Page 27 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

C ollins is waiting, arms tightly crossed, when I step out of the elevator.

I don’t bother hiding my smile as I approach, even knowing my cheerful expression will only irritate her more.

Because I’m happy to see her.

Collins frowns when I stop a foot in front of her. “You’re late.”

It’s 5:03, not 5:30. But I’ll pick my battles tonight, and technically, she’s right.

“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely .

I catch the flash of surprise. She wasn’t expecting me to apologize.

“Let’s go,” I add, and she nods.

We both know loitering in the lobby together is a dumb idea.

Collins is even more eager to leave than I am. She slips on the marble floor in her haste to spin toward the exit, so I grab her arm to steady her.

The heat of her skin singes mine like an open flame, the silky fabric of her blue blouse so sheer that it’s barely a barrier at all.

She tugs free from my hold as quickly as possible, her, “Thank you,” clipped.

My, “You’re welcome,” is equally formal.

Camden is waiting along the curb. I texted him while walking to the elevator upstairs.

“Mr. Kensington,” he greets, opening the car door with a polite nod.

I catch Collins’s pursed lips out of the corner of my eye.

I could tell her that I’ve asked Camden to call me Kit dozens of times before letting the matter drop, that he’s worked for my family for decades, that he is extremely well compensated for his dedication and discretion, but I don’t mention any of it.

She can judge my world all she wants, but she’s stuck with an inseverable connection to it—me.

I nod at Collins to climb in first. Once she does, I shut the door.

“Where to, sir?” Camden inquires.

“Maple I’m a fucking Kensington. Everyone—acquaintances, friends, women—knows they have less money than I do. Some expect me to pay; some accept any generosity because they know I can easily afford it.

No one has ever thought I wouldn’t pay their way.

And, as shocked as I am, I’m unsurprised Collins would be the one to break that streak.

Also offended that she’s still assuming the worst about me. I’d pay for her meal simply because I’d invited her out, setting aside the fact that she’s Lili’s friend or my assistant or the mother of my child.

“My treat,” I tell her.

Collins shakes her head. “This isn’t a business meeting, Kit.

Or a date. I want to pay for my own food, so can we please eat someplace that won’t max out my monthly food allowance on one meal?

” She exhales. “I’m not trying to be difficult, I swear.

I just—I don’t want to feel like a charity case either. This situation is complicated enough.”

A charity case ? I’ve spent years begging for a shred of Collins’s attention.

I’m the one who’s always felt inferior and desperate. I wanted one thing from her— her —and Collins wanted nothing from me.

“Me wanting to eat at my favorite steak house has nothing to do with charity, Collins. I chose this restaurant because I’d skipped lunch to sit at your desk and suggested we get dinner tonight, so I’m starving.”

Her eyes widen at the impulsive confession.

“I have money. A lot of it. One dinner isn’t going to dent my net worth. And I know that’s not the reality for most people. That it’s not your reality. But it’s my reality. So … live in my world? Just for one night?”

I know Collins is proud. It’s one of the reasons I was so taken aback by her choice to come work for me. But this is more than overcoming her stubbornness. I want to offer something. I want to take care of her. I want her to let me take care of her.

“Fine,” she says.

I relax. “Thank?—”

“I’ll eat later,” she finishes.

I scowl. For fuck’s sake. I’m not going to order and eat a meal while she sits there, staring at an empty plate.

I blow out a long breath that makes my stomach grumble. It feels like we’ve been standing out here, arguing, for hours. And we haven’t even touched the entire reason we’re here.

I decide to broach it now.

“You know why I’ve been trying to talk to you all day, right?”

She hesitates, then nods stiffly.

“You’re pregnant with my baby, Monty. What you eat, they eat. By buying you dinner, I’m essentially feeding my kid. You’re seriously going to tell me I can’t do that?”

Collins says nothing, her expression impassive.

I sigh, then pull my phone out of my pocket to call Camden. “Fine. Where do you want to go?”

She sighs, too, then strides toward the door with a muttered, “The food here had better be the best damn meal I’ve ever had.”

I release a relieved exhale before hurrying after her. When Collins wants to move, she’s fast. She made all-state in cross-country in high school. I have to jog a few steps to reach the door ahead of her and hold it open.

Surprise crosses her face before she mutters a, “Thanks.”

Did her asshole of an ex seriously decide cheating was acceptable and not open doors for her?

A smartly dressed ma?tre d’ is ready behind the stand. He smiles when he sees me. “Kit! How are you?”

I smile back. “Good, thanks. Do you have a table for us?”

“Of course, of course.”

I glance at Collins, who’s fiddling with a bracelet on her wrist as she studies the wall display of lit wine bottles.

“Somewhere private, please?” I request.

Collins continues playing with her jewelry. She’s nervous, I think.

That makes two of us.

“Absolutely. I have just the table. Right this way, please.”

I gesture for Collins to follow the ma?tre d’ first.

“You must come here a lot?” she surmises once we’re seated at a table tucked in the back corner, partially obscured by some potted plants that serve as a green privacy screen.

“Not really. I’m just memorable. Generous tipper.”

“Right.” She flips her menu open, lips pursing as she surveys the options. Or the prices maybe.

Our waiter delivers two glasses of water and a bread basket. I decline when he asks about other drinks. Collins does the same. I open my mouth to urge her to get something, thinking she’s trying to save me money, then remember that she can’t drink .

It’s a sobering—pun intended—realization.

My gaze falls to her flat stomach as the waiter excuses himself, promising to return soon to take our food orders.

I can’t picture her with a bump. With a baby. I can’t picture me with a baby. Until Friday, I hadn’t ever thought about having kids.

I take a deep breath. “I’m really sorry about Friday, Collins. I was—it was a shock.”

“Yeah. Took me by surprise too.” She reaches for a slice of sourdough following that dry statement, slathering the bread with honey butter and avoiding my gaze.

I clear my throat and lean forward, ignoring proper etiquette by resting my elbows on the table. “You’ve been to the doctor?”

“Yes.” She takes a bite.

“That was the appointment you asked about?”

She chews, swallows, then finally makes eye contact. “Yeah.”

“You could have told me why you were going.”

“Kit …” She leans forward, too, mirroring my pose. “We don’t have to do this, okay? I did tell you once I was sure because you had a right to know. But it can end there. I’m taking care of things.”

A tight band suddenly constricts my chest. I figured she was telling me because she’d decided to stay pregnant. I assumed she was quitting because she’d decided to stay pregnant.

I feel like a fool. A presumptuous fool. A presumptuous, disappointed fool. I wasn’t sure if I wanted kids, but I got attached to the idea of this one.

I slam the door on my disappointment, forcing a neutral expression on my face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed that you were … can I go with you to the, uh, procedure?”