Page 15 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

K it’s a good driver.

I wasn’t sure he could drive. I assumed he’d been ferried around by a horde of private drivers and pilots and sea captains for his entire existence and never bothered to get his license. I can’t picture him standing in line at the DMV like a normal sixteen-year-old.

Not only is he a good driver, but he looks good driving.

In the enclosed space, all I can smell is the mandarin-and-cedar scent of his cologne. It’s even more noticeable than it was in the elevator. At least trapped in there, I had the fear of imminent death to distract me. As we inch across the Brooklyn Bridge, my distractions are much more limited.

Smell is the sense most closely connected to memory, which is extremely unfortunate right now. The last time I was this close to Kit for this long, we were both wearing a lot fewer clothes.

I shouldn’t have agreed to let him drive me home. I said fine before our elevator mishap, so I don’t even have the excuse of that harrowing experience muddling my decision-making. The subway might be crowded and smelly, but it’s a lot safer than being alone with Kit Kensington.

I believed he’d take public transit with me just to prove a ridiculous point, and then I’d end up feeling guilty for inconveniencing him.

Which was how I wound up in the passenger seat of his fancy sports car, providing block-by-block directions rather than give him my exact address to punch into the fancy navigation system.

Why? I don’t really know.

Half the shit I say or do around Kit, I look back on and can’t believe I said or did it. He’s worse for my impulse control than anything else in existence. Telling him to turn left or right or stay straight at the end of each block allows me to retain a little control, I guess.

Except for right now, when we’re barely moving.

He’s my boss, but we’re not in the office. That shouldn’t make any difference, but it does. The rigid politeness that’s stood erected between us since I started working for him is barely standing.

It’s a relief. And a cause for concern.

“Was your dress okay?”

My head jerks in Kit’s direction. He’s focused on the traffic ahead, profile backlit by the bridge lights.

I debate playing dumb again. Instead, I sigh. “What happened to pretending it never happened?”

“I didn’t ask if you wanted the thong you’d left back. We can’t discuss the party?”

I silently pray it’s dim enough inside the car that he can’t tell I’m blushing. I realized I’d forgotten my underwear halfway down the hallway, and I had no way to reenter the suite without involving hotel staff or knocking to wake him up.

Does back mean he kept it?

“The dress is ruined,” I answer.

And whenever I look at it, I think about you .

Two excellent reasons to get rid of the gray dress, but it’s still taking up space in my tiny closet.

He makes a humming sound in the back of his throat. “Too bad.”

“Tragic,” I drone, then look out the window.

Traffic’s let up a little. We’re nearly off the bridge.

I can’t see Kit’s smirk, but I feel its presence.

“Was that true earlier? You worked with your ex?”

My head jerks back toward him. He’s still smirking.

I scowl. “Eavesdrop on private conversations much?”

Kit doesn’t look the least bit abashed. “Don’t have your ‘private conversations’ outside of my office, and I won’t listen to them.”

“Technically, I was having a private conversation in my office. It just happens to lack the walls you have. Thin walls, apparently.”

I had to call IT this morning because of a software problem.

The mid-thirties guy who showed up to solve it was friendly.

Very friendly. He asked if I wanted to get a drink sometime while fixing my computer, so I told him I don’t date coworkers after a bad experience with an ex.

Which was true. Also a convenient excuse since I didn’t feel a spark of attraction toward the employee whose name I’ve already forgotten.

He brakes at a stoplight. “So, you worked together when he cheated?”

I exhale. “No. I wouldn’t go out with him while we worked at the same firm, so he changed jobs.”

“How romantic,” Kit drawls.

“I thought so,” I say, ignoring his sarcasm. “Or I wanted to think so. I should have known better. Men love the chase, not the catch, right?”

He worked hard to date me. But as soon as he had me, Isaac got bored. Became sloppy and selfish.

“You’re expecting me to agree with that?”

“Well, you’re an example.”

The red glow from the stoplight gives Kit’s expression an ominous appearance. So does his glower. “How the fuck am I an example?”

“You chased me for years. Then we had sex, and you lost interest.”

“ I lost interest? You snuck out while I was still sleeping!”

“I thought that’d be easier,” I tell him. “It’s not like you reached out after.”

I hate— hate —that the second sentence slipped out. We both knew it was a one-night stand.

A muscle in Kit’s jaw jumps. But his eyes are on the road, hiding the rest of his expression.

“Sounds like you like being chased, Collins. I thought you leaving meant you had gotten what you wanted and were done.”

I did. I am.

The words won’t come out because there was a small part of me— before he became my boss—that was disappointed I’d never heard from him. That wondered what he would have said if I’d stayed until he woke up.

I exhale. “I should have taken the subway, Kit. You’re my boss, and this is inappro?—”

He interrupts, “Lili told me you wanted the job.”

“I wanted a job, yeah. But you didn’t have to hire me.”

“What was I supposed to say to my sister ? Sorry, I can’t hire your friend because we had sex last weekend ? If you’d wanted Lili to know about us, you would have told her yourself. You didn’t, so neither did I.”

“You could have made up some other excuse,” I state.

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like no ! No is a complete sentence. Or you could have told her you’d already hired someone.”

“Lie, you mean?”

“Seriously? Where was this moral superiority when you got arrested in Monaco for stealing someone’s yacht?”

Kit scowls. “For the last time, I didn’t steal it. We had permission to be aboard. There was a … miscommunication with the staff. Am I still going straight?”

“A miscommunication , sure.” I scoff. “Take the next right.”

We’ve already overshot my street by two blocks, but I won’t be admitting that. Kit will figure it out anyway. And it’s his fault for bringing up my dress and distracting me.

