Page 29 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

“ Y ou ready?”

I glance up at Margot. She’s wearing a headband with bobbing pumpkins atop two antennas.

I smile at the sight, then ask, “Ready for what?”

Margot rolls her eyes. “Didn’t you see the email? We’re getting Halloween drinks. Let’s go!”

I saw the email. But I wasn’t planning on going because, one, I can’t drink, and two, I’m worried about anyone at the office figuring out why.

Kit convinced me to remain as his assistant for the time being, saying it would raise fewer questions if I left after a few months than a few weeks.

That the last thing I needed right now was the stress of switching jobs again.

That I wasn’t showing and there was no reason for anyone to suspect I was pregnant.

That we could reassess after the holidays and decide what to do then.

So, I agreed to stay. Because he’d made valid points. And because … I like working for him. I like seeing him every day. I like hearing his deep voice in the background while I answer emails. I like that he brings me a sleeve of saltines every time he goes to the break room for a coffee refill.

“I have some work to finish up …”

Margot collapses on the side of my desk with an exasperated huff. “Collins! The mighty Mr. Kensington can wait until tomorrow. Everyone else is leaving on time tonight, so he can’t expect you to stay late. And we haven’t hung out in forever ! Come on!”

She’s being dramatic. We had lunch together two days ago. But I could use a fun night out. A brief distraction from reality. Lately, my life has followed a predictable pattern of work and home. Stress and sleepless nights. Naps and nausea.

“Okay,” I agree. “Just give me a few minutes to finish things up.”

Margot claps and straightens. “Meet us by the elevators.”

I nod as I type. “Be right there.”

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: No subject

I’m heading out. See you tomorrow.

— C

I can hear Kit’s voice. Know he’s on a conference call from his calendar, so I’m not expecting my inbox to ping with an immediate reply.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re: No subject

Have a good night.

—Mighty Mr. Kensington

I snort a laugh before I shut off my computer and gather up my stuff.

I scan the new notifications on my phone as I walk to the elevator. There’s a photo from Jane—of her in a cute bunny costume posed with three other girls. I shoot her a Happy Halloween! text in response before moving on to the next message. My skin prickles unpleasantly as soon as I read it.

Sarah: Hey, Collins. I hope you’re doing okay. Wanted to let you know that Jeremy told me that Isaac is transferring to the firm’s New York office. Just a heads-up.

I chew my bottom lip and slow my steps, rereading the message twice before I send a reply.

Collins: Thanks for letting me know.

Collins: Hope you’re well too.

I blocked Isaac everywhere as soon as we broke up. I’m not sure he knows I moved to New York. If he does, he doesn’t know where I work or where I live. I doubt Isaac would even try to contact me. He cheated on me , and he wasn’t very careful about covering it up.

But still, the news is a damper on my cheerful mood.

My fresh start keeps getting staler.

I slip my phone into my bag before turning the corner to approach the elevator bank.

Margot cheers when she sees me. “You ready?”

“I’m ready!” I push my worries away like they’re a physical layer I can shed, determined to be a non-pregnant, non-cheated-on woman for the night.

It takes us a half hour to travel to a bar in Greenwich Village.

They’re known for going over the top around holidays, Stella tells me, and the interior doesn’t disappoint.

Fake cobwebs cover the ceiling. Drinks are being served in miniature cauldrons.

A smoke machine is set up in one corner, sending billows of gray mist into the air, and a spooky soundtrack pipes through invisible speakers.

We snag and settle at a large high-top table in one corner. The wooden surface is scarred from years of use, plus several sets of initials enclosed in hearts.

Everyone else reaches for a laminated menu, so I do the same. I pretend to scan it but mainly zone out, listening to the creepy soundtrack of creaks and groans.

“You okay?” Margot asks, bumping her shoulder against mine from her spot on the stool beside me.

“Yeah,” I reply. “Just tired.”

I yawn for emphasis, and it’s not even fake. I almost fell asleep standing in the shower this morning.

