Page 40 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

“I see what Jane was going on about,” my mom says as she hangs her coat up in the closet. “He’s very attractive.”

I groan. “ Mom .”

“What? I don’t want an ugly grandchild.”

I’m torn between amusement and horror. There’s some happiness too. This is the first time anyone, except for Jane or Kit, has acted excited about the baby. The repressed laughter in my mom’s voice as she teases me is as comforting as the hiss of the ancient radiators working overtime.

“That’s—he’s my boss,” I remind her. I told my mom about the new job I’d accepted when we discussed this visit, so at least my parents know that’s a temporary statement. “Don’t talk about how hot he is.”

“You’re having a child with the man, Collins. Clearly, you noticed.”

I grimace. “Something smells good.”

My mom laughs, but she lets me change the subject. “I went a little overboard on food. I wasn’t sure what would sound good to you— oh .”

Impulsively, I pull my mom into another hug.

She’s silent for a few seconds, petting my hair the same way she did when I was younger. “Everything okay, honey?”

“Yeah.” I pull back and sniffle. “I’m hormonal. And it’s nice to be home.”

Mom smiles. “It’s nice to have you home. You seemed happy in Chicago, but I have to admit, I’m really glad you ended up in New York.”

“I am too,” I say truthfully.

And honestly? I’m not sure I was happy in Chicago. I was content, until things imploded because I didn’t know it could be this much better.

“… has a 4.0-liter twin-turbo V8 engine with …”

I tune in and then tune right back out of my dad and Kit’s car conversation as they enter the house, dripping rainwater all over the mat.

My mom and I hastily move to the side as they pull off their coats and set down the luggage.

I catch Kit call my dad Gerald and still with surprise.

A glance at the clock above the mantel confirms we haven’t even been here ten minutes.

My dad’s had teaching assistants last an entire semester who were never on a first-name basis with him.

I catch a quick smile when Kit spots the doorway that leads into the kitchen, where eighteen years of heights are marked.

Five months ago, I would have laughed at the idea of Kit Kensington defacing his penthouse—which undoubtedly cost tens of millions of dollars—with permanent marker. Now, I can picture him suggesting it.

Kit reaches into one of the bags he brought, retrieving two bottles of wine. One is wrapped, which he hands to my mom. “This is for you, Amanda.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” my mom says, taking it and beaming.

She tends to buy whatever wine is on sale, but my mom studies the ornate label like she’s a sommelier.

“It’s my mom’s favorite, and she tends to have pretty good taste in that kind of thing,” Kit tells her, then holds the other bottle out to me.

I raise an eyebrow.

He winks. “It’s nonalcoholic, Monty. ”

As I take the bottle, I can’t believe there was a time when I thought Kit wasn’t capable of thoughtfulness. “Thanks,” I whisper.

“Monty?” my mom repeats. “What does that mean?”

This is one of the rare occasions I’ve seen Kit look embarrassed. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, which he only does when he’s uncertain.

I guess I’ve memorized some of his tells too.

“Kit calls me Monty because …” My voice trails because I don’t actually know why he gave me a nickname, just what it’s short for.

“Because we met at Montgomery Hall,” he finishes.

“That’s sweet.” My mom smiles, glancing between us, and I’m quite certain she’s getting the wrong idea.

Or is it the right idea? I’m retraining my brain when it comes to Kit, ever since our conversation last week.

I’m so used to him calling me Monty that I never searched for a deeper meaning. Never wondered why he gave me a nickname at all. But now? It’s like it’s hitting me for the first time that the moniker is a reference to our first meeting. And that is sweet. Romantic even.

My mom pours the wine Kit brought, and we sit down for dinner. She made lasagna—another one of my favorites—and I demolish two servings. My body is trying to make up for the last three months of crackers because, lately, my appetite has returned with a vengeance.

The evening isn’t awkward, the way I was worried about.

Kit’s charming. I guess I thought that might change because we’re in my world.

But he fills every pause with questions, appearing entirely absorbed as my mom talks about the courses she’s teaching this semester.

He and my dad discuss the book Kit brought him—a new release by a scientist my father admires.

A thoughtful gift I wouldn’t have known to get him .

When Jane arrives during dessert, Kit answers all her eager queries about his “rich and fabulous family”—Jane’s words, not mine—with patience and humor.

Even Newton is enamored by him, lying on the hardwood right next to Kit’s chair, even after all the food has been cleared.