Kit flicks on his blinker. “It was a miscommunication. The police didn’t charge us with anything.”

“I know. I talked them out of it.”

He scoffs. “ You talked them out of it? Bullshit. Jacques called and explained the situation.”

“Yeah, well, you’re welcome . I had a date that night.”

“Oh, yeah? With who?”

I could make up an answer, but I decide not to bother. “I don’t remember his name. Take the next right again.”

“My sincere apologies for standing in the way of that special love connection.”

I shake my head and shift my gaze out the window. We’re only a block away from my apartment. “You can let me out here.”

“What number are you?”

“Eighty-three.”

“That’s not on this block.”

“The subway station is two blocks away. I can walk one …”

He keeps driving.

I sigh.

“I’m having dinner with Lili on Saturday night,” Kit tells me. “Charlie’s coming to meet the fam.”

At this point, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that nothing about this ride home is going to be properly classified as professional . And since I’m curious to know more about Lili’s new boyfriend, I ask, “Have you met Charlie before?”

“Yeah. A couple of times. He’s a decent guy. And my dad already did the bad cop routine, so I’m good to just shoot the shit with him. Worst part is, the dinner’s happening at my grandfather’s.” Kit pulls his car over in front of my apartment building.

I frown, confused. Lili’s always gushed about her grandfather. “Why’s that the worst part?”

“Arthur and I don’t have much of a relationship.” Kit drums his fingers on the bottom of the steering wheel. “And … I expect he’ll have so me thoughts about my new role at the company. Good job isn’t really in his vocabulary.”

“He must be proud of you.” I state that sentence like a fact.

Because Kit’s the type of person everyone wants to be associated with. He possesses this invisible draw I—mostly—pretend I’m immune to. And it’s not tied to his looks or his money or his personality. It’s just him .

“Proud, huh?” Kit’s tone is wry.

“That you’re working at the company, I mean.”

“Well, he wouldn’t have been happy if I hadn’t. But I doubt he’s thrilled I’m there either. He and my dad have a complicated relationship. Lili’s the only member of the family the old man seems to like. Maybe he sympathizes with her shoe-shopping addiction.”

My lips quirk. “Are you close with your other grandparents?”

“Not really. My dad’s mom died a long time ago. And my mom’s folks aren’t exactly the warm-and-cuddly sort either.”

I nod. That assessment tracks with my observations at the Red, White, and Blue party I attended at Lili’s grandparents’ mansion. They were regal, not friendly.

“You talk to your dad lately?”

I’m not sure how Kit, of all people, picked up on the dysfunction that everyone else in my life is—or acts—oblivious to.

“Yeah,” I reply, twirling the end of my ponytail.

I talked to my mom last weekend, updating her on my new job, so close enough.

“Is he teaching Biochem this fall?”

It’s an innocent question, but I can’t help but feel like it’s a test too. A quiz to determine if I’m lying.

“I don’t know. We didn’t discuss his current classes.” That’s true at least. We didn’t discuss anything . I clear my throat and glance at the exterior of my building. “I should, uh, go. Thanks for the ride. Say hi to Lili for me.”

Kit doesn’t reply right away. He’s busy peering past me at the building. “You don’t have a doorman?”

“That costs extra.”

I was apartment-hunting without knowing my salary or when I’d have one again. The only person I knew in New York was Lili, and I was too proud to take her charity. And too cautious to move in with strangers. I was lucky to find this studio.

He’s frowning now. “You should really have a doorman. Otherwise, anyone could walk in?—”

“Anyone who’s not a resident has to buzz in.” I don’t mention that the door sometimes gets propped open with a rock to make deliveries easier. “This place is way nicer than where I lived in Chicago.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better ?”

At first, I figured Kit was simply scandalized by how the bottom ninety-nine percent lived. The realization that he’s worried about me shouldn’t make my chest warm, but it does.

My voice is soft as I say, “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Kit’s still frowning when he glances at me, but he gives me a reluctant nod. “Okay.”

I nod back, unbuckling my seat belt and reaching for the door handle.

“I am sorry about what I said earlier. You’re not just an assistant, Collins. Selfishly, I’m so damn glad you didn’t move to New York to play at Carnegie Hall or do something else to do with music because I love working with you.”

I want to cry. Or laugh. Or scream .

There’s no way he could have known that I’d dreamed about performing at Carnegie Hall when I was younger. My mom had taken me to a performance there for my tenth birthday, and I was transfixed.

He’s apologized—twice.

And the kicker? He said working with me, like we’re a true team.

I can handle Professional Kit. And I’m an expert at managing Obnoxious Kit. But I’m defenseless against Considerate Kit, it turns out.

I need to get out of this car— now .

Why am I still in this car? We’ve been parked for ten minutes.

“You too. I mean, me too.” I fumble with the handle out of sheer self-preservation, sucking in a deep breath when fresh air invades the car. I climb out, then reach down to retrieve my bag from the footwell. “Thanks for the ride.”

I can’t remember if I said that already. My entire head’s a jumble.

“You’re welcome.” His tone is casual, his elbow propped on the door.

Unaffected.

I wish I were too.

I hurry toward the entrance of my building, discreetly kicking the stone out of the doorframe and making a show of retrieving my keys from my bag in case Kit is waiting. It’ll get colder soon, putting an end to that practice.

There’s a credit card statement and a postcard from Jane in my mailbox. I smile at the postcard and tuck the bill in my bag to deal with later. Before I head up the stairs, I glance out the glass door.

The curb isn’t empty yet.

I swallow hard, then start up the steps to my apartment.