Page 3 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

M urphy’s Law should be renamed Collins’s Law, I decide. Tonight, everything that could have gone wrong has gone wrong. The evening has been an utter failure from start to finish.

Each step forward exacerbates the painful blister forming on my pinkie toe.

Small talk with several well-connected guests resulted in zero job opportunities, so I’m facing an expensive trip back into the city with no income stream in sight.

The silk dress I splurged on to look like I belonged here is likely ruined.

A blonde woman spilled her Aperol spritz on me, resulting in a sticky, noticeable stain just below my boobs.

Blondie offered a haughty apology with a pointed undertone of watch where you’re going before tottering away on her stilettos. She had run into me .

Me a year ago—me a month ago—would have demanded she pay for dry-cleaning. The red soles of her six-inch heels suggested she could afford it.

But the me tonight, exhausted with sore cheeks from fake smiling, simply took it as a sign to leave before another catastrophe struck.

And the damn cherry on top of a shitty sundae?

I’m going to have to find a new neighborhood bar.

The bartender at the one two blocks down from my Brooklyn apartment, where I went to see if they were hiring—spoiler alert: they’re fully staffed—is who recommended I come to this event.

She said Hamptons parties are filled with the bored, the well connected, and the wealthy. Just not the hiring , apparently.

“Monty! Monty!”

My shoulders stiffen when I instantly recognize his voice. I would know it was him even if he didn’t insist on calling me by that absurd nickname.

I continue walking-slash-hobbling along. Kit Kensington is the last person I feel like facing right now. His presence here tops the list of tonight’s calamities.

It’s shocking he spotted my departure through his crowd of admirers.

Footfalls sound behind me, drawing closer.

“Go away, Chris,” I say without turning around.

Kit hates being called Chris.

He doesn’t call out again, so I think I’ve successfully escaped.

But then, as soon as I’m clear of the ballroom doors and inside the lobby, a warm hand closes around my upper arm and tugs me to the left.

Kit’s calloused palm and fingers wrap around the entirety of my bicep. Rougher skin than I’d expect from someone born with billions in their bank account. He’s never had to work for anything.

I whirl on him, more peeved than I’ve felt since … my last conversation with Kit probably. He possesses this infuriating ability to wriggle beneath my skin like a relentless splinter. Not painful, but annoying. Impossible to ignore.

Three separate conversations I struck up earlier were interrupted by someone realizing Kit was in attendance tonight, so I know he’s not chasing me down because he has no one to talk to.

“Let go of me,” I state when his hand doesn’t drop.

In a humiliating turn of events, my voice wobbles on the last syllable. That crack—hysterical female incoming!—paired with the venom in my tone, would be enough to make most men take a step back.

Kit Kensington is not most men.

And he is a man, I acknowledge reluctantly.

He’s Lili’s little brother, and I try to treat him like a kid, but he doesn’t look like an overgrown teenager.

He looks like a fantasy wearing a custom-tailored suit.

And he doesn’t sound like a boy either. His deep baritone is as attractive as the rest of him, compelling and commanding. Like crisp velvet.

Thanks to the heels pinching my toes, I’m directly at eye level with his shoulders. They didn’t look so broad two years ago. Lili’s friend was right about him being in impressive shape. Kit loves to sail and probably sails shirtless and?—

Crap. I think I’m possibly checking him out.

“Why do you smell like—oh.”

Kit’s focused on the blemish on my dress, not the direction of my gaze, which is a relief.

The stain is hard to miss—several inches wide and several shades darker than the fabric it splashed on.

Next time I buy a gown that makes a sizable dent in my savings account, it’ll be black. Classic and durable.

I yank my arm free from his grip since he still hasn’t let go. “Goodbye, Kit.”

He keeps pace with me easily—damn blister—as I hustle across the lobby toward the revolving door. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” I reply curtly.

“Chicago?”

“No. I moved to New York a couple of weeks ago.”

Instantly, I regret the hasty admission of details he doesn’t need to know.

It never occurred to me that Kit might be here tonight, and knowing he was attending would have kept me from showing up. I haven’t told Lili I’m in town. Asking Kit not to mention seeing me to his sister will only pique his misplaced interest.

He surprises me by not pressing for more of an explanation about my change of address. “You should rinse that stain before you go unless you want that dress ruined.”

