Page 19 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

T here’s a loud thud overhead. Another. Then a third.

I lie perfectly still on my lumpy mattress, silently praying that the ceiling will collapse and bury me in a cave of plaster. Unfortunately, it holds, even as the sounds overhead increase in frequency and volume.

Moaning joins the thudding, and I realize exactly what I’m listening to.

You’ve got to be kidding me .

I roll over onto my side, pulling a pillow atop my head in an attempt to block out the noise from my neighbors. The down doesn’t muffle much. Worse, the movement makes my stomach heave.

I slide out of bed and stumble into the bathroom, hovering over the porcelain rim I’ve spent far too much time staring at in the past twenty-four hours.

Nothing comes out. There’s nothing to come out at this point.

Rather than return to bed, I sink down onto the tiled floor and glance at the counter next to the sink.

I bought two pregnancy tests. They were on sale—buy one, get one fifty percent off—and I thought, Hey, if I’m ever late again, I won’t have to skulk down the pharmacy aisles .

It felt like a preventative step, the way you convince yourself it’s less likely to pour if you bring an umbrella versus going outside unprepared.

My plan was, take one test, rule out the possibility, then save the other for a rainy day.

Except the first test was positive .

And one positive result could be a faulty fluke.

But two? That sounds a lot more like a clear consensus.

Another wave of anxiety hits, constricting my chest and chilling my blood. No matter how many times I adjust position, a permanent weight has settled in the pit of my stomach. Like an anchor I can’t shake and am stuck dragging around.

I rest my forehead on my knees, forcing my lungs to pull in deep, even breaths. My vision blurs with a mixture of tears and dizziness as my kneecaps press against my eyeballs.

I’ve never felt more alone. More terrified.

There are people I could tell, but then I will have told someone. The words will be out in the world, real in a way I’m unprepared to deal with .

Now.

Maybe ever.

I’ve never given having kids any real consideration. It was always a choice in the hazy future. Isaac and I were never serious enough to discuss the possibility of marriage, let alone starting a family.

No part of me has ever pondered what this moment might be like. But I assumed—hoped—it’d be planned. That apprehension would be mixed with joy and excitement, not raw panic. That my sole companion wouldn’t be this paralyzing feeling of isolation.

I push upward on shaky legs. My feet fell asleep a few minutes ago, and my limbs were already heavy with dread.

My fumbling fingers take a full minute to unbox the second test.

I pee on another stick, then clutch the edge of the bathroom counter as I wait for the allotted seconds to tick by. Busy my brain by teetering between a warm flicker of hope and a cold torrent of terror.

If it’s negative, nothing will change. This will be a distant, unpleasant memory that turns into a cautionary tale about staying on birth control after a bad breakup. I’ll continue with my normal routine at work, find a gym like I’ve been meaning to, reschedule with Perry, and?—

I glance down, terror dousing hope as I stare at the word Pregnant for the second time. Two for two. I should have bought a third test, not that there’s any need for a tiebreaker.

My grip tightens on the cold stone of my bathroom counter, clutching it so tightly that my knuckles ache.

Pregnant .

There aren’t many singular words that can change your entire life. I’m looking at one of them.

Slow, shocked steps carry me out of the bathroom and into my tiny kitchen. My upstairs neighbors have shut up at least. I begin the process of brewing a cup of tea on autopilot and open a box of cereal, making myself swallow a few bites that I hope won’t upset my uneasy stomach.

My appetite might be nonexistent, but my body needs fuel.

I’ll be fine , I attempt to assure myself.

I’m pregnant, not dying. Thousands of other women are pregnant at this precise moment. Women take the same test I just did, hoping for this result.

The tight knot in my chest eases a little. Perspective is important. And … I have options that don’t end with me becoming a mother. Arrogantly—absurdly—I never thought abortion or adoption were choices I’d have to contemplate on a personal level.

I have a job, which means money and health insurance. Security, if I stay pregnant.

Except … I can’t keep my job. I can’t continue working at Kensington Consolidated.

My brain’s been shielding me—or maybe it’s just too shocked to process—that there’s a second half to this equation. This wasn’t an immaculate conception, and I’ve only been with one guy since Isaac and I broke up back in the spring.

I’m not just pregnant. I’m pregnant with Kit Kensington ’s baby.

Kit, the billionaire playboy.

Kit, Lili’s brother.

Kit, my new boss .

The electric kettle shuts off, the low click barely registering.

I’m too busy retracing all the decisions that led here. I shouldn’t have taken the job at Kensington Consolidated. I shouldn’t have gone up to Kit’s room. I shouldn’t have gone to that party in the Hamptons. I shouldn’t have worn a light-colored dress that night .

If I’d just kept my legs closed around him, like I’d sworn to myself I would, this never would have happened.

But I can’t change any of those past choices.

I’m pregnant with Kit Kensington’s kid.

No matter how many times I repeat that insane sentence in my head, the shock value refuses to wear off. It’s the most insane statement I’ve ever heard, and it’s my new reality.

And I need the shock value to wear off because I need to figure out what the fuck to do about it.

I have to face Kit at work tomorrow, which I was already nervous about, thanks to our most recent conversation.

Him becoming my boss after our summer tryst was bad enough.

But I’m currently pregnant. I’m carrying around the evidence it happened, and if I stay pregnant, it’ll become obvious.

Saying the words seems impossible. I try, in the relative quiet of my apartment. They come out in an intelligible whisper. I can’t imagine saying them to someone. And I really can’t fathom telling Kit .

The knot in my chest draws tight again.

I don’t have to tell anyone , I remind myself. This could stay a secret—my secret—forever.

But that doesn’t seem like a solution. No relief hits when I consider ending this pregnancy. Not to mention the prick of guilt about making that decision without consulting Kit.

I finally pour the boiling water over a bag of chamomile before carrying a mug of tea over to the couch.

The steam coats my face with a fragrant mist, making me feel sleepy.

Or maybe my body has simply burned through all the adrenaline it’s capable of producing for the time being. Worrying is exhausting.

I curl up on the couch, hands cupped around hot ceramic. One drops, my warm palm pressing against my flat stomach .

I’m not ready to have a baby. Eight months doesn’t sound like nearly enough time to prepare for the rest of my life to change.

And I seriously doubt the billionaire who knocked me up during a one-night stand and who’s spending his weekend partying in Vegas wants to tackle parenthood.

Which leaves me … where?