Page 42 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

A sparrow lands on the bird feeder attached to the window above the kitchen sink, pecks at the seed once, then startles away. Next, the bird lands on the browning grass, coated with frost and sparkling in the sunshine.

“Coffee?”

I glance over my shoulder at Professor Tate. Gerald—I guess I should get used to calling him that.

“Coffee sounds great,” I say. “Thanks.”

Gerald nods, hitting a button on the coffee maker. He pulls two mugs out of a cabinet, setting them on the counter. “Sleep okay?” he checks.

“Great,” I lie.

I dozed on and off until around seven, when the sun started streaming through the living room windows.

I carried Collins to her bed but quickly gave up on falling back asleep myself.

There’s a crick in my neck that’s going to make driving home later hurt like hell, and my balls ache in a way that make me wonder if I’ll ever be able to give Gerald more grandkids, but I wouldn’t change a thing about last night despite the discomfort.

The coffee maker starts gurgling, the heavenly scent of a fresh brew filling the kitchen.

“Chilly morning,” Gerald comments, glancing past me at the yard.

“Looks that way,” I agree.

“Girls complain I keep the heat too low this time of year.”

I’m not sure if he’s looking for an agreement or not, so I just say, “I run warm.”

He chuckles, then hands me a steaming mug.

“Thanks,” I reply, hiding the wince when I lift my arm to take it. My shoulder’s tweaked from the cramped sleeping position too.

“You didn’t wind up doing much with that chemistry degree.”

“Uh …” I swallow some hot coffee, scalding my tongue in the process, buying myself some time to reply.

Again, it wasn’t really a question. Or a condemnation. Simply a statement. There’s no obvious indication of how I’m supposed to answer.

I don’t think Collins’s dad dislikes me.

I caught him smiling a few times last night.

And I had done well in his classes, wanting to prove to myself I was capable of succeeding at something I wasn’t set to inherit, so he has no reason to think I’m a slacker.

But I knocked up his daughter. There’s no way I’m one of his favorite people.

I like how he’s broaching the topic though. Giving me an opportunity to talk rather than making assumptions.

“A chemistry degree didn’t fit in with the rest of the plan,” I finally say.

I knew before I started college—before I started high school—that I’d wind up working at Kensington Consolidated, not in a lab.

Gerald nods. “Does my daughter fit in your plan, Christopher?”

I’d know the seriousness of his question from his tone alone, not just his use of my full first name.

I hold his gaze as I answer, “She is the plan, sir.”

“Good morning!”

Amanda bustles into the kitchen, grabbing an apron off a hook by the fridge and breaking the heavy moment. I didn’t notice last night, but a copy of the sonogram is displayed next to the college calendar. The sight makes me smile.

“What can I get you for breakfast, Kit?” she adds.

Before I can reply, Gerald asks, “You like eggs?”

I nod, and Collins’s dad squeezes my shoulder. I hide another grimace.

Something that looks similar to approval glimmers in Gerald’s eyes as he heads toward the stove. “I’m making eggs, Mandy.”

Rather than drive straight home after dropping Collins off at her apartment, I head to my mom’s office. It’s a Sunday, but I’m not surprised to see her car parked in the garage.

When I walk into the headquarters of rouge—my mom’s fashion label—she’s standing in the middle of a tornado .

I lean a shoulder against the doorway, watching as she directs fabric samples one way and a rack of jackets in the opposite direction.

Growing up, I witnessed my mom work a lot more than my dad.

Bash, Lili, and I all went to school in New York, spending more than half of the year here, and Dad was often called back to the West Coast for work.

Since both rouge and her magazine, Haute , were New York–based, I saw more of Mom’s work up close.

A lot of my friends resented their parents’ busy schedules. Hated how they were rarely around or hardly involved.

I love my parents. But I also respect them. I saw how hard they worked to juggle being present and being successful.

A balancing act I’m going to have to figure out for myself soon. The hours I’m currently logging at the office are going to be difficult to sustain come May.

My mom spots me a second later and smiles, holding up one finger and mouthing, One sec .

I nod an acknowledgment, surveying the mess of swatches and drawings and measurement tapes strewn across the long table.

“Hey, Kit. Need anything?”

I glance at the woman who’s appeared beside me. “Hey … Josie.”

She smiles when I get her name right. My mom has four assistants, so I had a twenty-five percent chance of guessing correctly.

“I’m good, thanks,” I add. “Just stopped by to say hi to my mom.”

“That’s so sweet,” Josie gushes.

I nod in agreement. “I’m a sweet guy. Sometimes.”

Josie’s smile expands. I straighten, subtly adding some distance between us.

My mom’s voice interrupts, “Hey, honey. How are you?”

“Great.” I hold up the bag from the bakery in Stamford, where Collins and I stopped to have lunch. “Just stopped by to bring you this.”

“Really?” My mom lifts one eyebrow. “What a lovely surprise.”

I grin. “That’s me.”

Mom glances at her assistant. “Josie, did the art department review the new sketches yet?”

“I’m headed there now to check,” Josie says quickly, then takes off like a shot.

