Page 11 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

“ A nd this is your desk.” Laura leads me over to a station that looks the same as the ones lining the outside of every office we’ve passed.

The raised counter around it offers some privacy, almost like a cubicle, but is low enough to see over if you’re standing near enough. Aside from a desktop, keyboard, mouse, and phone, the desk is empty. Maybe I should buy a plant to decorate it.

Kit has a corner office. And his door is solid wood, not frosted glass, like the other offices lining this hallway, which is especially intimidating. I’m relieved by the barrier too. Focusing on tasks would be a lot harder if I knew his eyes might be on me at any point.

Christopher Kensington is engraved on the shiny nameplate left of the knob.

I don’t know much about Kensington Consolidated as a company.

Just the little Lili has mentioned over the years, plus general knowledge.

They’re very successful, and they own a lot of subsidiaries—that’s the gist of the information I’ve retained.

A lot of the tasks I’ll be responsible for—filing, phone-answering, note-taking—are familiar from my job at Carter Thomas.

But same as the offices, they feel elevated here.

I wasn’t working on million—or billion?—dollar deals in Chicago.

“Let’s see if Mr. Kensington is available,” Laura says, continuing past my new desk and straight toward the imposing door.

I manage a nod she misses, my stomach somersaulting in a way that makes me glad I skipped breakfast this morning.

He’s not Lili’s little brother here. He’s not even Kit. He’s Mr. Kensington , which sounds stuffy and formidable and prestigious, especially coming from a woman who’s roughly the age of his mother.

Laura knocks once on the dark wood. “Mr. Kensington? It’s Laura. Do you have a minute to meet your new assistant?”

My mind fixates on meet and new . I don’t know what magic Lili worked behind the scenes, but no one I’ve encountered so far has had any clue I’ve met members of the Kensington family before.

It’s a relief, honestly, to feel like a regular employee, making a fresh start she desperately needed.

For the first time ever , I feel some sympathy for Kit. That’s one luxury he doesn’t have. He couldn’t pretend he had no connection to this company on his first day.

“Yes, come in. ”

I’ve heard Kit talk many times before. Usually while wishing he’d stop.

Yet, somehow, those three words sound like the first time I’ve heard his rich baritone.

I swallow hard as Laura turns the door handle and gestures for me to go ahead. I hesitate for a couple of seconds, swiping my palms against the skirt of my navy dress, then enter.

Kit’s rising, now standing, behind the massive desk that should dwarf the large space, but doesn’t. He does, gaze fixated on my every step.

I swallow hard, resenting the warmth seeping into my cheeks despite the cool air.

This is Kit . There’s no reason I should be blushing right now. No reason … except the highlight reel of filthy words and sensual touches that is burned into my memory. Our night together was supposed to be easy to forget. But the harder I try to, the more stubbornly it’s stuck in my brain.

I shouldn’t have slept with him.

I shouldn’t have accepted a job here after I slept with him.

Two decisions I can no longer change.

“This is Ms. Tate, your new assistant.”

Laura, thankfully, is oblivious to my wayward thoughts. I hope that means they’re not stamped on my face, that Kit is unaware too.

I clear my throat and hold out my right hand, attempting to quickly train my brain into viewing the man in front of me as nothing except an employer.

Boss . Boss . Boss , I chant silently.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Kensington,” I say politely.

Kit quirks a brow, and I think he’s going to call me out for the formality. Or start laughing. His blue eyes are dancing in that boyish, mischievous way I’ve sometimes found endearing.

Pretending not to know him at all might be excessive, but it also seems necessary. Our relationship being the definition of professional from here on out feels paramount.

I’ve seen Kit wearing a suit before. He’s usually wearing a suit when I see him. But I’ve never seen Kit in a suit, knowing what was under his suit before.

Unfortunately, there’s a difference.

He’s moving, approaching, lifting his arm to meet my handshake. Each inch that shrinks between us, my heart beats a little faster in response.

Boss . Boss . Boss , I remind it.

“Call me Kit, please.”

My heart rate stutters when our palms connect, a spark of electricity racing up my arm and jolting it into a rapider rhythm.

We shake hands, me shoving all memories of the last time we touched into the farthest recesses of my mind. “I’m Collins.”

“Unique name.” Kit’s expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes are still shining with repressed amusement.

Déjà vu hits in full force. For a few seconds, I’m eighteen, standing in a dorm room, watching a stylish stranger unpack Louis Vuitton luggage.