“What’s it like, working for Christopher Kensington?” Aimee’s question burns with curiosity .

She’s an attorney, part of Kensington Consolidated’s legal department. I’d never met her before tonight, much less told her whose assistant I was. Which must mean people are gossiping about me.

Suddenly, I’m the center of attention, everyone abandoning their side conversations to hear my reply.

My fingers fiddle with the firm edge of the laminated menu. “It’s fine. He’s pretty easy to work for.”

“Pretty easy on the eyes too,” someone—Caroline, I think—comments with a laugh.

Fervent agreement echoes around the table.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve gotten trapped in a conversation that included some mention of how gorgeous Kit is. The topic has come up at every event I’ve attended that he’s also been at, including the party where he got me pregnant. He draws attention anywhere he goes.

But I can count the number of times there’s been a hot twist in my chest that feels a lot like jealousy. A recent yet recurring occurrence that started when Sadie Carmichael showed up. The thought of Kit with other women bothers me, and that reality really bothers me.

“Is he dating anyone?” Stella wonders.

I shrug. “I don’t know. We talk about spreadsheets and earning statements. Not his personal life.”

Mostly true.

Ever since our dinner last month, my conversations with Kit have remained totally professional. Aside from Sunday mornings, when he texts me the size of our baby in food terms. I’m currently twelve weeks—a plum—almost through the first trimester.

“You manage his schedule and screen all of his calls,” Aimee argues. “You must have some idea. ”

“Nope. Sorry. If he’s seeing anyone, it’s after hours and on his personal phone.”

Everyone at the table appears disappointed by my lack of juicy gossip. God, if they only knew.

This is one of the few times I’ve been grateful for the frequent urge to pee. Hopefully, they’ll have moved on to a different topic by the time I return to the table.

I lean closer to Margot. “I’m running to the restroom. Order me a ginger ale?”

“A ginger ale?” Stella’s nose scrunches across the table. “What about the Halloween menu?” She waves it around like a sparkler. “At least get an apple cider spritz or something.”

“Headache,” I explain. “Alcohol will just make it worse.”

“I think I have some painkillers in here …” Margot reaches for her purse.

“I took one before we left the office,” I lie. “But it hasn’t kicked in yet, so I’m sticking to soda. I’ll be right back.”

The restroom line is long, at least ten other women waiting in front of me.

I lean against the wall, letting it support my weight, wishing I’d worn flats. The arches of my feet are aching even though I sat most of the day. I’m not sure if sore feet are a pregnancy symptom, but the changes to my body sure aren’t making heels more comfortable.

Ahead of me, two girls are dressed as a campfire and s’mores. They’re drafting a text to a guy one of them is meeting later, collapsing into tipsy giggles every fifteen seconds as their suggestions become increasingly bold.

I study them like a scientist observing a foreign species, realizing that’ll never be me again. When I’m able to drink again, I’ll have a newborn. Then that newborn will become a toddler, that toddler a teenager.

I’ll always have a responsibility for someone else for the rest of my life.

Parenthood doesn’t have an expiration date. It’ll never only be me I have to worry about again.

It’s a bizarre realization to have.

Almost as strange as the idea that I’ll be buying a baby-sized costume a year from now.

By the time I return to the table, everyone’s received their drinks.

I slide back onto my stool and take a long sip from the glass set at my spot. And then, as soon as the flavor hits, I cough, spraying liquid everywhere.

“Collins!” Aimee protests, sliding her sequined clutch farther from me.

“There’s alcohol in this,” I state.

Stella smiles as she tosses some napkins my way. “Only an ounce of vodka. The bartender didn’t even charge for?—”

Panic gathers in my chest, constricting my windpipe and making it hard to breathe. The smoky air feels suffocating all of a sudden.

I stand, grabbing my bag off the sticky floor. “I’ve, uh, I’ve gotta go.”

Any replies get lost in the commotion of the bar as I spin and hurry for the exit.