“You’ve been busy lately,” Mom comments as she heads for her office.

I trail after her, glancing over the framed sketches decorating the walls.

“Just trying to set a good example for this family of underachievers,” I state, dropping the bag I brought next to a vase of peonies. I sink on the couch, covering a yawn with my left hand. I might have to take a nap when I get home.

Mom laughs. “Please make sure you’re balancing work with some hobbies. And that is not an endorsement of you partying at Proof every night.”

“But that’s my only hobby.”

She sighs. “Kit.”

I smile. “Relax, Mom. I’ve been to Proof once since September. You definitely don’t need to worry I’m partying too much. I’ve been reading, uh, nonfiction. And trying some redecorating at the penthouse. The designer’s style felt a little … austere. Also, I’m teaching myself piano.”

“Wow,” she states. “You really have been busy.”

“Sure have,” I say cheerfully, glad she isn’t asking for details about what nonfiction I’m reading or what redecorating I’m doing. “And since you’re the one at work on a Sunday, seems like you’re the one who needs to pick up some new hobbies.”

Mom gives me her trademark exasperated look, but the corners of her mouth are curved up as she reaches into the mini fridge and pulls out a sparkling water. She holds a second one my way, and I shake my head.

“I had a call with Charlie’s sister, Blythe, this morning,” my mom tells me. “She’s interested in fashion and in possibly doing an internship here next summer. It was easiest to do the call here, and once I was here …” She shrugs, then sips some water. “I’m headed home soon.”

“Lili set that up?” I surmise.

Mom smiles and nods. “It’s sweet. I could tell Blythe really looks up to her. And speaking of Lili, she and Charlie are planning to spend a couple of weeks in New York next month. Charlie has a winter break from school, and Lili’s project is wrapping up this week.”

“Sounds good,” I say, shoving the niggling nerves away. Once Lili’s home, I’ll need to share the news with my family.

“What’s this?” Mom takes a seat next to me on the couch, reaches for the bag, and opens it.

“From a bakery I went to earlier.”

She pulls the chocolate sea salt cupcake out, then glances at the logo stamped on the paper bag. “In Stamford?”

“Felt like a drive. Getting out of the city.”

“Hmm.” She takes a bite. “It’s delicious. Do you know when you’re headed to Aspen? Before the thirty-first?”

“I, uh … I was thinking I’d hang out at the Hamptons house instead this year. Is that cool?”

“The Hamptons house? This time of year?”

“It’ll be a bigger crowd this year. And most everyone lives in New York. The Hamptons are a lot closer than flying everyone to Colorado.”

She takes another bite of the cupcake, considering. “I’ll check with your father. Assuming he’s fine with it, so am I.”

“Great. Thanks.” My knee bounces once. “I have a favor to ask.”

“Another one?” Mom teases, holding up the half-eaten cupcake. “This is tasting like a bribe.”

“It wasn’t a bribe. Just a reminder I’m your favorite child. I don’t see Bash or Lili stopping by with baked goods.”

She smiles and reaches for her water. “Parents don’t have favorite children, honey. You’ll find that out one day, maybe.”

I stiffen.

My mom doesn’t notice, busy taking a sip.

One day . Maybe . I’ll find that out on or around May 18.

And I want to tell my mom all of a sudden.

When I was eating dinner with Collins’s family last night, I kept thinking how odd it was that those near strangers all know I’ll become a dad in May, but the people who raised me don’t.

I’ve never hidden anything this huge from them. This secret isn’t swiping my dad’s most expensive scotch or sneaking into a club on a school night. It’s big, and it’s important, and it’ll affect my life—and theirs—forever.

But I can’t say anything now. Not like this. I should tell my parents together, and it’ll feel a lot less like I’m sharing the news with the COO of Kensington Consolidated if my father finds out when Collins is no longer my assistant.

“What’s the favor?” my mom asks, and I refocus.

“Right.” I clear my throat. “I’m trying to find a dress.”

“A dress ?”

“Yeah. I kinda drew what it looked like.” I shift so I can pull a piece of paper out of my pocket and hand it to her.

It takes a few seconds for my mom to react. She still looks dumbfounded as she takes the sheet.

“It was gray,” I add. “A bluish gray. The color was called pewter.”

“Pretty,” my mom murmurs, staring at the rough sketch. She glances up at me. “What is?—”

“It’s a Christmas gift,” I state.

Both eyebrows rise. “For a woman?”

“No, for Ben and Jerry. I thought the silver would complement their coats.”

She huffs. “Kit.”

“I’ll tell you the whole story soon. But for now, can you just find the dress? Please.”

Mom nods, her brisk, businesslike mode appearing. “I’ll have the details for you by tomorrow.”

“I knew you were the right fashion designer for the job,” I tease, then stand and stretch. Driving for two hours didn’t do wonders for my sore muscles. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Of course.” She tilts her head, studying me with a speculative expression. “I’m proud of you, Kit. We both are. I know your dad has noticed how hard you’ve been working.”

I smile back, but it takes some effort. “Thank you.”

I don’t think my parents will be proud of the secret I’m keeping from them.