That’s what Kit said when we did meet for the first time. I’m not sure he remembers. I’m not sure why I remember, how that’s subconsciously stuck in my head.

“Thank you,” I state.

We stare at each other.

Kit is a better actor than I am. I’m not sure I’m being convincingly poised at all.

“I’m looking forward to working with you,” I add.

Working for you would have been more accurate, but despite taking this job, I still have plenty of pride left. Our job titles define a certain hierarchy, but I have no intention of treating Kit as superior to me. And if he expects that, he can find a new assistant.

One corner of Kit’s mouth curves up for a second. A flicker I would have missed if I hadn’t been studying his expression so closely.

“Likewise.”

“We’ll let you get back to work, Mr. Kensington,” Laura says. “I’ll get Ms. Tate set up at her desk.”

Kit doesn’t look away from me as he replies, “Sounds good.”

I nod in agreement.

I’m sweating. I’m sweating , and it’s probably fifty-five degrees in this building.

What the hell is wrong with me? This is Kit , I remind myself again. He’s young and immature and obnoxious and … hot.

Kit is hot. An attractiveness I’ve always been aware of but have—with one glaring exception—successfully ignored. Kit, in a perfectly tailored suit, with the Manhattan skyline outlined behind him? Hard to ignore.

We’re still shaking—holding—hands, I realize belatedly. My grip relaxes, and his does the same. My fingers fall, brushing against the stiff fabric of my dress, and I restrain the urge to wipe my palm again.

I give the office a cursory glance, breaking eye contact with Kit for the first time since I entered the room. It doesn’t have the generic feel I’m accustomed to, like it’s a duplicate of the entire floor. This office contains character.

The walls are paneled with dark wood that matches the door.

The effect reminds me of a library, enhanced by a large bookcase.

A pair of leather armchairs is angled toward his desk, and an oil painting of a sailboat hangs on the wall opposite it.

A matching couch sits on the corner, forming a small seating area.

Floor-to-ceiling windows enclose the corner of the building, boasting a staggering view of the city and flooding the space with light.

There’s a photo frame sitting on the desk, but it’s facing away, so I can’t see its contents.

The one item in the room not on obvious display.

“Ms. Tate?” Laura is smiling at me indulgently as she holds the door open.

Waiting for me to walk out first, I realize.

“Oh, right. Of course.” I step back hastily, wincing when the back of my calf collides with the coffee table situated in front of the leather couch.

The glass bowl on the coffee table wobbles, the rattle echoing ominously. I lose my equilibrium for a few seconds, arms windmilling and pulse pounding in my ears.

Kit reaches out and grabs my arm, steadying me. Sparks skitter along my nerve endings as his calluses scrape my skin.

He doesn’t spare a glance for the glass bowl, but I do. Thankfully, it’s righted itself. Same as I would have if Kit hadn’t intervened.

“Thanks,” I say, tucking a strand of loose hair behind my ear so I have an excuse to pull my arm away. “I—I haven’t worn heels in a while.”

Kit arches one eyebrow, and I’m positive we’re thinking the same thing—I wore heels that night.

“To work ,” I clarify. “I haven’t worn heels to work in a while.”

My former office in Chicago was more of a flats vibe than corporate runway chic. We were even allowed to wear jeans on Fridays .

“You don’t have to wear heels,” Kit tells me.

My nod is more of an awkward head bob. “Got it.”

I give the coffee table a wide berth as I follow Laura out of Kit’s office. I’d love to sink into the swivel chair and bury my face in my hands in silent mortification, but that’s going to have to wait until I’m back in Brooklyn.

I hoped my clumsiness in front of Kit was an unfortunate coincidence. Now, I’m concerned it’s simple cause and effect.

The next hour passes quickly. Laura already reviewed a bunch of paperwork with me and got me a permanent badge. After I “meet” Kit, she helps me set up voicemail, log in to the company system, and run through the regular tasks I’m supposed to perform.

I pay close attention to every detail, determined not to miss or mess up anything.

Laura also shows me around the break room—lunch is catered daily, and there’s a fridge of drinks and snacks—and this floor’s copy room, which is fully stocked with every category of office supplies imaginable.

I run a fingertip along the edge of a shelf stacked with brand-new binders, and there’s not a single speck of dust on it.

By the time Laura deposits me back at my new desk with a straightforward, “Let me know if you need anything!” I’m not positive she truly means it.

It’s 11:02 a.m.

Thirteen minutes later, I catch a flash of pink out of the corner of my eye.