Page 26 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

T he swivel chair behind my desk is occupied when I return from lunch. Margot and Stella don’t notice Kit right away. They continue chatting about the sample sale in SoHo we’re planning to head to after work.

But I can’t not notice Kit. He commands attention. And it’s nothing specific I can pinpoint; it’s just him .

I notice how similar the blue shade of his shirt is to his eyes. I notice that a piece of hair has fallen across his forehead. I notice the straight line of his jaw, steeled for a fight.

I stiffen, too, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin like I’m preparing for a war.

It feels like Kit and I are locked in some sort of battle. And honestly, I don’t know why . I told him about the pregnancy because I felt like I had to. Not because I wanted to. And not because I wanted anything from him.

Was I hoping he’d offer? Yeah. But I’m prepared to do this on my own. I’ll follow the plan my mom and I hashed out over the weekend, and I’ll—we’ll—be fine.

I told him I expected nothing. I’m offering him an easy out, and he’s suddenly hell-bent on talking .

“Damn,” Margot mutters to my left, spotting Kit sprawled in my swivel chair like a king on a throne.

Stella giggles, noticing the same. “Yeah. I’d quit to hit that.”

A fresh burst of irritation appears in response to their appreciative tones. What is Kit doing outside of his office, at my desk, making a spectacle of himself?

“I’ll see you guys at five,” I tell Margot and Stella, then peel away from them and stride toward my desk solo.

According to the clock on the wall, it’s 12:57. Kit has a meeting at one, which is technically when my lunch hour ends. I suggested to Margot and Stella we stop for a coffee to cut it as close as possible, but I didn’t delay long enough.

I set my decaf cinnamon latte on the counter of my cubicle, then rummage through my purse for my ChapStick. “You have a meeting at?—”

“At one with Benjamin Chase. Yeah, I know.” Kit leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “How was your lunch?”

“Fine.” I can’t get the cap of my lip balm off. My hands are too unsteady, shaking with the tension that’s tangible in the air between us.

Why is he being so … cordial? I thought he’d be badgering me to talk again. Or angry about the resignation letter I dropped on his desk a few hours ago.

I know he’ll have no problem finding a replacement—Margot or Stella would happily volunteer—but I figured me leaving so soon would prick his ego a little bit.

Not that I want him to be mad, but at least it would be an understandable reaction.

Just like I wanted him to say something on Friday, not sit silently with a horrified look on his face.

Kit reaches out and tugs the ChapStick from my grip. “What did you get to eat?”

“Uh, soup.” I’m preoccupied by how tiny the yellow tube looks in his hands as he wiggles the top off.

He frowns as he hands the ChapStick back to me. “That’s it?”

“I wasn’t very hungry. My stomach has been …” I let my voice trail as I smear balm on my lips. Glance at the clock—12:59. “You’ll be late.”

Kit looks at his fancy watch. Stands.

I exhale a sigh of relief. He’s leaving.

“I’m taking you out to dinner. Be ready at five.”

“I can’t tonight. I have plans after work.”

“Cancel them.”

Those two words are infused with an iron I’ve never heard from Kit before.

Normally, I consider him too cavalier. He has this ease that’s not quite laziness, but close, as if he’s always certain he’ll get exactly what he wants. Born from a lifetime record of getting exactly what he wants.

I wouldn’t call Kit spoiled—not unless I was really pissed at him at least—but he’s certainly entitled.

His eyes narrow when I say nothing. “That wasn’t a request, Collins. Cancel them, or I’ll come along as a third wheel.”

I almost laugh. Does he think I have a date tonight?

I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended by that assumption.

I haven’t had the energy to talk to a man who isn’t him since I found out I was pregnant, let alone line up a date.

Perry has texted twice about rescheduling drinks, and I made up an excuse both times.

I wonder if Kit would drop this if he knew my plans were shopping with Margot and Stella, then decide it’s not worth it. If he’s going to insist on having this conversation, I’d rather get it over with sooner rather than later.

“Fine,” I state. “I’ll meet you in the lobby at five.”

There’s still a chance someone could see us leaving together, but Kensington Consolidated isn’t the only company with offices in this building. There’s less of a chance.

It’s 1:01 now.

I shouldn’t like that Kit is prioritizing me over an important client, but I kind of do. I’ve never witnessed him fight for anything before. Yet he’s fighting to talk to me, and I’m less immune to that than I want to be.

“Okay. I’ll see you then. I mean, I’ll see you before, but also—” Kit stops talking, shakes his head once, and then rounds the side of my desk. It’s the closest to flustered I’ve ever seen him. “I hope that’s decaf,” he adds before continuing down the hallway toward the conference rooms.

I stare after him, stunned.

One, that he has the audacity to imply I’m endangering our—my—baby by consuming coffee.

Two, because in order for Kit to know that pregnant women are supposed to limit their caffeine intake, I’m pretty sure he would have had to do some research.

Which makes me feel a little guilty for dumping the mug of tea that was left on my desk before heading into his office this morning.