have survived if I had.

Rocking back on my heels, I splay my free hand palm-down on the table. Her words are razor sharp. They pierce through muscle and bone and marrow. It’s her special power—the only one not dulled by meds and alcohol.

I just wish I hadn’t witnessed it this time.

You think you’re the only one disappointed? In case you haven’t noticed, Cain doesn’t even come around anymore. Now, Bennett’s tone is severe. It usually takes a while for Monica to pluck a nerve with him, but she’s apparently all strummed out for the night. Goodnight, Mom. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow afternoon … or whenever.

Leave. Now.

The voice in the back of my head is clear. It’s my brain and body that don’t immediately sync, despite the increasing sound of his footsteps. At last, I coax my legs to life, but it’s too late. He storms out of her bedroom, cursing about how her acting career was fucked before she ever signed on to her first project.

We collide, our bodies meshing.

And panic swells inside of me, swallowing me bit by bit.

I’m tall for a woman—at five-ten, I’m the tallest at this party—but Bennett makes me feel tiny and fragile. He always has, even during that awkward phase when we were kids and the same height. Now, though, he towers four or five inches over me, with an easy sixty-pound weight advantage. Now, he grips my shoulders. Flares his fingers over my skin. And when I gasp, hauling in a breath so intense it scours my lungs, I taste his simple, clean cologne.

His lips move, but I don’t hear a thing because the sound is overwhelmed by the pounding of my pulse and heartbeat.

What? I lick the corners of my lips so that they’ll open wider, produce something that won’t sound like sludge, when I add, What did you just say?

His fingers trail from my shoulder and up the slope of my neck to brush my cheek. He angles my face up to his. Our eyes link, his ultramarine blue and penetrating my cloud gray irises.

Then, he tells me, I was saying, Veronica, that I’m fucking glad it’s just you.

2

Veronica

It’s just you. Always, always just you. Because of the relief etched on his features, I know it’s not supposed