I skirt around a plaid-wearing farmer and two cows before reaching the door and rushing up the steps to the street. Once I’m outside, I inhale a deep breath, the taboo taste of alcohol buzzing and bitter on my tongue.

“Collins! ”

I glance over my shoulder, watching Margot dart up the stairs after me. She’s not wearing a jacket, bare arms hugging her waist for warmth. I can see the raised bumps on her skin from here.

“Are you okay?” she asks, pausing a few feet away and scanning my face anxiously.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Shit.” Her face pales. “I had no idea they’d ordered a real drink for you. But I know they never would have if they’d known?—”

“I know; I know. I’m just … I’m a little on edge tonight. This”—I point at my stomach—“has been a lot. And I found out earlier that my ex is moving here, and I …” I blow out a long breath. “Can we keep all this between us?”

“Of course,” she assures me. “But if you ever need to talk or if you want to go out for a … ginger ale, I’m here. My sister had a baby last year, so I know a lot more about pregnancy than your average childless woman.”

I muster a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

“I’ll tell the girls you got your period and needed to head out fast.” Margot winks. “No one will suspect a thing.”

“Thank you,” I repeat. “And here, let me give you some money for?—”

She shakes her head, shivering. “Don’t worry about it. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” I echo as she hurries back inside.

I pull out my phone and order an Uber. The practical decision would be to walk to the subway from here, but my feet are going to protest each step. I can splurge on one ride.

When it shows the closest car as seven minutes away, I make another impulsive choice .

He answers on the second ring.

“Hello?”

Wherever Kit is, it’s quiet. I was expecting raucous cheers, loud music, even a woman’s voice—or several women’s—in the background.

But all I hear is silence.

“Collins?”

“I accidentally drank vodka,” I blurt. “It was only a sip, and I spit most of it out, but …” I’m freaking out about it .

I don’t say that last part aloud, but it’s strongly implied in the panicked flurry of words.

“How do you accidentally drink vodka?”

Kit sounds amused, and the tight set of my shoulders relaxes.

“I went out for drinks with some of the other assistants. I asked them to order me a ginger ale before I went to the bathroom, and they got me a Moscow Mule instead.”

“Ah.”

Just a single syllable, but it drips with disapproval. Maybe even anger.

“They didn’t mean anything by it,” I rush to add. “I told them I wasn’t drinking because I had a headache, and they didn’t know I’m …” I bite the inside of my cheek. “I told Margot the truth. I asked her not to tell anyone, and I don’t think she will, but she knows.”

“Is that why you’re calling?” Kit sounds remarkably calm about the possibility of the entire office discovering his assistant is pregnant.

“Yes. I mean, no. I said I’d keep you updated, so …”

“So, you thought you’d let me know about Plum’s first taste of alcohol?”

I’m smiling.

I’ve been smiling, based on the soreness in my cheeks that I’m suddenly aware of. “That’s this week?” I ask, like I didn’t memorize Sunday’s text as soon as I saw it.

“Uh-huh. Next week is a kiwi.”

“Exciting.”

“I hear the sarcasm, Monty, but I’m a visual learner. I can’t picture our kid in centimeters or ounces or whatever you’re supposed to measure babies in.”

I laugh. “It’s quiet. You’re not going out for Halloween?”

“It’s not even six. The good parties have barely started setting up.”

“Oh. Right.”

“But, no, I’m not going out tonight.”

“Lose your cowboy costume?” I tease.

Senior year, I ran into Kit at an off-campus party. There was a Western theme.

“For the last time, I was Indiana Jones, not a cowboy.”

“You had a lasso.”

“It was supposed to be a whip. I would have put more effort in had I known you were going to memorize the entire outfit.”

My cheeks burn as I clear my throat. “Well, I’ll let you get back to … ”

“Wanna come over? I’m about to leave the office.”

“That’s …”

“A great idea? I know. I’ll text you my address. See you soon.”

He hangs up before I can respond.