No shit , I think.

“Know a lot about women’s clothing, do you?” I say.

“About removing it? Yeah.”

I scoff and hobble faster.

Kit doesn’t fall a single inch behind as he continues talking. “My mother designs clothes, Monty. And you know Lili. Despite my best efforts, I’ve absorbed some knowledge. Like that the longer a stain sits on fabric, especially silk , the harder it is to get out.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I snap. “Go strip in the women’s restroom? I don’t have anything else to change into, and even if I did?—”

I stop talking. Stare at the plastic rectangle Kit just pressed into my palm. His fingers curl around mine, closing my fist, and it feels like a pair of electric paddles were just pressed against my chest.

“I have a suite upstairs,” he tells me, oblivious to the cardiac event I’m experiencing. “You can use it to clean up.”

For the second time tonight, I pull away. Why does he keep touching me? Hasn’t he heard of personal space?

“ Of course you do,” I drawl.

We’re at the Hamptons’ most exclusive hotel, located right on the shoreline, with enviable amenities. His parents and grandparents both own mansions nearby, yet he has a suite upstairs. Probably reserved for tonight’s paramour.

Kit grins as he walks backward, not wasting any time returning to the ongoing party. “Top floor. Last door on the left. It’s called the Seashore Suite, or something ridiculous like that. You’re welcome.”

One final smirk, and he disappears back into the ballroom.

I stand, conflicted for a few seconds. My dress is likely ruined regardless. But I’m not really in a rush to return to my apartment and submit more résumés.

I sigh, then start toward the elevator. Kit is probably busy with a socialite—or several—by now and will never know I accepted his help. I’ll be long gone by the time he brings someone upstairs.

A silver-haired woman steps off when the shiny doors part. She spots the stain and gives me a sympathetic look. “I hope you packed an extra dress, dear.”

“I did.” The lie comes out as bright as the gleaming marble floor.

I’m sick of being pitied. The unanswered messages on my phone are mostly filled with sympathies. And most of that concern was fueled by guilt. Which shouldn’t make me feel more pathetic, but it does.

When the elevator doors open again, I’m on the top floor. The hallway is even more luxurious than the lobby. A pristine white rug runs the length, so plush that I forget about my blister while walking. Each room has a nautical name.

The key card Kit handed me opens the door to the Sea side Suite with a soft click.

I kick my heels off as soon as I’m inside, breathing a sigh of relief when my soles sit flat on the floor again. My pinkie toe is bright red, but at least it’s not bleeding. The last thing I need is to ruin my shoes too.

I toss my clutch on the neatly made king-size bed and continue into the attached bathroom. The cold tiles aren’t as comforting against my sore feet as the carpet was.

Wrestling the zipper down my back takes a couple of minutes of contortions. Finally, my stained dress pools on the white-and-black hexagon in a silken heap, leaving me naked, aside from the tiny thong I wore to avoid panty lines.

As soon as I wet the stain on my dress under the tap, the damp spot spreads to cover most of the bodice. It also makes it impossible to tell whether the stain is still showing or not, although I’m guessing still there is the safer bet.

I huff a frustrated breath and drop the dress next to the sink with a wet slap, cursing tonight’s events all over again. Then lean a hip against the counter, contemplating my next move .

A firm knock raps against the suite door while I’m still deliberating, followed by, “Collins?”

I snatch up my damp dress and clutch it to my chest like Kit might be able to see through the wooden door and around the corner into the bathroom. “What?” I call back.

“Can I come in?”

No , is my first instinct. It’s embarrassing enough he knows I came up here. But this is technically his room, so I can’t leave Kit standing out in the hallway.

“One sec,” I shout, dropping my dress back on the counter. The whoosh of air raises goose bumps on my skin. Which is when I remember that I’m a scrap of lace away from being fully naked. I can’t open the door like this , and putting my dripping dress back on isn’t a great option.

The robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door solves my dilemma. Hastily, I pull it on, tempted to groan aloud when the luxurious fabric slides across my skin. It’s so soft. Even comfier than the hallway carpet.

I knot the belt and stride over to the door. When I open it, Kit is leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. His tie’s been loosened. His hair looks like a hand ran through it roughly and recently.

I wish I could say the slightly disheveled look made him a little less gorgeous.

Kit strolls past me without saying a word, invading my temporary refuge.