“He’s way better trained than my parents’ dogs,” Kit comments at one point, glancing down at the fluffy pile on the floor. “They’re a couple of hellions. I took them out for a bathroom break once, and they dug up half of my grandfather’s yard.”

He glances at me, flashing my favorite boyish grin, and I decide maybe falling isn’t so scary after all.

I wake up in the middle of the night to pee, which has become a regular occurrence that research has told me will only become more frequent.

Right as I’m slipping back under the sheets, hoping I’ll fall back asleep quickly, there’s a strange sensation in my stomach.

A gentle nudge, barely more than a flutter.

I instantly stiffen, pressing a palm against my small bump.

Holy shit .

Before I can second-guess it, I slide out of my bed and tiptoe down the hallway. My dad always leaves the kitchen light on overnight, so there’s enough illumination to avoid bumping into any furniture.

Kit’s fast asleep on his back, one arm tucked behind his head and both feet hanging off the end of the couch.

I tap one of his ankles. “Kit.”

His head turns, but his eyes don’t open.

I tap him again, a little harder. “ Kit .”

A groan this time. Then he squints. “Collins? What—” He’s suddenly upright at a speed that startles me into stumbling a step back. “ Fuck, is something wrong?—”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say hurriedly. “Nothing’s wrong. I just … the baby’s kicking. I thought you might want to feel.”

Kit swipes a hand through his hair. “Thank God. You scared the shit out—the baby’s kicking?” The rest of what I said finally sinks in.

It takes me a second to respond because the fact that he’s shirtless just registered with me . And my memory of our night together didn’t really do his abs justice.

I manage a weak, “Yeah,” as I take a seat on the couch. He sinks down beside me. Old cushions sag beneath us. “It feels weird. Good weird,” I hasten to clarify when he frowns. “Kind of like bubbles are floating around in there.”

I pull my T-shirt up, knotting it under my boobs.

Kit stares at my stomach. I ended up sending him a photo on Thanksgiving, but he hasn’t seen my bump in person since the first ultrasound. And there wasn’t much to see then. Now, there’s a noticeable bulge.

“Wow,” he whispers, pressing his palm flat against it.

I suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with how low my dad turns the heat at night. And suddenly, there’s another flutter, like the baby is reacting to his touch too.

“Did you feel that?” I ask softly.

Twin lines of concentration appear as he shifts his palm a little to the left. He’s staring at my stomach. Staring , not just looking, like it happens to be the Eighth Wonder of the World.

My thighs clench tight, my hormones mistaking the sweet moment for something sensual.

“No,” he finally replies. “I don’t feel anything.”

“It must be too early,” I say. “The kicks will get stronger as the baby gets bigger.”

His thumb moves in a tiny circle. “Hey, Orange. It’s your daddy. Kick harder next time. It’s probably pretty boring in there, but things will get more interesting soon.”

I have to blink rapidly a few times. I also clear my throat, dislodging the lump that formed there. Seeing Kit excited about this pregnancy has my whole heart expanding, making my chest feel too small to contain the spreading sensation.

“It might also be too early for them to hear,” I say softly.

“Yeah, I know it can vary a little. But our kid is probably pretty advanced.” Kit shoots me a grin that requires me to clench my thighs again.

“You … know? Like, you bought a baby book?”

“No. I bought baby books .”

All I can think to say is, “Oh.”

I’m surprised, and I shouldn’t be. Kit’s been nothing but committed. I thought his involvement was too much to expect, let alone the mural, or the coming to doctor’s appointments, or the meeting my parents, or all the ways he’s continued to show up.

My life isn’t the only one that was completely upended. His was too. And I’m worried, at some point, this excitement will spoil. Become resentment instead.

“Exceeding your low expectations is entertaining, Monty. But you’ll save yourself some surprise if you stop expecting the worst from me.”

The words are light. Drawled with an edge of amusement.

But I can feel the tension humming in his body. Can sense the edge behind the flippancy. And wonder how many times I missed it before, when I wasn’t paying this close of attention .

“I do have expectations of you, Kit. High ones even. And you’re still exceeding them. Still surprising me, which isn’t always a bad thing. It means a lot that you bought books.”

I swallow hard, glancing down at my stomach. His hand is still resting there. He’s touched me a lot more intimately, but this feels even more vulnerable than sex.

“Sorry I woke you up for no reason,” I add.

“You can wake me up for any reason anytime you want.”

I’m not sure if I’m projecting the innuendo in his voice or if it’s really there, but I flush regardless.

“Kit?”